Chapter 63 : Schindel Strasse (63)

Normally, Hans would have postponed sightseeing until tomorrow.

He found it bothersome, and to begin with, he wasn’t particularly interested in the “attractions” of Schindel Strasse.

But in the end, Hans, whose body was brimming with energy yet mentally exhausted, stepped out into the night streets with Alje.

Maybe it was out of guilt.

“Wow.”

Still, seeing the girl repeatedly exclaim in awe the moment they left the house made some of his fatigue melt away.

Even Hans, with his rather dry emotional range, could admit that the night streets of Schindel Strasse were somewhat beautiful.

The projected sky was faint, so the starlight couldn’t fully embrace the labyrinth’s night, but…Unlike the limited and foul-smelling monster dung, the glowing stones, born from the ripened mysteries of witches, were nearly semi-permanent.

Unlike the torches of Kumo Strasse, which went out one by one as the night deepened.

The lights on the cobblestone streets sparkled more brightly as the darkness settled.

“It’s like a Fairy Road!”

Well, even so, Hans thought that kind of reaction was a bit exaggerated.

The twinkling lights decorated every path.

On such roads, even a child lost in the dark forest of night could easily find their way to a magical place.

“Let’s see…”

Hans furrowed his brows and focused.

Hans was used to finding his way around Kumo Strasse, but different rules applied in Schindel Strasse.

It goes without saying that a hunter, who normally wouldn’t even be allowed to set foot here, knew those rules only thanks to Gretel.

These unspoken customs and unwritten rules were the biggest boundary separating clueless outsiders from the actual residents of the district.

“This way should be fine. How are you holding up?”

The clothes Hans and Alje were wearing were no exception.

It made sense that there were clothes prepared for Hans—Gretel had made them for him before.

But Alje had no choice but to borrow something of Gretel’s.

The girl, who had been so lively just a moment ago, now frowned slightly.

“Actually, it’s kind of tight around the chest.”

“…”

“It’s fine! This much is nothing.”

Hans decided to pretend he hadn’t just heard what Alje said.

Even if they’d carefully avoided Gretel’s fanciest and most expensive outfits, borrowing her clothes without permission was already crossing a line.

If a comment like that reached Gretel’s ears, they’d be dead for sure.

“Let’s just go.”

“Okay!”

Oblivious to his anxiety, the grinning girl pulled Hans along.

Holding hands and walking side by side had started to feel natural now.

To Hans, it was nothing more than the instinct to make sure a younger sister didn’t get lost on the way.

Whether Gretel would see it the same way… that was another question entirely.

“I’m excited~!”

The two of them headed for the theater.

Hans had chosen a few attractions he had already experienced in Schindel Strasse.

He couldn’t completely hide that he was a novice, but he at least didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of Alje.

Ah, the sad instincts of a man.

Even though they called it a “theater,” it wasn’t nearly as luxurious or elegant as the ones used by the nobles from outside.

Just a wide tent, a raised stage, and rows of surrounding seats.

Hans’s hand trembled as he handed a few coins to the doorman at the entrance.

“Highway robbers, the lot of them!”

The cost of a solid meal in Kumo Strasse—hard black bread, jam the color of excrement, and a sandwich made with disgustingly salty jerky to mask the bitterness of witchweed—had vanished in an instant.

All for a boring, ten-minute play!

Still, Alje seemed to be enjoying herself so much, so… whatever.

A few people were already seated inside.

Most of them, like Hans, were accompanied by someone—likely couples.

There were definitely more women in Schindel Strasse than in Kumo Strasse.

Of course, the witches didn’t manage the gender ratio while funneling people into the labyrinth, so to be more precise, it was the women who survived that made the difference.

In Kumo Strasse, even prostitutes were in short supply, and the vacant spots were filled by the old and sick becoming male courtesans.

“Since I’m in Schindel Strasse anyway, I should probably check it out at least once.”

“Mister?”

“Ah, huh?”

“What were you thinking about, grinning like a pervert?”

“Pervert, seriously?”

Hans brushed off the embarrassment and guilt with a light grumble.

Yeah, at least for now, he should focus on the girl in front of him.

Among all the people sitting in this theater, there wasn’t a single woman as beautiful as the girl beside him.

The glances they received weren’t as blatant or hostile as in Kumo Strasse.

So instead of shouting at them to keep their filthy eyes to themselves, Hans straightened his posture and proudly basked in the attention.

Some of the gazes weren’t directed at Alje but at him.

Though not particularly handsome, the restrained wildness of a trained beast that clung to him was enough to stir the hearts of a few desk-bound ladies.

He didn’t know how long they chatted like that, but once enough people had filled the space, the announcer stepped onto the stage to signal the beginning of the play.

