Reyman Clouden smiled, admiring the delicate curve of Arsa's gloved wrist.
With a calm, almost reverent motion, he peeled away the white noble girl's glove—the final piece of what he believed to be his newest "masterpiece." The pale skin beneath was almost translucent in the candlelight, soft and smooth like porcelain. His eyes shimmered with obsession as he slowly raised the surgical knife over it.
"One incision… right here," he whispered.
The sharp edge descended.
But the blade never touched flesh.
Arsa's eyes flew open—gray and alert, burning with sudden awareness.
THWACK!
A swift kick from Arsa's leg caught Reyman right in the gut, knocking the man back with a grunt. His hand loosened just enough for Arsa to twist off the table and roll to the ground.
Reyman staggered, quickly regaining his balance.
But it was too late.
With a flash of blue light and a clink of magic, Arsa's revolver materialized in his hand.
Arsa, breathing heavily, aimed the barrel directly at Reyman's head.
His hand trembled slightly—not from fear, but adrenaline and disbelief.
"You—" Arsa managed to speak, voice shaky but steady enough. "What's your name?"
Reyman paused. Then slowly, with an amused smile creeping across his lips, he gave a dramatic bow, even as red strings began to slither from his fingers again.
"Reyman Clouden," he said smoothly, "dollmaker, surgeon of beauty… and the man who almost made you into perfection."
The revolver clicked as Arsa cocked it.
Reyman's grin only widened.
Then—
He vanished.
A blur of motion—blink-step—and he reappeared to Arsa's left, already mid-swing with the surgical knife.
Arsa barely ducked.
RIPPPP
The blade caught the fabric of his dress, tearing a clean line across the waist. The frills fluttered like snow as Arsa spun, stumbling from the force, now gripping the revolver with both hands.
"You cut the dress!" Arsa snapped in frustration. "Do you know how expensive this thing was?!"
Reyman laughed, dark and breathless.
"Oh, I assure you… it was never going to stay on for long."
Arsa's eye twitched. "Creep."
Arsa tightened his grip on the revolver, backing slightly as Reyman Clouden stood still, eyes glinting with something unhinged. The candlelight danced across his black noble coat, his boots clicking softly as he took a deliberate step forward.
Then Reyman tilted his head.
"You're a boy, aren't you?" he said, voice smooth, almost purring. "Oh, darling, how deliciously ironic."
Arsa's face twitched. "Don't call me that."
Reyman's smile widened, showing too many teeth.
"You move like a doll, look like a dream, and now I find out you're no maiden? Hah… How fitting. You're not a flaw in my design—you're the proof that beauty has no rules."
Suddenly, Reyman raised both arms.
Crimson threads exploded outward from his fingers like a bloom of veins, weaving through the air in eerie patterns. They shot to the corners of the room, slipping through small trapdoors and metal grates.
Then from the shadows, from the walls, and from below, they emerged—thirty women, pale and silent.
Their bodies were stitched together in grotesque harmony: parts sewn like fabric, patches of different skin tones blending unnaturally. Eyes glassy. Limbs stiff. Expressionless.
They encircled Arsa like ghosts in porcelain dresses.
"My finest collection," Reyman whispered, arms open like a showman. "Each of them failed the test of time. Age, sickness, betrayal. But in my hands… they live forever. Beautiful. Silent. And loyal."
Arsa kept the gun steady, but his stomach twisted.
"These are—these were—people," he said coldly.
Reyman didn't blink. "People die. Dolls doesn't."
Then he turned his eyes toward the girl with honey-blonde hair—Artstate—who stood still behind the surgical table.
"She was my first," he said quietly. "My daughter. Her name was Marianne."
A pause.
"I was a great dollmaker once—famous in the Empire, called to the court of nobles. But then the nobility changed, factories rose, and art was replaced with machinery. Dolls made of porcelain were no longer wanted. I was discarded… but I still had one thing left."
He looked at Artstate.
"A daughter dying of lungrot at age ten."
Reyman's voice turned sharp. "I stitched her lungs. I reinforced her spine. I carved her joints and poured my soul into every stitch. I saved her."
He stepped closer to Arsa.
"And now I save others. I give them the beauty time denies. They obey. They do not betray."
His red threads twitched again. The thirty dolls slowly raised their arms, their heads twitching in perfect unison.
"You, my darling… You could be the crown jewel. I could remake you—not as a girl, not as a boy—but as perfection itself."
Arsa didn't respond at first.
Then he exhaled. "You really are insane."
"I'm an artist."
"You're a grave robber with scissors."
Reyman's grin turned sharp. "Enough talk."
The threads snapped forward.
Arsa spun into motion.
Then the second Reyman snapped his fingers, the red strings flared like lightning.
"All of you—tear him apart," he said coldly.
The thirty stitched women surged forward at once.
Arsa's breath hitched. He fired the first shot. The revolver roared in the tight, wax-slick basement, and one of the dolls jerked back—her head snapping unnaturally to the side. But she didn't fall. She didn't bleed.
She kept walking.
Another came from the left—Arsa ducked, sliding low and firing again. This time, he aimed for the leg joint. The porcelain knee cracked, and the doll toppled.
But they were too many.
Arsa spun the chamber of his revolver and slapped a card from his coat into the air. It flashed—bright and violet—and then—
fwup
He vanished from his position just as two dolls tackled empty air.
He reappeared five feet away, behind a rusted support beam, panting. "Damn it… They're coordinated," he muttered, watching as Reyman stood in the middle of it all, laughing softly like a conductor to an orchestra.
"Running, darling? That's no fun. Play your part."
Arsa clenched his jaw and shot two more dolls as they came close—but they only slowed. Not stopped. Not destroyed.
Then—
The ceiling above groaned.
It crashed.
A boot landed with force.
A glowing sword flashed.
"Yo, kid," said Arthur, grinning, his coat billowing behind him as he stood atop a pile of broken pipes. "Heard you were getting married in a basement without us."
Arsa stared. "What… took you so long?!"
Another crash—Lemon descended behind Arthur, gun in hand, and shot a doll in the chest. "He insisted on making a dramatic entrance."
"Focus," growled Reynold as he charged in from the side door, swinging his heavy enchanted cane like a hammer and shattering one of the dolls' skulls.
Aritrea entered behind him, her hands glowing with soft azure sigils, chanting quickly. Litun strummed a sharp note on his enchanted guitar, releasing a wave of sonic force that sent several dolls tumbling backward like dominoes.
But Reyman barely flinched. "Ah… new toys."
He snapped again. The red strings split and extended, controlling more hidden dolls from the corners.
His voice rang out. "You think strength is enough? Art is made from pain."
The dolls surged again—this time splitting to target both Arsa and his allies.
"Split them up," Reynold barked. "Lemon, guard Aritrea! Litun, cover the rear!"
Arsa rolled back beside Arthur, panting, blood trailing from a graze on his cheek.
"Good to see you," Arthur said. "Also the dress looks good on you."
"Shut up," Arsa hissed, firing again. "He's strong. He's really strong."
Arthur's expression sharpened. "Then we'll break his strings. One shot at a time."
Reyman raised his hand again.
And the real performance began.
[TO BE CONTINUE]