Jailer: This is a serious violation of the rules. I'll have to report this to the Physician, and all of your treatments will need to be reassessed.
Jailer: Until a new treatment plan is in place, all members of La Sociedad are confined to their cells without any of their usual privileges.
The jailer heavily emphasizes "La Sociedad," triggering a commotion among the prisoners.
La Sociedad Member II: This is not what we agreed to!
La Sociedad Member III: You gave us your word! Affairs within La Sociedad were not to be disturbed!
Roberta: Please don't do this!
Roberta: Please, he doesn't deserve this. No one does! We don't wanna lose our friend.
The previously convulsing prisoner struggles to his feet.
La Sociedad Member IV: Please, madam! I swear it won't happen again. I'll take the medicine on time as instructed.
La Sociedad Member IV: I promise I won't hurt anyone.
Jailer: I'm sorry, Mr. Pablo, but rules are rules.
The Idealist: Before you take this poor man from his friends, may I ask you something?
The Idealist: Do you know where these inmates go after they see the Physician?
Jailer: ...
Jailer: My duty is to keep order here. What happens beyond these walls is not my concern.
Jailer: Perhaps they've recovered from the Physician's treatment and were returned to society.
The jailer's expression relaxes.
The Idealist: Within these walls, the only truth we know is this: no one returns from the clinic of the Physician of Comala.
The Idealist: Are you certain this "treatment" they received is really a cure?
Roberta: Pablo is harmless. He-He's just a writer who has a talent for finding words and poems. That's all.
Roberta: Please, let him stay. We'll look after him. He can have our share of the medicine. We'll keep him in check.
Jailer: But this doesn't conform to our regulations.
???: Still as arrogant as ever, Idealist.
???: One day, you'll get us all killed.
A stranger enters the exhibition hall. As she arrives, the jailer exhales with relief.
Jailer: Ah, it's you. I'm glad to see you here.
Vertin: Who is that?
Jailer: That's Octavia, one of our model inmates. She's been a great help in the past.
Jailer: If you're interested in prison literature, I'd suggest talking to her instead of the Idealist.
Vertin: So, she's a writer, too.
Recoleta: Who would've thought! This place has got writers coming out of the woodwork!
Recoleta: I thought it would be easy to find my writer friend in a prison. But what are the odds that I'd break into a place absolutely lousy with them?
Jailer: She used to be in their gatherings, until she got tired of their nonsense and started her own faction.
The new arrival brings out a change in the Idealist. He clicks his tongue imperceptibly.
The Idealist: What are you doing here, Octavia? Haven't you heard? The era of chieftains, ghosts, and plantation stories is over. Visceral realism is the future!
Octavia: Ha. And has this brilliant "visceral realism" helped you finish any of these poems?
Octavia: What a waste of time. I'm not interested in your movement or arguing with you.
Octavia: I just walked by and happened to witness another episode of your brutal arrogance.
Octavia: And I'm not about to just stand aside and watch you repeat your mistakes!
Octavia: I'm taking Pablo to the Physician. Care to lend a hand, Ms. Jailer?
The Idealist: We agreed to mind our own business. Are you breaking our agreement?
The Idealist: No one, no one will be allowed to erase a word from our poems!
COMBAT
Jailer: Stand down, both of you!
Their heated debate continues without any concern for the jailer's warning.
Octavia: You've never listened. I pity your followers—to be led by such a reckless megalomaniac! Do you even think about the consequences of your actions?
Octavia: We fought hard to earn the freedom to discuss literature under their watch. Your impulsive ego threatens to destroy everything we've built here.
The Idealist: Spare me the lecture, Octavia. We don't need permission to do as we please.
The Idealist: You're just another puppet of power, kneeling to the eyes behind those glass walls.
The Idealist: They have trained you to believe it was your own decision: to be good and conform. Who could've done a better job?
The Idealist: When I look at you, all I see is a sheep, docile and obedient, just the way the tower wants! What kind of work could someone like you create? Literature isn't defended by those lounging in cozy rooms, scribbling to soothing music.
