“I think I’m going to throw up.”
Vivian covered her mouth, her face looking even worse than day-old baguette.
“Hold it in,” Cicero said coldly from behind her.
“Is this really the Palace of Versailles? Why is everything… spinning?”
Vivian felt as if she’d been tossed into a washing machine on spin cycle.
Just two minutes ago, they’d been hiding from the Gendarmerie in a narrow alley by the Louvre. But the moment the core metal piece in Vivian’s pocket turned scorching hot, the world around them began to melt and warp, like wax figures doused in boiling oil.
Brick walls turned into gold leaf, gas lamps became crystal chandeliers, and the stench of sewers was replaced by the fragrance of perfume powder.
When everything finally stopped, Vivian found herself standing in a seemingly endless corridor.
The floor was paved with black-and-white marble, and huge mirrors lined both walls, reflecting countless images of her and Cicero.
“Hall of Mirrors,” Cicero said, scanning the surroundings, his brow tightly knit.
“This is that monster’s mental domain. Or, in occult terms—a Obsession Barrier.”
“So we’re inside its mind now?” Vivian tapped the floor beneath her feet.
“That Headless fellow actually has a mind?”
“Strictly speaking, we’re in the ‘Glorious Past’ it believes in,” Cicero replied, tapping his cane on the ground. The sound was crisp and clear, not like striking stone at all, but more like hitting some kind of high-density glass.
“Careful, the physical rules here are distorted.”
As soon as he finished speaking, a rhythmical marching sound echoed from the end of the corridor.
“Clack, clack, clack.”
It was the sound of high heels hitting marble.
A group of “people” dressed in extravagantly ornate outfits, their wigs piled higher than the Eiffel Tower, stepped out from the mirrors’ reflections.
Their faces were completely blank. No features—just various expressions painted in gold on their deathly pale skin: some had smiling faces, some crying, others bore strange wavy lines representing “flattery.”
“Courtiers,” Cicero murmured.
The faceless group stopped precisely five meters in front of them.
The leader, dressed in a deep blue velvet coat, had a giant exclamation mark painted on his face. He suddenly raised a hand and pointed at Vivian and Cicero, emitting a piercing, screeching voice:
“In the presence of Her Majesty the Queen, why are you not kneeling?!”
The sound was like fingernails scraping hard on a blackboard, making Vivian’s teeth ache.
“Kneel?” Cicero sneered, standing straighter than a lightning rod.
“I am a Shepherd of the Lord. Other than God, no one in this world can make me bend my knees.”
He even tried to adjust the collar of his battered tailcoat, though it looked more like a rag than a collar.
“Insolent! Heretic! Vulgar wretch!”
The Courtiers started to stir, countless exclamation marks and angry symbols flashing across their faces.
A formless pressure descended.
That was Class Pressure. Like the feeling of being caught by the discipline officer for not wearing your school uniform—multiplied by a thousand.
Cicero still stood, though his face turned paler, sweat breaking out on his forehead. He was fighting back with sheer force of will.
As for Vivian…
“Thud.” A clear sound.
Vivian, very decisively and smoothly, dropped to both knees.
She even slid forward a little on the floor from the force of her kneel.
Cicero: “…”
Courtiers: “…”
Cicero looked down at his partner in disbelief.
Vivian looked up, her face all innocence. “Boss, it’s not my fault. This is Concept Suppression.”
Honestly, her legs just gave out.
All that running and dodging had emptied her stamina bar. Now that someone was telling her to kneel and take a break, she was only too happy to comply.
The Exclamation Mark Courtier seemed taken aback, apparently never having seen a commoner kneel this quickly. But he soon recovered, the exclamation mark on his face shifting into a satisfied check mark.
“Very good,” he said in that grating voice.
“Though that man is a hopeless barbarian, this… this young lady still retains awe for the royal family.”
“‘This’?!” Vivian instantly caught the word. “What am I, a pet dog?”
“Since that is the case,” the Exclamation Mark Courtier ignored her protest and gestured to either side.
“At this sacred moment, let us witness a miracle.”
The Courtiers parted like the tide, clearing a passageway.
At the end of the corridor, sat a figure Vivian knew all too well—the Headless Queen Doll, seated on a gold and ruby throne.
Even without a head, the deep crimson velvet robe she wore exuded unmatched majesty.
In her hands, she held an object.
It was a “Steam Crown,” woven entirely from high-pressure steam pipes, brass gears, and red crystals.
Countless tiny tubes writhed around the crown, spitting white steam.
“What is it going to do?” Vivian had a terrible premonition.
“It’s looking for an Inheritance,” Cicero replied, voice hoarse from resisting the pressure.
“Or… a Substitute. It has no head, so it needs one to bear that crown, to complete the Ritual of Royal Continuance.”
As he finished, the Queen Doll stood up.
She held the hissing, searing crown and walked gracefully, step by step, toward Vivian, still kneeling on the floor.
Each step made the marble floor tremble.
