The next morning, the stage of the Garnier Opera House felt like a massive cauldron, brewing a thick soup named “anxiety.”
“Stop! Stop! Everyone, stop right now!”
The conductor’s baton slammed down hard on the music stand, producing a sharp crack.
The conductor in the orchestra pit was trembling all over with rage.
“Bassoons! Are you trying to imitate the sound of a clogged sewer? That’s not a deep lament—that’s the groan of constipation!”
The musicians shrank their necks, not daring to utter a sound.
Vivian hid behind the backdrop of the Egyptian temple, holding a rag in her hand, pretending to wipe down a non-existent pillar.
“So this is what they call art, huh…” she yawned.
Last night, she’d stayed up until three in the morning helping Cicero organize that so-called “Phantom Archive.”
“Hey, you, the stagehand!”
A shrill voice pierced Vivian’s eardrums.
Celestine stood center stage, dressed in a dazzling, golden costume—for this rehearsal, she had even donned that fifteen-kilogram “Ethiopian Princess Gown.”
At this moment, the princess was pointing at Vivian, face contorted in fury.
“What are you loitering for over there? Get me some water! My throat’s so dry I can’t sing another note!”
Vivian rolled her eyes, then put on a sycophantic grin and hurried over with the kettle.
“Coming, your esteemed Highness.”
As she passed through center stage, Bastian, standing at the wings, suddenly blew her a kiss.
Today’s tenor was as flamboyant as ever; to fit the plot, he’d slathered himself in bronzed body paint, looking like a loaf of freshly baked bread.
“Good morning, my Muse!” Bastian lowered his voice, bubbling with excitement, “I missed you so much last night I even botched my own aria.”
Vivian stumbled, nearly spilling water all over his “toasty” face.
“Excuse me, coming through.” Vivian sidestepped his greasy, outstretched hand.
“Keep going! Resume rehearsal! We’re trying the Act One climax!” bellowed the conductor below.
The music started up again.
It was a grand chorus. To create a sense of awe, Manager Leroux had spent a fortune installing a brand new pulley system, allowing the massive crystal chandelier to coordinate with the lighting at a crucial moment, producing a “miracle’s descent” effect.
The chandelier hung five meters above Celestine’s head, assembled from over three thousand pieces of crystal, resembling an upside-down ice blossom.
Vivian retreated to the wings, gripping her mop tightly.
For some reason, the chandelier seemed especially dazzling today.
As the chorus reached its most soaring chord, just as Celestine spread her arms to welcome her high C—
“Squeak—”
The sound was faint, almost entirely swallowed by the thunderous organ.
But Vivian heard it.
She jerked her head up.
The main hook connecting the chandelier was coming loose at an unnatural speed. The thick iron chain hadn’t snapped—instead, it was thinning and vanishing, as if melting away like chocolate.
“Look out!”
Vivian’s brain didn’t even have time to give the order—her body had already shot out.
“Ah—! My—beloved—”
Celestine was still blissfully singing, eyes closed, completely unaware that Death now hovered above her.
“Snap!”
The last bit of connection vanished.
The massive crystal chandelier, weighing hundreds of kilos, hurtled down.
It was only then that people realized what was happening.
“Oh my God!”
“Move! Get out of the way!”
Screams erupted, but Celestine, weighed down by her heavy costume, couldn’t move in time. She stared up in a daze, watching the dazzling light grow large in her pupils.
It’s over.
That was the only thought in everyone’s mind.
At that split second, a gray shadow shot like a cannonball into center stage.
Vivian rushed to Celestine’s side. There was no time to push her clear.
She could only… take it head-on!
Vivian gripped the wooden handle of her mop with both hands.
She spread her legs, took a solid horse stance, braced her core.
“Up… you go!!!”
“BOOM!!!”
A thunderous crash shook the entire opera house, making it tremble three times.
Dust billowed, crystal shards flew everywhere.
But the anticipated scene of blood and gore did not appear.
As the dust slowly settled, everyone gaped in shock, eyes nearly popping out.
Beneath the pile of sparkling wreckage, the inconspicuous little stagehand was frozen in a bizarre pose.
Her legs had sunk deep into the stage floor. The ten-centimeter-thick solid oak boards had shattered like crumbling biscuits.
And above her head, the massive crystal chandelier was suspended in midair.
Supporting those hundreds of kilos was nothing but the mop handle, now bent into a crescent, and a pair of arms that seemed impossibly slender.