Octavia: Have you looked in a mirror, Idealist? You've become a pathetic, windmill-tilting fool, a monster tearing down everything around you!
The Idealist: A beast of prey, you mean? Naturally, a sheep would be appalled by the mere thought of such a creature.
The Idealist: A fearful sheep caught in a vine, confusing the blade that would set it free with the jaws of a lion!
Octavia: Such a master of metaphor! But I beg you—learn to distinguish right from wrong, fantasy from reality. Only then can you truly lead our people toward what's right.
The Idealist: "Distinguish right from wrong." Don't make me laugh. Is that the limit of your vision?
Octavia: You ... You ...
The impassioned leader jumps onto a nearby bench, striking a dramatic pose before the crowd.
He raises his arms and launches into a speech.
The Idealist: Companions! Friends! Listen to me!
The Idealist: There is no truer home to literature than a prison—
A blast of deafening sound and all words fall from the air.
The Idealist's expression freezes. His eyes search down from a frozen face to a dark red hole in his chest.
An ominous shade of crimson seeps out.
Octavia: No! NO!
The horrified arcanist stumbles back, screaming.
Jailer: Who did this?! Hands behind your head and drop to your knees, all of you, now!
Jailer: This is your last warning!!
The prisoners show no reaction to the jailer's final ultimatum. They stare at the Idealist, unmoving.
Roberta: Idealist, you-you're bleeding. It's in your chest.
As his life drains away, the Idealist appears unsurprised. He simply turns his gaze toward Recoleta.
The Idealist: You must ...
Recoleta: Yes, Idealist?
Unfinished words dissolve into silence as the prison itself begins to tremble.
The entire exhibition hall twists and contorts, its surroundings warping beyond comprehension, as if dissolving and expanding freely.
Recoleta: What's going on?
The hall is still. Time seems frozen in place, until someone utters the first words.
Octavia: Was he shot? Where did the bullet come from?
Octavia: Ms. Jailer, and you ladies over there, come give me a hand! We need to get him to the Physician!
Her words ignite the first spark.
La Sociedad Member II: Did you do this, Octavia? You couldn't face the burning truth of his words, so you pierced his very heart instead, just as it was blazing with the fire of justice!
La Sociedad Member II: Or was it you, Jailer? Did you intend to crush the voice of poetry beneath your wheel of power?
La Sociedad Member II: It has to be one of you. Devils in disguise! Beasts in human skin!
Octavia: Can't you see? I had nothing to do with this. I'm as innocent as any of you.
Octavia: I've been trying to keep order here, to protect everyone. And now you blame me?
La Sociedad Member III: Don't listen to her! The Idealist made it very clear. She's trying to get us punished for her own gain!
La Sociedad Member III: You're a murderer, Octavia!
The prisoners' fury erupts.
In the chaos, Sonetto blocks an arcane skill that pierces the air.
Octavia: This is mad. You're accusing me without proof. It wasn't me.
Jailer: This is getting out of hand. I suggest you ladies leave now.
Recoleta: No, wait.
Recoleta: It all happened too fast. What happened to the Idealist? Is he alright?
Recoleta: I ... I didn't even get a chance to ask about Aleph.
As the tide of people surges around them, the line between life and death blurs beyond recognition.
Sonetto: I agree with the jailer.
Sonetto: Timekeeper, Ms. Recoleta, let's get out of here.
The violent conflict rages on, and everything else becomes meaningless.
The illusion of time dissolves, its flow unknown.
Under the garden's influence, the frenzy of prisoners begins to resemble an unreadable, chaotic epic.
At this moment, an unidentifiable figure enters their midst, though no one takes notice.
The newcomer scrutinizes the motionless corpse.
???: His vitals are gone. At last, some peace and quiet.
???: Well. For a liar and a thief like him, there's hardly a better end than this.
He reaches into the Idealist's coat pocket and pulls out a die.
It is an artifact marked by patterns veiled in smoke, an object seemingly not meant to exist in this world, a twenty-sided die known only through an omniscient perspective.
And now, it is stained in an utterly corrupted blackness.
???: Heh. Just as I thought. You had it all along.