“Mother, mother! Are you abandoning me?”

The seats were only painted to look nice, creaking with every movement, and the well-dressed gentlemen and ladies still had stubborn dirt clinging under their nails.

“My son, my son. We have starved, and starved again.”

Not that the actors were particularly impressive.

Judging by appearances isn’t ideal, but the man whose bulging muscles were barely contained in his formal suit even struggled to hold a stable pitch.

“Father, father! Are you going to abandon my brother?”

“My daughter, my daughter. Do not worry—we do not play favorites among our children.”

The next actors who appeared were just as ridiculous.

The actress playing the “little sister” was the oldest of the three—an old crone—and the roles of “mother” and “father” were played by the same person.

He held two masks, raising and lowering them alternately, mimicking a grotesquely altered female voice.

Well, if this was meant to be a comedy meant to make you double over in laughter, then maybe there wouldn’t be a problem.

But the actors’ attitudes were dead serious—and so were the audience’s, which made things even more absurd.

“Mister…?”

“Shh.”

Just as a bewildered Alje opened her mouth, a nearby audience member sharply shushed her.

“Brother, brother. What should we do now?”

“Sister, sister. Don’t worry too much.”

Even as Alje closed her mouth with a stunned expression, the play continued on.

In under five minutes, the “brother” and “sister” had returned home twice only to be thrown out again, run through the forest, chased off a wicked bird pecking at breadcrumbs, and even built a “house.”

Of course, that “house” was nothing more than a tent more pitiful than a hunter’s, with hardened bone pillars draped with half-cured monster hide.

Describing how miserable and ridiculous all of it was would be a waste of time.

Theater in the labyrinth was truly substandard—almost to the point where it felt maliciously twisted.

“Our house, our house. A house where we’ll never be kicked out again.”

“But, but. There’s no father or mother in the house anymore.”

“Sister, sister. Let’s make a child. Let’s become a father and mother.”

“Alright, alright. Let’s raise the child, and then kick them out like we were!”

With a chorus like a pig being slaughtered, and frenzied writhing that would insult the very definition of “dance,” and as the actor who played both “mother” and “father” stormed onto the stage a third time with a third mask to play a third role.

Alje was staring at the stage with a truly artistic expression.

Even a girl as pure and optimistic as her couldn’t pretend to enjoy what she was seeing.

And the other audience members?

They were no different.

Yet they all sat there, keeping stoic expressions as they endured the spectacle.

Their deadpan reactions were, in a way, the funniest part of this so-called comedy.

A pitifully cheap knockoff of aristocratic culture.

An audience with neither class nor grace, merely mimicking it.

The only ones who genuinely enjoyed and relished this kind of play were the witches.

They were the only ones willing to break the unwritten rules of the theater, cackling and jeering at the ridiculousness of the actors.

That was why Hans hated the theater—but liked coming to it with Gretel.

Coming with a girl like Alje, though?

That might have been a bad idea.

“Mother, mother. Are you trying to abandon me?”

“Daughter, daughter. I gave you a house, but you didn’t even come from my womb.”

The play ended with the third character—the “old woman,” supposedly the child of the brother and sister—outsmarting the “brother” and pushing the “sister” into a fireplace.

The initial reason for abandoning each other had been absurd to begin with: because splitting bread three ways would make the pieces too small.

“What the heck was that?!”

Thankfully, the play wasn’t long, so they didn’t have to suffer for too long despite having paid for it.

Once outside, Alje was fuming.

She wasn’t rude enough to cause a scene inside the theater, but the moment they got a little distance, she began stomping her feet in anger.

“That was weird! Totally weird! Even that solo performance I secretly watched by a wandering performer was better than this! And why the hell was the daughter a grandma?!”

“Calm down, Alje.”

“I like stories that end with ‘And they lived happily ever after,’ okay?!”

Hans chuckled softly.

“That’s not so easy.”

Outside the labyrinth wasn’t exactly paradise either—but in here, things were especially harsh.

Most endings here don’t even get a proper full stop.

They’re not the kind of stories anyone bothers to emphasize or celebrate.

“Hmph. I still don’t accept it.”

“And if you don’t? What, gonna go back in there and grab the playwright by the collar?”

“No, not like that! I mean—I’m going to be happy, no matter what anyone says! Absurd and unreasonable tragedies like that only happen in stories!”

Hans didn’t quite understand what that had to do with the play, but he nodded anyway.

“I hope you can.”

Most tragic endings in real life aren’t absurd or unreasonable.

Because even before death, life itself is like that—when it keeps repeating over and over, people stuck in the mire start to see it all as logical and reasonable.