Pushing open that dazzling golden door, all that greeted them was a pitch-black underground lake.
Vivian found this place familiar—she’d nearly ended up feeding a turtle here once.
But something was different about it now.
Countless sheets of deathly pale paper floated on the water’s surface, dense as a swarm.
“It’s down below.”
Cicero walked to the shore and gently kicked a loose stone.
The stone tumbled, landing in the water with a plop, but no splash arose. Instead, it sank slowly, bubbles of purple rising to the surface.
“According to the book, this is where a hundred years’ worth of tears, regrets, and unresolved sorrow from the entire Opera House gather. They say a gulp of this water will hit you harder than two jin of high-proof absinthe.”
“That dramatic?”
Vivian was half convinced, half skeptical. She crouched down, carefully picking up a floating scrap of paper at the water’s edge.
The paper was soaked, its messy handwriting bearing a single line.
“Let me see…”
[Why is my wig always crooked? God, is my head shape doomed to never have thick bangs? — The resentment of Substitute B]
Vivian: “……”
Her hand shook, and the slip of paper drifted back into the water.
“That’s it?” She looked at Cicero with a constipated expression.
“Never underestimate the blow hair loss deals to a middle-aged man.” Cicero pushed up his monocle with a serious face. “A receding hairline is terrifying.”
Vivian, unconvinced, fished out another piece.
[Tonight’s beef stew with red wine didn’t even have thyme! I don’t want to live anymore! — The dying words of a certain gourmet conductor]
She grabbed yet another.
[Why is that bastard next door playing violin whiter than me? I don’t buy it! He must have mixed pearl powder into his foundation! — C, who’s crazy for fame]
“Alright, then.” Vivian clapped the water off her hands and stood up. “Suddenly, this just feels pointless.”
“Tragedy is often a heap of trivial things.” Cicero said coolly.
“How do we get over there?” Bastian pointed at a fog-shrouded island in the lake’s center.
There, a massive shadow loomed—like a pipe organ plunged upside down into the water.
“Swim across?” Bastian’s eyes shone with excitement. “Let these sorrowful waters cleanse my soul!”
“You’ll just start crying ‘Mama, mama’ halfway through.” Cicero cut him off mercilessly.
He looked around, eyes landing on a shallow spot near the shore.
A giant goose was parked there.
Snowy feathers, a graceful long neck, and a proudly lifted head.
This was a mechanical swan that had yet to be fitted with rocket boosters.
“This is a projection from the Otherworld.” Cicero mused. “Looks like this goose is important to the ‘Phantom.’”
“This is fate!” Bastian was so moved he was nearly crying. “It’s come to take us!”
Five minutes later.
“This is definitely the dumbest thing I’ve done in my life.”
Vivian hunched her neck, crammed inside the swan’s belly like a quail.
The swan’s interior only had room for two, yet all three of them were stuffed inside.
Cicero sat at the back, occupying the roomiest spot.
Bastian sat up front, head poking out to scout the way.
Vivian, unfortunately, was wedged in the middle.
“Your knee’s in my stomach!” Vivian gritted her teeth and shoved Bastian ahead of her.
“Don’t move! You’re the key to balance!” Bastian gripped two wooden planks salvaged from a wrecked boat, paddling with gusto. “One, two! One, two! For art! For the journey!”
The swan-boat wobbled over the black water, mist thickening all around, the floating paper scraps growing ever more numerous.
“Ooooh…”
A faint sobbing drifted up from beneath the water.
“How miserable I am…”
“No one loves me…”
“What’s the point of living…”
The lake began to churn, countless pale faces emerging just below the surface, their hollow eyes fixed on the trio in the boat.
“Sigh…” Bastian’s rowing slowed.
He gazed at a crying face in the water, his expression growing hazy.
“Yeah…what’s the point of living…” Bastian muttered, nearly dropping his oar. “No one understands my work…my high C is never perfect…I want to jump in too…”
“Hey! Snap out of it!” Vivian smacked the back of his head. “Weren’t you just shouting about dying for art?”
