The hall of École Royale de Cheval pulsed with life.
Laughter, song, the clink of crystal glasses. It was a night of triumph, a night of victory, the kind of performance that etched itself into memory. The troupe had been flawless. Every step, every note, every turn of the stage had dazzled the crowd until the auditorium erupted into thunderous applause.
Now, champagne sparkled in crystal stems, gowns shimmered in gold light, and the troupe reveled in their moment. Voices rose in merry chorus, toasts echoing off the marble walls.
Adalbert laughed with them, of course. His laughter rang clear, velvet and warm, a sound that fit among the merriment. But beneath it, a quiet emptiness stirred. Applause was fleeting. Wine ran dry. Performances ended, and curtains fell.
Even so, he played his part. Coat sweeping, hand raised, he toasted to art, to wonder, to dreams. His troupe cheered, glasses clinking. Yet as the laughter swelled around him, he noticed something missing.
Opera.
Her voice. Her warmth. The sun itself.
He excused himself with a smile, slipping past fellow actors drunk on celebration. The air shifted as he pushed open the doors of the auditorium. From heat and chatter, to the cool stillness of night.
The courtyard stretched wide before him, bathed in lamplight. The crescent moon hung overhead, pale against the brilliance of École Royale's lamps. The breeze carried the faint scent of roses from the academy gardens.
Adalbert breathed it in, his lips quirking into a small smile. He always did prefer the quiet moments. Out here, the mask could slip, if only for a moment. Out here, he wasn't the actor. He was simply… Adalbert.
His boots clicked softly against the stone path as he wandered through the garden, eyes sweeping the shadows. And then he saw her.
Opera stood near the academy's grand steps, her gaze locked on the towering building as though it might swallow her whole. Her figure was outlined in gold light, hair flowing in the breeze, but her ears drooped, her tail still.
And beside her, approaching with elegant poise, was a man. Blond hair catching the moonlight. His stride confident, precise. Even from afar, Adalbert recognized him.
Lucien.
A sharp twist gripped his stomach, but Adalbert didn't let it show. Instead, he swept forward with the same flamboyant grace he always carried, letting his coat flare dramatically as he closed the distance.
"My sol," he crooned, slipping an arm around Opera's shoulders. "Why, the stars themselves pale when you disappear from the party. Have mercy on us mortals—without you, the celebration feels so very dim."
Usually, his antics would have earned at least a chuckle. A teasing retort, a playful roll of her eyes. Tonight, all he received was a clipped laugh. Forced. Bitter.
Adalbert froze for the barest instant. Then the smile slipped from performance into something quieter, something real.
"…Opera." His voice lowered, velvet stripped away. "What troubles you?"
Her breath shuddered. She turned her face aside, ears drooping further. The silence stretched, tense and fragile. And then—
"I… I think I want to race."
The words landed like a blade. Adalbert's heart stilled. For a moment, he couldn't breathe.
But he forced a smile anyway. "Race?" he asked gently. "Go on."
Opera bit her lip, her eyes darting toward the academy steps—toward Lucien's silhouette waiting in the lamplight.
"…He told me," she whispered, "that I could touch more hearts in the field than I ever could on the stage. That the world deserves to see me run. That I… I was born for it."
Her voice trembled, caught between longing and guilt. "He said that I wasn't just a star on the stage. That I could be the sun of the entire world."
Before her words could spiral further, Adalbert raised a hand, pressing a finger softly against her lips. He stepped past her, facing the night sky.
"Then go, meine Sol," he murmured, the words spilling out smooth, practiced, perfect. "The stage is too small for a star as radiant as you. Let the world know the brilliance of the Opera who was always destined to shine."
He didn't let his voice waver. Not once.
Opera's breath caught. Silence wrapped around them, heavy and suffocating. Then, quietly, she whispered:
"…I'm sorry, mi Lune."
And she turned, stepping toward the academy, toward Lucien's waiting hand.
Adalbert remained where he was. Watching her leave. Watching the sun slip beyond his grasp.
When she disappeared into the building, his knees gave way. He collapsed into the shadow of the courtyard arch, his coat pooling around him as his hands clutched at nothing.
The moon had lost its sun.
For all his bravado, for all his flamboyance, Adalbert crumbled. His breath hitched, eyes burning with tears that threatened to spill.
"…Opera…" he choked, the name cracking like glass.
And then, a voice.
"Lucien is still causing trouble."
Adalbert stiffened. He lifted his head.
From the courtyard path, a figure approached—stoic, cold, hands buried in the pockets of a dark suit. Black hair fell untamed across his forehead, eyes shadowed with fatigue.
Akuma.
He walked past Adalbert's crumpled form without pausing, his voice low, gruff.
"There's no need to cry," he muttered. "Or rather—you don't have the luxury to."
Adalbert's breath hitched. His head turned sharply. "…What?"
Akuma stopped, his back to him.
"The sun you loved was stolen from you," he said. "Without her, you think the moon cannot shine. But the opposite is true." Slowly, he glanced back over his shoulder, eyes like cold steel. "The sun will burn alone. Without the moon to balance her brilliance, she will be hated. Forgotten."
His words cut sharper than knives. Adalbert could only stare, broken, silent.
Akuma turned fully now, his shadow stretching across the stones.
"Your joy. Your laughter. Your dreams. Your love." His tone hardened, each word hammering like iron. "Is this where they end? Or will you take matters into your own hands… and take them back?"
He extended a hand. Palm open. Unwavering.
Adalbert's lips parted, his voice barely a whisper. "…Who are you?"
Akuma shrugged. His expression didn't change.
"…A broken man, like you. Trying to fix himself. And the world."
For a long, trembling moment, Adalbert only stared. Then, with a shuddering breath, he reached up.
And took the hand.
The memory shattered.
Back in the present, the training hall was silent. Adalbert's voice had grown faint, heavy with the weight of years.
"…And with that," he whispered, tears tracing soft lines down his cheeks, "I joined that broken man. As a trainer, in his broken world."
He bowed his head. For once, no laughter, no flourish, no velvet mask. Only raw, quiet sorrow.
"…I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice cracking.
But before he could say more, warmth enveloped him.
Rice Shower's small arms wrapped around him from the front, pressing into his chest. At the same time, two stronger weights pressed in from either side.
"Y-you idiot," Scarlet muttered, her voice thick. "Don't worry—we'll help you."
"Yeah, man," Vodka added, her usual smirk trembling at the edges. "We got you now."
Rice squeezed tighter, her voice soft but resolute. "Onii-sama… Rice Shower will try her best!"
Adalbert froze.
Then slowly—slowly—the tears that had burned in silence gave way to laughter. Not the flamboyant, booming laugh he wore like a mask. Not the hollow chuckle of a man pretending.
But something smaller. Softer. True.
He wrapped his arms around them all, pulling them close.
"Ach… meine Mädchen…" His voice trembled, yet his smile glowed through it. "What did I ever do… to deserve such stars?"
Scarlet pressed her head against his shoulder, grumbling, "Tch. Don't make it weird."
Vodka smirked, bumping her forehead against his arm. "You'd better not cry this much in front of the others, old man."
Rice only burrowed closer, whispering, "Onii-sama… is enough."
Adalbert's chest shook. But this time, it wasn't sorrow. It was joy. Real, fragile, precious joy.
The moon, once abandoned by its sun, had found new stars to guide his night.
And for the first time in years… he felt whole.