My Devil Lover

　　“Miss Adler, this circus is from Paris,” he said. “You really must see their performance.”

　　This was the third time the man had mentioned Paris.

　　The previous two times were:

　　“Miss Adler, I hear that although New Orleans is now a city of the United States, it still retains its colonial flair, with people as refined as Parisians. In the restaurants—especially the high-end ones—menus and cuisine are entirely French. I wonder if that’s true？”

　　“Miss Adler, please forgive my impertinence. I have no idea what the fashion scene is like in New Orleans, but here in Paris, only the most lowly seamstresses would ever wear a dress that exposes the ankle in such a way. I do not wish to critique a lady's attire, but you truly should not be revealing your beautiful ankles.”

　　Lizzie Adler said gently, "Yes, you're entirely right."

　　The man was quite satisfied with Lizzie's response.

　　There was no girl more suitable for marriage than her.

　　As both the daughter of an oil tycoon and a renowned beauty renowned near and far, she possessed a temperament that was gentle and serene, yet never lacking in the innocence and sly subtlety of a young maiden.

　　Of course, the most praiseworthy aspect is her exquisite face. Though she hails from the coarse North, her skin is as flawlessly fair as that of a Southern aristocrat, devoid of any freckles or blemishes, smooth and glossy like solidified cream. The corners of her mouth naturally curl upward, and at the center of her upper lip sits a tiny, pomegranate-red lip bud, imbuing her entire visage with a hazy, opulent carnality.

　　Her background, however, was not ideal, he mused; though her father's wealth rivaled that of a nation, he was ultimately a speculator who had struck it rich through war, railroads, and oil—unlike their own noble lineage and deep-rooted heritage.

　　Yet recalling her nearly million-dollar dowry, he instantly softened toward her with a surge of tender affection.

　　The man cleared his throat, about to whisper sweet nothings to charm her, when Lizzie spoke up in a gentle tone: "When does the circus start？ Let's skip the movie tonight and watch this instead."

　　The man immediately agreed and headed to the theater's ticket booth to buy the tickets.

　　Lizzie watched the man's retreating figure, her gentle expression gradually turning cold.

　　She didn't want to be on this date with him at all—what was his title, Count or Viscount？—She had gone on dates with several counts, completely unable to tell them apart, only vaguely remembering one named "Lance" because he was handsome, well-mannered, and didn't act as arrogantly as the others.

　　With the rise of film, opera houses had seen their business dwindle; even prime seats like front-row stalls, which used to be accessible only through connections, could now be simply bought at the venue's ticket booth.

　　To maintain a superficial veneer of prosperity, the theater manager allowed circuses, acrobatic troupes, and vulgar jazz bands to perform, as that was the only who was left supporting this magnificent building, since the revenue from operas and ballet pantomimes alone was far from enough.

　　According to the man's words, the rear stalls were fit only for the so-called "lower class.

　　But when passing through those "lower class" individuals, he surprisingly showed no contempt in his gaze. Lizzie was about to think better of him when he sat down and remarked unflinchingly: "I wonder if those lower-class people can appreciate a Parisian circus."

　　“……”

　　Lizzie lowered her eyes, opened her mother-of-pearl fan, and swayed it in silence. The thought of having Paris as her inevitable destination, no matter whom she married, sunk into her with a deep, quiet despair.

　　Ten minutes later, the show began.

　　Since it wasn't the premiere night, the audience's response was hardly enthusiastic. Naturally, this drew the man's sneer: "A bunch of country bumpkins."

　　Lizzie watched the performance in quiet contemplation.

　　The first two acts did indeed feature performers from Paris.

　　The performer in the opening act came straight from the Charles Palace—better known as the prestigious Paris Opera House. Decked out in a sequined gown, she burst onto the stage and flawlessly executed the "fouetté turn," which was typically only seen at St. Petersburg, spinning like a top for a full sixteen revolutions. Then, amidst a light and cheerful melody, she tumbled over in a series of five or six somersaults, deliberately flashing the white pantaloons beneath her skirt.

　　This type of performance, equally appealing to both high and low tastes, was like a match that suddenly sparked, igniting the audience's enthusiasm. People cheered and applauded.

　　Lizzie also smiled and clapped, genuinely captivated by the young woman's confident and charming demeanor.

　　The man, however, furrowed his brows as if the young woman were his own relative: "An actress from the Paris Opera House, and yet she stoops to performing such vulgar, degraded dances—it's truly disgraceful."

