The storm of battles and blood outside had left everyone drained, the survivors huddled together with dead eyes and tired hearts. But there was a faint glow of lanterns now, dim yellow halos softening the steel walls, and the cleared space at the center of the room, stood waiting for players.
Rosario coughed dramatically in the corner, the kind of cough that demanded attention.
"Ladies and gentlemen…. and whatever else you might identify as," he rasped, climbing onto the stage with all the pride of a man about to announce the world's greatest performance.
"Tonight! We shall present to you…. an ancient tragedy of valor, grass touching, mold and very bad acting."
The children sitting at the front giggled nervously. A few adults exchanged weary smiles, grateful for even a burst of laughter after the terror of the night.
Behind the stage, chaos was brewing. Grace stood with arms crossed, trying her best to manage a group of men who clearly had no idea how costumes worked.
Tom was wrestling with a loose cape that seemed to strangle him every time he tried to tie it.
"Grace, I think this cape is cursed," he muttered, tugging until the knot nearly choked him.
Grace rolled her eyes, stepping in to loosen it. "No, Tom. You just don't know how to wear clothes like a normal person."
"Wonder, where you learned to wear clothes." Tom muttered to himself.
Meanwhile, Elior had slipped into a shiny helmet with horns sticking out. He caught his reflection in a cracked mirror and smirked. "I look like the villain already."
"Of course you do," Grace said flatly, handing him a fake sword made from scavenged metal.
Arlong sat calmly as Grace placed a ridiculous feathered hat on his head. With only one hand, it was hard for him to dress himself, but he didn't complain. Instead, he gave Grace a soft nod. "Thank you."
She smiled back, trying not to let her eyes linger too long on his bandaged stump.
At the far end, Johan was staring at his own costume. An oversized cloak that dragged on the ground.
"This was probably designed for someone at least twice my size," he muttered, frowning as he tried to fold it up to his knees.
"Just make it work," Grace said, her tone half exhausted, half amused.
The survivors were gathering closer now, murmurs spreading through the crowd. Some of the children whispered excitedly to each other, their little faces glowing in the lantern light. It was a time, they weren't thinking about death anymore. They were thinking about the play.
Out of nowhere, Vera walked in.
If Rosario was a born performer, Vera was his perfect opposite. His steps were stiff, straight, almost mechanical, as if his body had forgotten how to be human. His expression was like a statue, very serious, detached from existence.
However, the survivors burst into laughter at the sight of him, because he looked like a walking statue in the dim light, a "robot" among tired souls.
Rosario pointed to him dramatically.
"Ah! Here comes our guardian spirit, see how he walks! See how he breathes like a hero carved from stone! Ladies, please, contain yourselves!"
The audience laughed louder, the weight in the room lifting another notch.
Grace let out a quiet breath of relief. The survivors were smiling. That was the point.
On stage, Rosario spread his arms wide, his shadow stretching against the bunker walls.
"Tonight, dear friends, this story is not about gods or monsters, though it has both. It is about us. About survival, about hope, about fools who dare to fight when everything says to run. This play is for you, the ones who have endured. May you laugh, may you forget, if only for a moment."
The play had Began.
Scene 1 — The Hall of Dust and Valor
The survivors shifted on the benches, hushed, their eyes drawn to Rosario, who stood proudly at the center.
He raised his arms like a grand announcer in a king's court.
"Behold!" he bellowed, voice recalling dramatically in the metal room. "The Great Empire of Valor! A land of dust, of broken crowns, of warriors who dare to stand even when their bones have given up!"
A few children clapped already, not waiting for more.
Then, slowly, the first character entered. It was Johan, wrapped in his oversized cloak that dragged behind him like a blanket stolen from a giant. He held his chin high, pretending to be majestic, though his hood kept slipping over his eyes.
"I…" Johan cleared his throat and forced his voice deep, almost gravelly, "…I am the Emperor of Dust, guardian of nothing, ruler of ruins. My crown is heavy, my taxes are heavier, but fear not. Hope still lingers in this stale land."
The survivors chuckled, especially at "taxes."
From the corner of the stage, Arlong stepped forward, wearing the ridiculous feathered hat Grace had given him. His movements were calm but his voice firm.
"My Emperor," he said, bowing slightly, "your armies have scattered, your walls have fallen, and your people hide like shadows behind walls. Yet here you stand, calling yourself a ruler. Tell me, why? Why? WHY!?"
Johan lifted his chin higher, cloak slipping again, and struck a pose.
"Because, my loyal commander, even when the land burns, the crown does not fall. And even if it does.…" He let the cloak fall off his shoulders completely, standing there in simple clothes. "….a true leader fights without it."
The crowd gave a small cheer.
Then Elior swaggered in, helmet horns glinting in the lantern light, fake sword dragging across the floor. He smirked at Johan and spoke with a mocking drawl.