“But…it’s just so sad…” Bastian sniffled, tears streaming. “Look at that fish, it can’t even close its eyes to sleep, it must be exhausted…”
Vivian: “……”
Cicero, at the back, was the picture of calm. At some point he’d produced a pocket poetry collection, reading by the light of his Holy Light Lighter, as if the ghostly wailing around them was nothing but white noise.
“Boss, aren’t you going to do something?” Vivian looked back.
“Those lacking resolve will be devoured by the abyss.” Cicero didn’t even glance up.
A female ghost rose halfway out of the water, wailing plaintively at Vivian.
“Look at me…these eyes were born to shed tears…”
Vivian stared at the face.
It was pitiful, makeup streaked by tears, a false eyelash half-fallen and hanging like a caterpillar.
Maybe it was the cramped space, or maybe just the endless noise getting on her nerves.
“Enough!”
Vivian suddenly smacked Bastian’s thigh, pointing at the ghost’s nose.
The ghost froze, her sob caught in her throat. “Hic?”
“What do you mean, ‘eyes were born to shed tears’?” Vivian took a deep breath.
“From a physiological standpoint, tear glands exist to lubricate the cornea and kill germs! What you have is a blocked tear duct with secondary conjunctivitis! Go see an ophthalmologist!”
The ghost was dumbfounded. In all her years haunting this place, she’d seen people cry, seen them chant prayers, but never been diagnosed by a doctor.
“But…but my heart hurts…” Another water ghost approached, clutching its chest. “Like a thousand needles stabbing me…”
“That’s called angina!”
“Probably heartburn from gastroesophageal reflux! Eat less cold food! Don’t elevate digestive problems to the level of the soul!”
The water ghosts fell into confusion.
Weren’t we supposed to tell our stories, make you cry, and then you’d willingly leap down to join us?
“And you!” Vivian pointed at a male ghost off in the distance muttering, “No one understands me.”
“Classic histrionic personality disorder! With a dash of narcissism on the side!”
Vivian felt like Freud possessed her on the spot—even if she’d only scored 35 in her university psych elective, that didn’t stop her from dominating in this pre-modern society.
“You’re not misunderstood, you just overthink and underdo! My advice: three doses of sertraline a day, plus two Prozac!”
“Ser…sertraline?” the male ghost echoed, lost in this unfamiliar word.
Vivian got even more fired up, hands on her hips as she lectured the entire lake of resentful spirits.
“The lot of you—either childhood trauma or some over-sensitivity syndrome!”
“If you’re that bored, go do two sets of advanced calculus under the water! Stop polluting the place!”
The world went silent.
Even Bastian stopped crying, mouth hanging open as he stared at Vivian, snot still on his face.
The water ghosts looked at each other. Though they didn’t understand words like “hormone” and “serotonin,” it deeply wounded their fragile pride.
“…I haven’t taken my meds?”
The false eyelash ghost muttered, letting go of the boat. “I’ll go see the eye doctor…”
Gurgle, gurgle…
She sank beneath the surface.
Like a signal, all the other ghosts still wallowing in gloom started sporting “maybe I should get my brain checked” expressions, and slipped beneath the water.
The lake returned to calm.
“Whew…” Vivian slumped back into her seat, throat feeling dry.
“Splendid.”
Gentle applause came from behind her.
Cicero closed his poetry book, his eyes filled with amusement and a touch of intrigue.
“Sertraline? Prozac? Cognitive-behavioral therapy?”
Each word made Vivian’s heart skip a beat.
Crap, she’d been too caught up in the moment and forgot there was a living person right next to her.
“Ahem…that was…that was…” Vivian’s mind raced. “That’s my hometown…my hometown’s exorcism incantation!”
“Oh?” Cicero raised an eyebrow. “Sounds expensive.”
“N-not expensive!” Vivian bluffed desperately. “It’s just…treating with conversation, we call it ‘talk therapy.’”
Cicero gazed at her, lips curving in a subtle smile.
“Since the asylum’s recess time is over,” Cicero pointed ahead, “I believe we’ve arrived.”
A grand underground structure loomed before them.
A “castle” built of organ pipes. Countless massive copper pipes pierced the vaulted ceiling, flickering coldly in the dim light.