Below the chandelier, Celestine was safe and sound but scared stiff, her eyes rolled back, foaming at the mouth.
“This… this…”
The conductor’s baton slipped from his hand and fell into the crack of the podium.
A deathly silence gripped the room.
All eyes locked onto the girl holding up the chandelier.
Vivian felt far from good.
Extremely not good.
She was strong, but this thing was really heavy!
Most importantly… how was she supposed to explain this?
“Ahem.”
Vivian took a deep breath. Even with veins bulging on her forehead, she forced herself to make a “just doing my morning exercise” face.
“So, um…” she glanced at the crowd’s ghost-stricken stares.
In the midst of this awkward silence—
“Bravo!!!”
A wildly out-of-place cheer broke the stillness.
Bastian charged out from the crowd, his face paint smeared from excitement, making him look like a weepy calico cat.
“A miracle! It’s a miracle!”
Bastian pointed at Vivian, his eyes blazing as if witnessing the Virgin Mary’s descent.
Vivian’s eyes widened, “How can you just slander people like this out of nowhere…”
“Slander? This is the outburst of art! Power bestowed by the Lord!”
Vivian flushed red, veins standing out on her forehead as she protested, “Is it so strange for a scholar to do something odd?”
“This… this is the lever principle!”
She shakily nudged the nearly broken mop handle.
“See, the mop handle is the lever, my waist is the fulcrum, plus this angle… gravitational acceleration… coefficient of friction…”
She rambled on about incomprehensible things like “Newton’s Second Law,” “F=ma,” and “conservation of angular momentum,” leaving everyone exchanging baffled looks. The stage was filled with lively… no, thoroughly stupefied, air.
Bastian leapt in front of Vivian, waving his arms.
“Only a Muse! Only a chosen Muse could have such a powerful physique! This is the perfect union of Hercules and Venus!”
“Can you… shut up…” Vivian felt her arms about to snap, “Someone… please… get this thing… off me!”
Only then did the crowd react, rushing up to help.
It took over a dozen strong men to take the chandelier from Vivian’s hands and lower it to the floor.
Clang.
As soon as the mop hit the ground, the heroic wooden stick finally succumbed, snapping clean in two.
Vivian collapsed onto the floor, gulping for air.
The chandelier had broken off too suddenly, and if she wasn’t mistaken, the way it snapped was very odd.
Amid the chaos, Vivian slipped over to inspect the massive metal hook.
There were no signs of metal fatigue, nor any saw marks.
The break was smooth as a mirror, as if… in that instant, the connection point itself had been erased from the concept of “existence” by some force.
“This isn’t physical destruction,” Vivian murmured inwardly. “This is… the ‘connection’ itself being rewritten.”
If “the chandelier hanging from the ceiling” was a statement, then just now, the phantom had simply deleted the verb “hanging.”
“That’s cheating…” Vivian shivered. This kind of attack was impossible to defend against.
“Are you alright?”
A cold, stern voice sounded overhead.
Vivian looked up.
Armand Perrault was standing in front of her.
The ever-stern backstage manager was looking down at Vivian’s trembling hands.
“I… I’m fine, Madame.” Vivian quickly plastered on her silly grin. “Just went a little overboard just now, maybe twisted my back.”
“Lever principle?” Armand repeated Vivian’s nonsense.
“Uh… yes, knowledge is power.” Vivian laughed awkwardly.
Armand didn’t call her out.
She gave Vivian a long look, her gaze lingering a few seconds on Vivian’s arms, where there was no hint of muscle.
“Go rest,” Armand said, turning away, her voice unreadable.
“Today’s rehearsal… is cancelled.”
Night fell.
Backstage at the opera house finally grew quiet. The fainted Celestine had been sent to the hospital, while Bastian was still raging onstage, searching the broken hook for the “Phantom’s mark of love.”
Vivian dragged her exhausted body back to the dressing room.
“What a day it’s been.”
She opened her locker, preparing to change back into her tattered dress.
As soon as she opened the door—
A black envelope floated down, landing softly on the floor.
Vivian froze for a second, then bent down and picked it up.
Inside was a single card, with a line of elegant, flamboyant Venetian red ink written in French:
[To the mighty Muse—]
[You ruined my climax. That should have been a perfect fall.]
[As punishment, the next act’s protagonist will be you.]
As for the signature, there was no name—just a simple sketch.
It was a mask, with only half a face.