"I am the only one—"
Darren's voice peaked at its highest, as if about to tear the roof off.
"Long live the Blood Palm!!!"
Below, an eruption. A frenzied tsunami once again swept over everything.
Scar stood in the shadows, watching that figure waving his arms, silently counting in his mind:
The lines are right. That last bit, the closing words, not a single mistake.
About time to wrap up, actually.
Thinking this, his gaze swept across the crowd below—still burning, still roaring, still craning their necks desperately upward.
Face after face. Ecstatic. Twisted. Streamed with tears. Bulging with veins.
Fanaticism. Bloodthirsty. Fearless unto death.
Scar ran these words through his mind, finding each one fitting.
But fitting aside—
He knew these people too well.
Once they left here, once they returned home, pushed open their doors, lay back on their tattered mats, listening to the crawling sounds outside and distant screams—
Come dawn, when that pale grey light seeped through the cracks in the walls, shining on their faces—
Chances were, they'd revert to that cowering state.
Heads tucked, tails between legs, detouring around anyone stronger, secretly stepping on anyone weaker. Same as yesterday, same as the day before, same as every day of their past lives.
Scar didn't look down on them. He'd been there himself.
He just knew.
Knew how long this fervor could burn. Knew how heavy this word "follower" truly was. And knew—what could really hold these people in one's grip wasn't the fancy words on stage, but something else.
—
Just as he was thinking, he suddenly saw Darren move.
That robed figure, after one final arm-swing, didn't continue standing there accepting cheers like before. Instead, he slowly turned and began walking off stage.
Down the steps. One step, two steps.
The movement was unhurried, as if he knew what he was doing.
Scar's brow furrowed slightly.
Didn't know what the guy was up to.
By their agreement, the one closing the show should stand on stage a while longer, let those below shout a few more times, let this fervor burn to its peak before slowly extinguishing.
He'd secretly learned this from that previous gathering—the "god" couldn't leave too fast; had to let people chase, beg, cry, and plead for him to stay.
Darren knew this.
So what was he…
Scar didn't dwell on it.
He quickly fell into step behind Darren.
His feet on the stage's wooden planks made faint creaks. Those below were still shouting, no one noticing him. He followed Darren, just a few steps behind that robe, watching its hem sway with each step.
He didn't know where Darren was going.
But he knew he had to follow.
This show was Scar's. This territory was Scar's. These people—even if they'd revert to cowering by dawn—were, at this moment, Scar's.
Darren could perform. Could wear a mask. Could shout those words.
But he couldn't just walk off on his own.
—
Scar was following Darren, still inwardly rehearsing how he'd confront this bastard about ad-libbing later—
When suddenly someone rushed in front of Darren.
So fast, as if springing from a crack in the earth. Scar didn't even see which direction they'd come from. A thin, small figure, hunched, head lowered, tremblingly extending both hands toward Darren.
As if holding something.
Scar was startled.
Not by the person suddenly rushing out.
In this kind of setting, people losing control and lunging forward—he'd seen plenty. Weren't those who'd broken through the crowd earlier trying to climb the stage just like this? Nothing to fear.
What startled him was—
Darren's visible embarrassment through the mask.
That mask had no expression. Those two slits revealed nothing. But Scar saw it.
Saw the instant stiffness in Darren's body, saw those hidden hands twitch helplessly beneath the robe, saw that figure—just moments ago so fluid on stage—now rooted like a statue, frozen in place.
Damn it.
Scar cursed inwardly.
Good thing he's looking down.
That sudden rusher, at this moment, was looking down, tremblingly extending both hands toward Darren, as if holding something. Their posture was so servile they seemed to want to shrink into the earth, not daring to look up at that mask.
Hadn't seen Darren's pathetic state. Good.
Scar quickly glanced back at those believers.
Still shouting. Still waving. Still burning. No one noticed this momentary standoff on stage. Their eyes were fixed only on that mask, only on that robe, only on that embodiment of the "Blood Palm."
No one saw the panic behind the mask.
Scar's gaze then viciously fixed on those few in charge of order—those oddly dressed, pre-arranged, basically just human-wall trash.
Damn it.
How many times tonight? How many times had someone charged the stage? How many times had they made Scar uneasy up here?
They were stationed there to be meat walls, to block people. And what happened? One after another, like wooden posts—people reaching the stage before they reacted, some not even moving at all!
He memorized those faces.
Once tonight ended, once these believers dispersed, once he had free time—
—
No time to think further.
That rusher still knelt there. Darren still stood stupidly, like some fool suddenly shoved on stage who'd forgotten his lines.
Scar moved.
He swiftly rushed to that sudden figure's side, moving like a whip snapped from shadow.
One hand pressed down on that lowered head.
Sticky. Sweaty. Who knew how long since it was washed.
Thud.
Forehead hit the ground.
Thud.
Another.
Thud.
A third.
The person trembled in his grip, like a chicken with its neck squeezed, yet neither struggled nor cried out. Just clutched whatever was in their hands, letting Scar bash their head into the ground.
"How dare you, my lord—"
Scar shouted, voice suppressed, squeezed through clenched teeth, breathy, fierce, with just the right touch of "fear":
"Spare him!"
Finished, he desperately signaled Darren with his eyes.
Eyes wide as if about to split, brows knotted, chin jerking toward that person, then toward the crowd below, finally fixing on Darren's white mask.
Say something!
Do something!
Don't just fucking stand there!
—
Only now did Scar see what that person held.
Several gold teeth.
Gleaming yellow. Small, large, whole ones, half ones. In those palms coated with mud and blood, they faintly caught the light.
Scar's gaze followed those hands upward—
Blood flowing from the mouth.
That person's mouth hung half-open, dark and hollow, teeth visible nowhere. Only blood, trickling from the corner of the mouth, dripping onto the hands holding the gold teeth, onto the ground, mixing with the blood from the forehead just broken open.
Scar paused.
Then he understood.
Pulled them himself.Knocked them out himself. Using his own teeth, to offer to his "god."
—
Scar didn't know what to say.
He held that lowered head, standing there, the sticky sensation in his hand, the dripping blood on the ground, those gleaming gold teeth, and Darren's still-frozen mask—
All swirling in his mind.
Finally, he pressed that lowered head once more, firmly, as if confirming something, then released.
"Alright," he said low, trying to make his voice sound like he was conveying the "god's" grace. "The lord knows. Go back now."
That person didn't move. Just knelt there, holding the gold teeth, blood still seeping from their mouth, shoulders jerking.
Scar looked no more.
He turned, pushing Darren's back—through the dark robe, he could feel the body beneath still trembling faintly—and walked quickly forward.
Behind them, those believers still shouted.
"Long live the Blood Palm!"
"Power!"
"Chaos!"
Scar didn't look back.