Mu Xi’s body trembled uncontrollably, her stomach twisting in painful spasms.
The scent of blood mixed with the fragrance of powder, forming a nauseatingly strange odor.
She bit down hard on her lip, forcing herself to calm down.
Tonight’s banquet—she still had to perform, singing the song Ye Lan had chosen, a piece full of dark innuendo.
At the thought, a chill shot straight from her tailbone up to her skull.
She forced herself to remain composed and hurried through the narrow corridor at the back of the banquet hall, the backstage area.
Pushing open the door, the backstage that should have been bustling with noise and excitement was instead suffused with a suffocating oppression.
The harsh white light of the makeup mirrors illuminated faces frozen in stiffness.
Performers wore all sorts of bizarre costumes—Jester Costumes, opera gowns, beast skin miniskirts—yet every expression was grave, as if prisoners about to be led to the execution ground.
A shiver ran down Mu Xi’s spine as she quickly scanned the room, finally spotting her number card in a corner—”Finale Sacrifice 38.”
The bright red numbers stabbed like bleeding wounds.
She was the last to go on stage, the final sacrifice of this deadly banquet.
Fear surged like an icy tide, drowning her instantly.
She gripped the number card tightly, her nails nearly digging into the cardboard.
Backstage was like a vast black whirlpool, swallowing one vibrant life after another.
Whenever a performer’s name was called, it was like a death sentence passed down by fate—they walked toward the stage with stiff smiles and eyes full of despair.
Then, like stones thrown into an abyss, they vanished without a sound.
Mu Xi could clearly feel the air backstage growing thinner and heavier, nearly solidifying with suffocating pressure.
The aura of death was thick and viscous like ink that refused to dilute, seeping into her skin little by little, corroding her bones.
She mechanically repeated the motion of pressing piano keys in the air, her fingertips cold and stiff like those of a corpse.
Her fingers seemed to feel the icy touch of the keys, but it was as if a thick layer of frost lay between them—lifeless and numb.
Her throat was dry as desert sand; every swallow scraped painfully like sandpaper, producing a hoarse, unpleasant rasp.
She forced herself to start humming the song Ye Lan had designated.
Every note was like a poisoned blade tormenting her fragile nerves.
The overtly suggestive lyrics felt like countless filthy hands groping her body, stirring waves of nausea.
“Number 38, Mu Xi, it’s your turn.” A voice without any warmth hissed in her ear like a serpent flicking its tongue.
The messenger was an expressionless attendant, clad in a black uniform like burial shrouds, making him look like a harbinger from hell.
Mu Xi’s body jolted violently, as if struck by an electric current.
At last, it was her turn—the grand finale of this death banquet.
A powerful dizziness overwhelmed her, as if her soul was about to be ripped from her body.
Her legs felt weighted with lead, too heavy to lift.
But she knew she had no choice.
To defy The Order from Ye Lan would bring a fate worse than death.
The stage lights glared like beastly eyes, greedily fixed on her.
The piano stood silently at center stage, its black body gleaming coldly in the light like a beast with a bloodthirsty maw.
The Guests in the audience were already impatient.
They were like wolves lurking in shadows, letting out low growls as a putrid scent of desire filled the air.
The moment Mu Xi appeared at the stage entrance, the entire hall fell abruptly silent.
Countless eyes, hungry as wild beasts, fixed sharply on her.
What kind of twisted souls hid behind those masks?
Mu Xi didn’t dare to ponder deeply, only feeling a chill surge from her feet to the crown of her head.
The fiery red dress perfectly outlined her figure.
Sequins flickered like dancing flames, blazing wildly over her body, yet failed to warm her frozen heart.
The daring deep V plunged, revealing vast swathes of pale skin; the back was almost bare, barely covered by thin straps.
This was no ordinary costume, but a prop meticulously crafted by Ye Lan to please these perverse Guests.
From below, low murmurs of excitement began to rise; greedy eyes roamed over her as if wanting to devour her alive.
Mu Xi forced herself to straighten her back, wearing a stiff smile.
Her only weapon was this body, honed by Ye Lan’s cruel artistry, and the will she still hadn’t completely lost.
Her fingertips touched the cold piano keys, like feeling the pulse of death itself.
The stage lights suddenly converged like countless blades, tormenting every inch of her skin.
She took a deep breath and forced a smile, more pitiful than tears.
Her fingers stiffly landed on the keys, and the prelude began—the kind of decadent, sultry melody Ye Lan favored, steeped in rot and depravity.
She slowly opened her mouth, her voice trembling slightly before she masked it with skill.
Under Ling Yue’s tutelage, her voice had transformed completely; every note carried seduction, every trill enthralled the soul.
The lyrics were disgusting, filled with blatant innuendo and provocations, like the vilest whispers echoing in the Guests’ ears.
Yet when sung by Mu Xi, they took on a different flavor.
Her singing was pure Academy Style elegance, flawless technique, breath steady and long, every high note crystal clear, piercing the soul.
This ultimate contrast was like an angel singing a hellish poem, instantly capturing everyone’s attention.
The Guests’ eyes, once filled with mockery and lechery, gradually sharpened in focus.
They had expected another plaything molded by Ye Lan—beauty without a soul.
But Mu Xi’s voice was a sword that tore through their false masks, striking at their most secret desires.
What did they see?
A scantily clad girl, like a forsaken child, yet possessing a heavenly voice and noble grace.
This dissonance, this alluring contrast, was more impactful than any performance, leaving them intoxicated.
The stage lights pressed down on Mu Xi like a physical weight, suffocating her.
She could feel those beast-like eyes behind the masks.
Fear coiled around her heart like a venomous snake, each breath sharp with pain.
She sang mechanically, every word forced through clenched teeth, every note like treading on a blade’s edge.
Afraid to miss a single tone, afraid her performance would be imperfect, afraid Ye Lan would punish her—or that these Guests would be disappointed.
She was a tightrope walker, dancing cautiously on the edge of death; one wrong step meant falling into an endless abyss.
She could only clutch the piano keys like a lifeline, pouring all her strength into the performance, fighting to survive.
Sweat soaked the fiery red dress, the sequins flickering under the lights like drops of bloody tears.
Her exquisite makeup, smudged by sweat, made her appear even more fragile and pitiful, evoking a protective instinct.
The Guests watched her like that, their breathing growing heavy.
They loved this fragile beauty, loved the struggle at the brink of despair—it fueled their sick desire to dominate.
When the song ended and the final note fell, the banquet hall plunged into a brief silence.
Mu Xi’s heart pounded violently, nearly bursting from her chest; she shut her eyes tightly, bracing herself for the judgment of fate.