The stage had no beginning and no end.
It was called Mugen—the infinite. Its floorboards were made of polished obsidian that reflected not the face of the performer, but the face of who they might become. Its curtains were woven from the silk of dying stars, and its spotlight was the unblinking eye of a forgotten god.
They look in the mirror.
Others rage. They scream at the light, try to tear down the curtains, curse the architect of this endless theater. Their voices echo into the void and return as whispers of their own childhood fears.
The stage had no beginning and no end.
It was called Mugen—the infinite. Its floorboards were made of polished obsidian that reflected not the face of the performer, but the face of who they might become. Its curtains were woven from the silk of dying stars, and its spotlight was the unblinking eye of a forgotten god.
They look in the mirror.
Others rage. They scream at the light, try to tear down the curtains, curse the architect of this endless theater. Their voices echo into the void and return as whispers of their own childhood fears.
