CHAPTER 326: THAT’S EMOTION PROJECTION, RIGHT?

A pair of older students walked along the overhead path, speaking quietly—just loud enough for nearby ears to catch fragments of their conversation.

They weren’t whispering, but they weren’t trying to be overheard. Just talking like the day was theirs and nothing needed rushing.

One of them mentioned Astralis Points and how some couples used them to reserve lounges that floated near the city’s rim.

These are not the kind of public lounges built for study or casual rest, but private ones—quiet spaces with soft lighting and transparent floors suspended high enough that you could see the stars without buildings cutting in.

The other added that this month’s meteor shower would be strongest during the twin moons’ alignment, and that the view from those lounges would be uninterrupted.

Ethan didn’t join their conversation. He didn’t even look up. But the idea lodged itself in the back of his mind like a smooth stone dropped into still water.

It didn’t make a splash. It just sank. And stayed.

He didn’t need to imagine it in detail. The image came to him all on its own—he and the twins up there, above the noise and people and unspoken expectations, wrapped in that thin, weightless glow that twilight sometimes gave—not saying much. Just being.

Eventually, Evelyn stood and smoothed the hem of her skirt with one hand, the other adjusting the strap of her bag.

"We should go if we want decent seats."

They didn’t rush. There wasn’t any need to. The walk itself became part of the rhythm they had settled into—quiet, unforced, gently held together by the space between them.

The path curved naturally with the land, guiding them along the ridge and into the lower slope of the amphitheater district.

No signs pointed the way, but they didn’t need them. The place’s design flowed like it was meant to be followed.

As they rounded the last bend, the open-air theater came into view—its platforms layered in soft arcs, suspended just above the ground by thin lines of glowing energy that hummed without sound. There were no rails, but no one stumbled. The design invited trust.

The central stage floated higher than the seating rows, anchored not by visible machinery, but by what looked like luminous roots made of stabilized mana—thick veins of soft blue light that pulsed beneath the surface of the platform like a heartbeat.

Everly had seen pictures of this place before. Guides. Articles. Even a few class teasers during orientation.

But seeing it in person stripped away all that filtered knowledge. Here, the structure wasn’t just pretty—it breathed.

The curved seating platforms didn’t cut into the land. They hovered with it, like smooth stones placed gently on a lake’s surface.

The light was just starting to shift toward late afternoon, brushing everything in a soft golden warmth.

The wind, which had been playful and persistent earlier, moved a little slower here, as if it even understood that this wasn’t a place for shouting or rushing. It was a place for listening.

Everly let her eyes wander. Down near the front rows, a group of student technicians was setting up projectors and focus anchors.

Most of them wore dark uniforms trimmed in silver, their hair tied back, their faces focused. A few had illusion bands wrapped around their foreheads—thin strips of rune-woven cloth that pulsed softly when active.

Behind them, a shimmer of mist formed and then resolved into a quiet image: a boy sitting on a hill, arms folded over his knees, face turned away from the invisible audience. Then it flickered and faded.

"That’s emotion projection, right?" Everly asked, not loudly, just enough for Evelyn to hear.

Evelyn nodded, her eyes still on the technicians.

"They use it for flashbacks. Dream sequences, too. It’s subtle if they’re good. But when it works... it hits."

They found a spot six rows from the stage, off to the left, where the view wasn’t perfectly centered, but still open and clear.

The seats curved slightly, designed for leaning back without slouching, and were warmed by the touch of afternoon sun still clinging to the stone.

Ethan sat in the middle. Evelyn is on his right. Everly on the left.

They didn’t speak much. They didn’t need to.

A soft bell rang once. Not loud. Not sharp. Just a pure, even tone that cut through everything gently.

And just like that, the noise around them faded—not into silence, but into stillness. Even the birds that had been calling in the distant trees quieted. Even the breeze paused.

Everly leaned back slightly, crossing one leg over the other. Her eyes went to the stage, but her mind floated elsewhere.

She already knew the story. It was a reimagined classic—an Earth tragedy reworked through a post-cataclysm lens.

