Maya felt as if her heart was about to stop.
Every card that terrifying entity—the Master of Masks—played felt like another nail being driven into the coffin of their already fragile hopes of survival.
And Adam's behavior… was catastrophic.
At first, she tried to cling to a faint glimmer of hope.
Maybe Adam had some kind of plan, some trick… but as the rounds passed, that hope faded like smoke.
Adam wasn't playing—he was collapsing. His cards were random, his words hesitant, and his gaze unfocused.
She watched cold sweat pour down his face, his hand trembling as he placed one ridiculous card after another.
When the Master of Masks played that card about the "Frozen Beauty of Eternal Sorrow," and she saw Adam respond with the card "Lost Dream" in a broken voice…
Something inside her cracked as well. This wasn't an act… this was real despair.
We're going to die for sure!
Then came the moment that confirmed all her fears.
Adam—the sarcastic boy who always seemed like he didn't care about anything—leaned forward and buried his head in his hands on the table.
His shoulders shook violently, and she heard the sound of muffled sobs. Tears streamed between his fingers, glittering drops falling onto the cold black stone surface.
His cheeks and ears had turned bright red, visible even from where she stood.
"I… I can't…" Adam whispered between gasps, the words barely coming out.
"This… this is too much… please… please, sir… just… end this… have mercy…"
"Tsk!" Maya closed her eyes for a moment, a painful knot forming in her throat.
They had lost… Adam had completely broken down.
"Damn that coward!" Rex beside her muttered a curse under his breath, his expression a mix of anger, disgust, and despair.
The Master of Masks stood over Adam, his shadow stretching to completely cover him.
His arrogant smile shone with undeniable victory.
"Oh, you poor little mouse," he said in a voice dripping with mockery. "Is this the end? Is this your beautiful, pathetic moment of surrender?"
Maya watched the scene… waiting for the final blow.
Waiting for the Master of Masks to play his last card, and for all of them to turn into dust or masked puppets.
She closed her eyes.
It's over…
I slowly raised my head. The tears dried quickly, leaving behind a strange chill on my skin.
"Wait…" I looked directly at the Master of Masks.
I pushed myself up from my kneeling position.
"I said… wait," I repeated, my voice calm and steady now.
"I… I still have some cards left."
"It won't change anything." The Master of Masks looked at me again, but this time with boredom.
Quickly, I glanced over everything I had left.
I picked up the three [Wasted Time] cards.
I placed them on the table one after another without further comment—just a steady rhythm. Three counters of squandered time.
"This?" The Master of Masks frowned slightly.
"You've already played these ridiculous cards. What's the point of this tedious repetition?"
"Boredom?" I picked up the [Empty Echo] card.
"Is that what you feel, Master of Masks? Bored from repeating words that sound bigger than they really are until they lose all meaning?" I played the card, and the echo of his earlier words about the "most beautiful dance" now sounded hollow.
Then, quietly, I placed [Childish Disappointment] in the center of the table.
I said nothing. Just the image of the crying child and the broken candy, defying all the drama he had been building.
"Tap… tap…" The Master of Masks began drumming his fingers on the table.
"What are these childish tricks? Is this the 'narrative' you think will defeat me?"
"Maybe," I said simply, playing the rest of my cards one after another, as if painting a surreal picture in front of him.
[Vicious Circle], [Unanswered Question], [Glowing Nothingness].
Each card added another layer of meaninglessness to my "story."
"In this story, Master of Masks," I said calmly, having forgotten my tears from moments ago, my eyes fixed on his golden mask,
"There is no victory… no defeat… no climax… no ending… there is only… this."
I gestured to the scattered cards that had created deliberate narrative chaos.
The Master of Masks remained silent for a moment, his mask hiding any true expression. But I saw his shoulders stiffen slightly.
"This… this is not a game. This is… nonsense."
"Nonsense can be very powerful," I said, playing my final card—the blank white [Blank Page].
"Especially when it faces someone who takes himself… far too seriously."
I placed the white card over the last card he had played, as if erasing his words.
What if everything… was just a blank page waiting to be filled with the same absurdity, over and over again?
The Master of Masks suddenly stood up, his movement sharp and abrupt.
"You… you are ruining the fun of the game! You are destroying the aesthetics of the narrative!" His voice was still theatrical, but something beneath the surface had cracked—like a fracture in the ice of his artificial composure.
"Ruining it?" I forced my smile to remain steady.
"You know… your aesthetics aren't the only ones that exist. There are stories… that don't follow your rules. Stories that you would find… unbearably boring."
The last word—boring—seemed to be the key.
I saw his golden mask tremble ever so slightly.
I had cornered him in a narrative position with only two exits: admit boredom—something he despised more than anything—or continue a game that had become torture for him.