“Hey hey hey! Don’t come any closer!” Vivian tried to get up, but this damn Class Gravity pressed her down as if the entire Palace of Versailles was on her back.
“Do something, Grand Priest!” Vivian shouted in desperation, “I’m going to get roasted!”
“I’m thinking!” Cicero gritted his teeth, the jewel on his cane starting to glow.
“But this blasted place is sealing off my Spell… unless you can break the Logic Loop of this ritual!”
The Doll had already reached Vivian.
In that instant, Vivian felt a wave of heat from the crown—enough to grill a steak well-done.
The Doll said nothing, but the electric current, brimming with Divine Motherhood, buzzed into Vivian’s mind:
[My child… accept this glory… Let the light of Bourbon… shine once more…]
The Doll slowly raised the crown, aiming it at Vivian’s head.
Around them, the Courtiers started cheering, their face paint running with emotion.
Vivian stared at the writhing steam tubes, scalp tingling, unable to escape.
Cicero was still locked in mental combat with thin air—not someone she could count on.
If she couldn’t run physically, she’d just have to self-destruct logically.
Vivian drew a deep breath, stared at the approaching crown, and suddenly roared:
“No way!!!”
Her scream was so raw and piercing that even the Doll froze for a moment.
“Why not?” The Exclamation Mark Courtier beside her demanded angrily.
“This is the highest of blessings!”
“Because…” Vivian’s face flushed red as her mind raced.
A flash of inspiration struck her.
She pointed at her head, her face an image of sorrow. “Because I’m sick!”
The whole room went silent.
Even Cicero stopped struggling, staring at her in shock.
“I have… Big Head Syndrome!” Vivian declared with utmost conviction.
“It’s a terrible, incurable disease! My head circumference grows bigger every day! And I can’t take heat! If it gets hot, my brains will explode like popcorn!”
She pointed at the crown, which was clearly made to standard size, her eyes so earnest she could probably commit insurance fraud. “That crown is way too small! It’ll never fit! If you force it on, not only will it ruin the sacred crown, it’ll blow brains all over the floor! That would be most ungraceful!”
The Doll paused.
It seemed to be seriously considering this problem.
Its hand dropped a little, as if measuring the circumference of Vivian’s head.
At that moment, to prove her point, Vivian started swinging her head back and forth like mad.
Just like the wildest heavy metal guitarist, she whipped her already-messy hair into a tornado.
“See? See? I have Head Swinging Syndrome! I can’t control it!” Vivian shouted as she thrashed, her voice rising and falling with the centrifugal force.
“It’ll never stay on! It’ll fall off for sure!”
The scene was surreal.
A young woman in men’s pants, kneeling on the floor, thrashing her head wildly at thin air, while in front of her stood a headless Doll holding a steam-spewing crown.
It was the very pinnacle of postmodern performance art.
The expressions on the Courtiers’ faces glitched out completely. The exclamation marks turned into question marks, then ellipses.
Even Cicero couldn’t help but look away, his shoulders shaking as if enduring tremendous pain.
“This… what utter indecency…” the Exclamation Mark Courtier stammered.
The Doll also seemed totally thrown by this turn of events.
Its logic seemed limited to “rejecting royal power = death penalty” and “accepting royal power = coronation,” and it had absolutely no backup plan for “can’t be crowned because head is too big and likes to swing it.”
Its hand began to tremble, the red glow on the Steam Crown flickering on and off, emitting unstable hissing.
Cicero suddenly turned around. The Class Pressure that had been holding him down slackened thanks to this absurd spectacle.
“Now!”
Cicero swung his cane with all his might, smashing the huge mirror on the wall beside him.
“Crash—!”
Shards of glass flew.
The reason the Hall of Mirrors in Versailles could extend endlessly was due to these mirrors’ reflections. As soon as the first mirror shattered, the entire space began to destabilize.
The floor began to crack, crystal chandeliers overhead swaying precariously.
The faceless Courtiers shrieked, their bodies flickering and twisting like a TV with bad reception.
The Doll finally reacted, hurling the crown to the floor in fury.
“Hiss—!”
The scalding crown struck the marble, instantly melting it and leaving a charred, blackened pit.
The red glow on the Doll’s neck stump lit up again—about to spew fire.
“Run!”
Cicero grabbed the still-kneeling Vivian.
Vivian found her legs working just fine now, and dashed off faster than a rabbit.
“Where do we run? It has no head!”
“Then run until it has one!”
The two of them sprinted through the collapsing Hall of Mirrors.
Behind them came flames of rage and the Courtiers’ curses, while mirrors on both sides exploded in bursts.
“What was that just now?” Cicero panted as he ran, “Big Head Syndrome? How do you even come up with this stuff?”
“As long as it works!” Vivian shot back. “And honestly, I do feel like my head is huge! Especially when you’re lecturing!”
“When we get back, I’m measuring your head circumference,” Cicero actually had the nerve to joke, “For Science.”