Chương 17: A Magnificent Hall & the Chance Encounter

Far above the chaos of the ticket scramble, the last admission slip fluttered down into the grasp of a stunned onlooker just as the first bell rang. The venue was open. Galan approached the grand entrance of the Soaring Heights Theater, his eyes scanning the scene with the clinical detachment of a man who had built cities and burned them down. Polished stanchions and crimson ropes funneled the eager crowd toward the counters.

Guards in lacquered breastplates stood watch, their spears gleaming with a sharp, professional edge. He stepped inside, and the scent of fresh flowers washed over him. The hall was breathtaking. Twin flower beds framed a cherry tree in full bloom, its petals drifting gently to the floor like pink snow. Banners proclaimed the main event: 'The Oni Fighting Tournament Final Match.' At the far end of the hall, the crowd split in a silent display of divine hierarchy.

Mortals in simple clothes headed for the ground floor archways. Beastfolk queued for a massive, ornate wooden elevator. And the wealthy guests, draped in silks and jewels, ascended the grand, sweeping staircases. Galan cast his gaze upward. A magnificent mural covered the ceiling: Amaterasu and Tsukuyomi—Sun and Moon—cradling the islands of Japan in a dual light. A massive chandelier hung from the painted ocean, a jewel suspended in a faux sky.

"Looks just as good as the ones I've got," Galan mused.

"But the illustrations still don't do them justice. Needs more high-relief detailing on the highlights." As he approached the counter, a female Japanese attendant greeted him in perfect, practiced Godlang.

"Apas, idanoang ovun éndanonne?" she asked, requesting his ticket.

"Whoa, you're good," he replied, handing it over.

"Here." The terminal beeped as she scanned it.

"Based on the seating details, you will be seated with another person. Is that alright?"

"Yeah, I don't mind."

"Very well." She handed him an admission slip.

"Please proceed to the third floor on the right. I hope you enjoy the show." Galan took the slip, his mindcast brushing against her thoughts for a fleeting second.

"Thanks, Rika," he said in Japanese.

"Oh, and gift Tadao some fragrant incense—helps him relax after his shifts." Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. Rika froze, a deep blush blossoming across her cheeks as the stranger walked away without looking back. She opened her mouth to ask how he knew, but Galan was already merging into the procession of elites on the grand staircase.

Here, the air on the stairs was a tapestry of scents: the sweet cherry blossoms of Japan, the rich myrrh of Rome, and the sharp citron of the East. He watched the nobles pass, their attire a silent auction of status. Wealthy Romans ascended in pristine white togas, the width of their purple stripes proclaiming their rank in a Senate he had once commanded. For a while, Galan felt like he didn't belong. And as the numbers dwindled on the higher floors, the eyes of the true elites fell upon him.

Their fine fabrics stood in stark contrast to his plain tunic. With an awkward giggle, Galan retrieved his old Roman cloak from his vault, draping it over his shoulders and tightening the belt. But nearby, a Roman man noticed his signature style immediately, shocked as he spoke in Latin.

"Lord Placidus? Placidus Amnis! Is that really you?" His wife whipped her head back out of curiosity, putting a hand on her lips as she also realized who was behind them. Every other Roman on the stairs noticed as well, with murmurs of disbelief rippling through the crowd as they whispered the name of the former emperor. Galan looked up at the couple.

"Yeah, it's me. Quif?" he greeted them with the casual, irreverent tone of a street urchin.

"My lord, I never thought I'd see the day!" the man, Proclus, stammered.

"The former Emperor himself... but why are you here like this?"

"Just spending my free time," Galan shrugged, tucking his hands into the pockets of his cloak.

"I left Rome to let my son handle things. Vardo—or Alti, as you call him—needs the space."

"He governs with wisdom, my lord," the wife, Pomptina, said with a bow.

"Rome is fortunate to have him."

"I think he's still too young for it, but… wine can't stay in the jar forever, y'know?"

"That's a good metaphor, Lord Placidus." He sighed.

"I, too, wish my son would continue our legacy of service to the Senate. But he is only interested in philosophy lectures and theatrical performances."

"Then don't fight it." Galan suggested with absolute confidence.

"Have him debate on stage as a play. Teach the people to reason with one another rather than using swords to resolve conflict. My son Aquinus could write such a script. I'm sure you know how to reach him once you're back home." They finally reached the third floor as he spoke. Meanwhile, the couple's faces glowed with a sudden, renewed purpose at his words.

"Thank you, my lord," Proclus said, bowing deeply.

"We appreciate your help."

"The honor is mine," Galan replied, placing a hand over his heart.

"Bene valete." He watched them move ahead, but his eyes were already drifting past to the guard standing at the threshold—the man who would be his next moment of intervention. Once it was his turn, he handed over his slip and took back the torn stub.

"Thanks, Tsutomu," he said.

"Huh? Oh, of course. You're welcome," the guard replied, stunned. As Galan stepped onto the open balcony, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder.

"By the way, you should come home early tonight. Your wife cries every night thinking about you. Don't let her fall asleep alone again." He walked away, leaving the guard gaping in shock.