A boy born with unstable energy, a girl who wasn’t powerful, just stubbornly brave.

The girl appeared first. On stage, she wandered a dreamlike marketplace—half-illusion, half-sculpted prop—with fruit stalls and fabric lines flowing softly behind her.

She hummed, bought something, and smiled at strangers. She wasn’t extraordinary. That was the point. She was someone who could’ve been missed in a crowd.

Then the boy entered. No dialogue. No music cue. Just his shadow falling across the edge of the scene.

He wore a cloak, but not a dramatic one. Simple, dark. His posture said enough—slightly curled in, not weak, but contained. As if holding something in check.

Everly watched him for a moment. Then she turned slightly, not to speak, just to glance at Ethan.

He wasn’t tense. Not exactly. But he wasn’t loose either. His focus was the kind that weighted it—like he was thinking of something far from the stage but tethered to it by memory.

The first confrontation came quickly. The boy warned her, told her about the heat, what happened to the others, and how nothing he touched lasted.

But she stayed anyway.

Midway through the second act, the illusion bands activated again.

The air above the stage shimmered like glass, catching morning dew. Images formed: a burned cradle, a dog reduced to embers when it jumped into his arms, and a mother whose back turned slowly and never turned back.

They came in flashes. Never long enough to overwhelm. Just enough to feel.

Evelyn leaned forward once, her brows drawing in slightly as one scene hit harder than the rest. Her lips parted, but she didn’t speak.

Her hand moved instead—slipping over Ethan’s without hesitation. She didn’t squeeze or interlock fingers. Just rested there—a simple point of contact.

Everly saw it. Said nothing. But after a moment, she shifted slightly, letting her arm rest against Ethan’s. Not claiming space. Just choosing to be there.

The third act began with a scene in the woods—no dialogue. Just motion and sound. The girl offering him something: gloves, carefully sewn, made from cloth that suppressed magic without numbing sensation. She didn’t explain. She didn’t need to.

He hesitated. Then, for the first time, reached out and took her hand—glove to glove.

That moment landed heavy, not as a twist, not as shock—but as something earned.

Everly exhaled softly. Her eyes weren’t on the stage anymore.

She was looking at Ethan.

Not because she needed him to say anything.

But because something about this—this kind of story, this kind of feeling—left you wondering how long something beautiful could really last. How long could you keep it before something broke?

She didn’t voice the question. Didn’t need to.

Because just then, Ethan shifted slightly.

Not enough to be deliberate.

But enough that their shoulders aligned again.

And maybe that was her answer.

The final scene didn’t try to impress. There were no explosions, no flying debris, just stillness.

The gloves tore during a fall. She tripped. He caught her bare-handed. His power surged. And in saving her, he burned her.

Slowly.

Completely.

But she never screamed. Never pulled away.

She smiled even as her body dissolved in his arms.

And he knelt there long after she faded.

The bell rang again—one note.

The actors didn’t move.

Not for a long breath.

When the lights dimmed fully, the applause came—restrained, respectful.

Just enough.

A figure stepped from the side stage—a young man in a half-mask, silver-trimmed. His movements were practiced, elegant.

One hand behind his back, the other sweeping forward as he bowed to the audience in a smooth arc.

Everly blinked."That’s the guy who played the villain," she whispered, nudging Ethan with her elbow. "He won last year’s Astralis Performing Crown. I saw a clip—he’s always like this. Subtle."

He passed close to their row. And as he did, his gaze landed on the three of them. He didn’t pause. But his smirk—half-hidden by the mask—was unmistakable.

"Good taste," he said, voice light but smooth. "All three of you."

Then he walked off, leaving no room for reply.

Evelyn smiled faintly and looked down.

Ethan didn’t react much. Just shook his head once and said, calm and certain,

"I’ve already got the leads of my own story."

Everly laughed—quiet but whole. The kind of laugh that didn’t need an audience.

"You’re ridiculous," she said. "But fine. You win this one."

They didn’t head straight back.