"Ah, so the mighty Emperor lectures on hope again! Tell me, your majesty, how do you inspire a starving soldier? By feeding him your speeches instead of bread?"
Johan squinted at him. "Better speeches than your cooking."
The crowd laughed harder. Even Vera let out a chuckle in the back with audience.
Elior pretended to stagger as though wounded. "Your words strike deeper than any blade! But no matter, for I, the Rogue General, bring with me no food, no soldiers, but determination itself!"
He raised his fake sword so dramatically that he almost knocked over a lantern. Grace buried her face in her palm backstage.
Arlong stepped closer to Johan, voice calm again.
"My Emperor, the Rogue General mocks, yet perhaps he speaks some truth. What is hope without bread? What is valor without shelter? How do we stand when we are already on our knees?"
For a moment, the survivors in the audience went quiet. It sounded too close to their own reality.
Johan let the silence linger, then raised his hand slowly, pointing toward the lantern light.
"We stand," he said, voice soft but steady, "because the dawn comes whether we see it or not. I, your Emperor of Dust, will crawl through the night if I must to remind you of it."
The survivors clapped louder this time. Some of the children even stood up to cheer.
Rosario, off to the side, clapped his hands together and shouted like a festival barker, breaking the heavy moment with a grin.
.....
Scene 2 — The Knight and the Spirit
The stage dimmed a little. Grace, behind the curtains, whispered to Tom, "Remember, you're the brave knight. Brave, not clueless."
Tom stepped out. He wore a tin pot on his head for a helmet, the handle bouncing against his cheek with every step. He dragged a wooden stick painted silver as if it were a legendary sword. The survivors roared with laughter the moment they saw him wobble onto the stage.
"I…" Tom tried to sound noble but his voice cracked. He coughed, straightened his back, and tried again.
"I am Sir Tomalot, the last knight of the Crumbled Vale. My king suffers a curse most foul, and I shall hunt the spirit who withholds the cure!"
He raised the stick sword high, but the pot-helmet slipped forward, covering his eyes. He staggered. The survivors couldn't hold back anymore. They laughed until their shoulders shook.
Then, a ghostly wail echoed from the side. Arlong appeared again, this time draped in a white sheet with two holes cut for eyes. He floated onto the stage, making "UwU-UwU" sounds so half-heartedly that Rosario had to bury his face in his hands to stop laughing.
"O, mortal knight!" Arlong intoned in the flattest, most bored voice. "Why dost thou disturb my eternal slumber?"
Tom jabbed his stick sword toward him dramatically. "Spirit! I come not for your haunting, but for your cure! My king suffers, his stomach is growling in agony!"
At this, Elior heckled from offstage, "He means food poisoning!" The survivors erupted again.
Tom rolled with it. "Yes! A curse most vile! For three days, His Majesty has battled his enemy feeding his soldiers rotten cabbage stew!"
The crowd howled. A child nearly fell off the bench laughing.
Arlong raised his sheet hands. "Knight, the cure you seek is not mine to give. For I am bound by sorrow. My village was burnt, my dog stolen, and worst of all…." He paused dramatically, then lifted the sheet to reveal underneath he was holding a shoe. ".…I am forever haunted by my missing sandal."
Tom bent a knee as if kneeling before royalty. "Then, Spirit of the Sandal, I beg thee release this cure, and I shall find your lost underwe— I mean footwear. I will scour every land, even the feet of giants!"
Arlong leaned forward, voice dropping to a tragic whisper: "But beware, knight… the sandal was lost not to man, nor beast… but to the washing machine clan."
Rosario wheezed so hard he had to sit down. Grace nearly toppled the curtain trying to hide her laughter.
Tom slapped his chest, standing tall. "Then I shall fight the Washing Machine Demon! I shall not rest until it spits out every lost sock, every vanished sandal!"
The audience clapped, stomped, and laughed, tears in their eyes.
Then, Tom lowered his stick sword, suddenly softer. "Yet, spirit.… tell me, why do you wander? Why not just rest? Why not let yourself go?"
Arlong dropped the comedic tone. His ghostly wail quieted into something almost human.
"Because…. even a spirit holds on to small things. No matter what it is.... A sandal, a memory, a promise. When everything else burns away.… it is the little things that keep us alive, or trap us forever."
The laughter died down, replaced by a silence that felt heavy but not hopeless. Survivors leaned closer, listening.
Tom nodded, his voice solemn. "Then I shall carry your sandal with me. Not just as leather and thread…. but as hope. For even hope as small as a sandal can cure a kingdom."
The crowd clapped, some softly, some cheering louder, the mix of comedy and sorrow hitting them hard.
From the side, Rosario threw his arms up again, shouting like a carnival host:
"Scene Two! A knight with a pot, a spirit with a sandal, and a kingdom cured of cabbage!"