He stared at the table, at the absurd mix of cards that had turned his dramatic game into a repetitive, meaningless farce.
There was no longer any "story" he could respond to or build upon.
I had trapped him in the very void of meaning he himself had created.
"…"
Long moments of tense silence passed.
Maya and Rex watched in silence. They clearly didn't understand what was happening, but they could feel that something in the balance of power had changed dramatically.
Finally, the Master of Masks lifted his head.
His frightening smile was still there, but now it looked… stiff, like a mask over another mask.
"You have proven your point, boy," he said in a chillingly calm voice. Much of his theatrical energy had vanished, replaced with something closer to… resignation.
"You have succeeded in making this game… unbearable. So ridiculous that it is no longer worthy of my precious time—or its place in my carnival."
He paused, then added in a tone laced with bitterness I hadn't heard before, as if speaking more to himself than to me.
"I hate to admit it, but you… you have ruined my fun. You turned drama into farce, and order into meaningless chaos."
He straightened his hat.
"And that, in itself, is a form of victory in this twisted carnival… a disgusting victory devoid of aesthetics."
"But…" the Carnival Master asked with curiosity.
"You don't seem to have a deep understanding of 'narrative' as a whole… so how did you know that I hate boredom?"
Ah… he's right.
In the world of "Vanguard Academy," some horror stories possessed a core nature or essence that defined them.
It manifested as a principle—a rule the main entity of the scenario could not ignore.
Because ignoring it meant the story and its narrative would lose their meaning.
And when a story loses its meaning… it disappears or dies in a way that cannot truly be understood.
[Nature of the Carnival Master: An extremely powerful entity, sharp-minded, and obsessed with theatrical display and deception. He possesses a pathological devotion to the rules of the games he runs and considers any attempt to break the "aesthetics" of the game a personal insult. He hates boredom and stupidity.]
His hatred of boredom was part of his nature.
By making the game repetitive and dull, I forced him into two choices.
Either continue playing and break his own nature—his narrative—and risk being erased when the story lost its meaning…
Or end the game himself and remain faithful to his nature.
"Just a guess," I replied.
I wasn't foolish enough to tell him I had a skill that let me analyze the rules of horror scenarios.
"A guess?!" In that moment, the Carnival Master's eyes widened dramatically.
"Pfft…" A laugh escaped him unexpectedly.
"Bwahahahahaha!"
He burst into laughter.
He laughed and laughed until his mask began to tremble.
When he finally stopped, he looked at me with eyes shining with excitement.
"What is your name, young man?"
My name? Is that important?
"Adam Lister."
But who was I to refuse answering such a terrifying being?
"Adam. It suits you perfectly, you great gambler."
Huh…? Gambler? What nonsense is he talking about?
"To gamble with your life and the lives of your companions without even blinking!" he shouted theatrically, as if delivering a line on stage.
Hey! Damn it… don't shout like that based on a wrong assumption.
"Just for a guess, you chose to play a game that could have ended you… ah, how romantic," the Carnival Master continued, dramatically placing a hand on his forehead like a maiden in love.
"You… reminded me of the very essence of being a Master of Games!"
At that moment, the status screen appeared again—but with unexpected content.
[The Carnival Master is experiencing a unique Narrative Interference!]
Narrative interference…?
I read the words with difficulty.
At that moment, the Carnival Master stood up and bowed slightly.
"Sir Adam, I have an interesting proposal for you to hear," he said in a serious tone this time, completely different from his previous theatrics.
So I've evolved from "boy" to "Sir Adam."
I quickly gathered my thoughts.
"What is it?"
"Would you like to work for me in this humble carnival?"
The question nearly short-circuited my brain.
Huh? Carnival… work… humble…
The words broke apart in my mind.
The Master of Masks began speaking quickly.
"I will give you a very satisfying salary, of course—housing as well—and even full authority within the carnival."
I stared at him in shock.
So he believed I had been gambling from the start like a madman, betting my life and my companions' lives on a guess… which had ignited something in him, something that affected his narrative.
This is a huge misunderstanding.
I smiled strangely.
The stupidest offer I've ever heard.
I glanced at Maya and Rex to see their reactions.
"Whaaaaat?!" Maya gasped sharply, all the color draining from her face.
Wait… did they hear the misunderstanding he shouted earlier?
Damn it! They completely misunderstood.
I returned my focus to the Carnival Master.
"I'm sorry, Master of Masks, but I'm not planning to work anytime soon," I said, trying not to reject him too bluntly.
After hearing my cold response, he sighed sadly.
"What a shame. But know that if you ever want a job someday… I will always be here."
As if I'd ever work full-time in an A-rank gate… in your dreams.
"Thank you for the offer. I truly appreciate it," my mouth said—despite my brain thinking the exact opposite.
Then, with a sudden gesture, he waved his hand.
"The game… ends here. By my own request—as the master of this carnival."
He didn't say he lost.
He didn't say I won.
He simply ended it, like closing a book.
"Weaving of Fate."
What an irritating game.
In the end, I didn't survive because of the cards, I thought, exhaustion washing over my mind and body like a heavy wave.
There was no magical winning card.
My skill [Architect's Narrative Blueprint] hadn't revealed any hidden loophole in the game's rules during play.
The skill only gave me the initial key—an understanding of the Master of Masks himself: his arrogance, his love of drama, and his hatred of boredom and pointless absurdity that ruined his twisted "aesthetics."
The plan from the beginning was to push him to that breaking point—the moment where he would choose to end the game himself because it had become unbearable.
Everything had been calculated.
That first "breakdown"—the tears, the begging—had all been part of the performance that would build this wave of boredom.
I made my moves predictable, my plays stupid, my emotions obvious.
For a moment, I almost believed I would lose.
I made it feel like playing with a child—except I made sure that I was the child.
Even so, heat crept across my face…
Crying was still embarrassing, no matter how you looked at it.
But it was necessary.
I needed him to completely underestimate me—to believe I was nothing more than a frightened, pathetic boy—so he wouldn't suspect my intentions when I started playing those "ridiculous" cards.
I fed his arrogance.
I let him feel completely superior until he became blind to the trap I was weaving.
The repeated [Wasted Time] cards weren't meaningless.
They were meant to create a sense of stagnation—a loop.
They broke the rhythm of his dramatic narrative and gradually introduced boredom.
Each "Wasted Time" stole a moment of the drama he craved.
The [Empty Echo] card wasn't just a stupid repetition of his words.
It drained those grand declarations of meaning—turning them into empty noise and weakening his narrative authority.
And [Childish Disappointment]… that was the perfect bait.
It injected triviality and absurdity into the heart of his drama.
It suggested that his entire "carnival" might be built on something trivial—an insult to the meaning and aesthetics he worshipped.
I attacked the core of his pride.
Then the other absurd cards—[Vicious Circle], [Unanswered Question], [Glowing Nothingness]—reinforced the sense of meaningless repetition.
Finally, [Blank Page] erased the last remnants of his narrative authority and forced him to face a story he could neither control, finish, understand, nor enjoy.
At first, I considered forcing him into a narrative paradox.
It was difficult, so I kept it as a final option in case he could continue playing against his own narrative nature without losing meaning.
Something like that had happened several times in the novel "Vanguard Academy."
So my main idea from the start was simple:
A story with no ending.
When he explained the rules, he clearly stated that every story must have a beginning, a middle, and an end.
So when I played [Blank Page], I attempted to create the paradox of a story that never ends.
If he dared to keep playing and continue the narrative, he would inevitably step into a paradox that would destroy his own story.
A loophole in the law he himself had created.
But it was good that he withdrew in the end.
After all, I had bet that, as a being obsessed with controlling narrative and drama, he would never endure a story that mocked everything he believed in—a story that made him feel bored, powerless, and insulted.
I had trapped him in a "free-will dilemma."
Either break his nature and continue playing a game that had become psychological torture—and risk entering a paradox…
Or indirectly admit defeat by ending the game himself to preserve what remained of his pride.
And it seemed he realized my plan too late.
Far too late.
That was why he chose the second option.
Because simply put… he couldn't endure the boredom and absurdity I forced upon him.
I didn't need to win in the traditional sense.
I only needed him to lose the desire to play.
Because if I played fairly and properly against the Master of Games…
I would have definitely lost.
"So," I said calmly, looking at the Master of Masks, who now seemed less imposing and more… exhausted, like someone who had fought a long battle and lost in a way he never expected.
"What about our deal? Our freedom… and our friend?"
"My goodness…" The Master of Masks sighed deeply, as if carrying centuries of boredom and frustration.
"The deal… will be honored. You are free. And your friend…"
He gestured vaguely toward the shadows where the masked Samuel stood.
"He will be returned. Though I doubt he will appreciate the experience… or remember it."
"Whoosh!"
Without another word, the colorful lights of the arena began to fade.
The black glass floor lost its shine, turning into ordinary stone.
The Master of Masks himself began to fade slowly—like a dream dissolving in the morning light.
"Don't… forget," the Carnival Master said as his final words.
"My offer still stands."
"Wait!" Maya shouted.
But it was too late.
The place around us returned to what it had been before the whole farce began—a dark, damp stone corridor.
I had won.
Won in a twisted, unsettling way.
And I wasn't sure whether I felt victorious now…
Or simply hollow, and unbearably exhausted.
I want to sleep…