　　The second act featured a stunningly beautiful woman performing fire-breathing on stage. Dressed in a striking peach-red long gown, she held torches in both hands, now kissing the flames, now inhaling and exhaling fire, and finally, taking a mouthful of strong liquor, she tilted her head back to spew a three-foot-long blaze, astonishing the entire audience. Instantly, applause rippled endlessly, and some even stood up to toss hats and handkerchiefs onto the stage.

　　The host said she was from Paris but had not learned the fire-breathing skill there; instead, a mysterious foreigner had taught her this dazzling feat. Yet the man seemed oblivious to this comment, constantly chattering to Lizzie, insisting that this was the standard expected of a Parisian circus.

　　The following acts were more of an exhibition than a performance—devoid of dialogue or choreography; they simply had a group of deformed individuals walk onto the stage to display their ugliness and disfigurement.

　　Among all the acts, the host was the most energetic. Wiping his sweat with a handkerchief, he cheerfully introduced the freak show. For the audience in the back who couldn't see the details on the performers, he delivered a series of vivid analogies, painting each scar, each festering sore, and each mangled limb into their ears with picturesque flair.

　　“We discovered these poor sisters on a small farm… Some say they grew this way due to racial crossbreeding. But how innocent these sisters are! Those who deserve punishment should be their parents instead!”

　　Lizzie watched coldly from the sidelines, feeling that this man was utterly despicable—not only did he discriminate against country folks like her, but he was also a racist.

　　The final show—the most grand and anticipated of all— "Ladies and gentlemen, I bet you've never seen anything like this!" The stage lighting flickered ceaselessly as the host declared, "I wonder if any of you have ever encountered an alligator—ugly, terrifying, cunning, lurking in sodden swamps, always ready to strike a fatal blow？ There is no creature more hideous and terrifying than an alligator, and no one more akin to one than the Son of the Demon—let us welcome—"

　　The host took a deep breath: "—the Son of the Demon takes the stage!"

　　Thunderous applause erupted from the crowd; some even stood on chairs whistling, as if they had been waiting all along for this very moment.

　　Lizzie tilted her head, her eyes fixed unblinkingly on the stage, a flicker of curiosity stirring within her.

　　She had seen that flyer.

　　What kind of person would it be who learns everything they can, wherever they go—mastering magic tricks, belting out songs like a natural, and even drawing and firing a gun with lightning speed, as swift as a sharpshooter？

　　Of course, what sparked the greatest curiosity was still his appearance.

　　The world is hardly short of physically ugly people, especially in the slums, where one can find countless pitiful souls covered in scabs and scarred faces.

　　After the war, there were also many people disfigured by conflict, but few were labeled as "monsters," "devils," or "demons," nor were they shunned or locked behind the bars of a circus for public amusement.

　　Was this person's appearance truly that terrifying？

　　Just then, the curtain descended as the auditorium lights dimmed, leaving only the footlights burning, dispersing wisps of silver haze. The lighting technician switched a filter, casting a sharp, cold white beam onto the fabric of the curtain.

　　Clearly, the "Demon Child" was about to make an appearance.

　　The music played by the orchestra grew increasingly eerie, akin to the sound of a flute drifting from a swamp strewn with mildew, thick mists, and scattered bones.

　　The audience had been chattering and playing cards, with people constantly entering and exiting to buy and sell drinks, yet when the music started, they inexplicably fell silent. Even the troublemakers who specialized in heckling stopped their whispered complaints.

　　The curtain rose.

　　A figure stepped onto the stage.

　　He seemed young, but his stature was exceptionally tall and straight, cloaked in a black long coat with a loose brim drooping down, covering most of his face. Only his cold, hard jawline and pale, almost sickly lips were visible.

　　Judging solely from his silhouette, it was impossible to imagine his appearance could be "as terrifying as a demon.

　　He wore a pair of worn-out leather gloves, the black tanned leather slightly cracked—clearly hand-me-downs that didn’t fit him at all. Yet it was still evident that his fingers were slender and well-defined, with prominent joints.

　　Lizzie realized for the first time that when a person was too tall and had fingers too long, it could exude an indescribable sense of oppression.

　　Looking at him like this, he wasn’t ugly at all—he almost looked somewhat handsome.

　　The audience sensed this too, feeling deceived, and couldn’t help but boo and mock him.

　　Amid the tidal wave of jeers, the "Demon's Son" began his performance.

　　He simply raised one hand and slowly opened it.

　　A cluster of apricot-yellow flames ignited in his hand, blazing up.

　　Unlike the performance of the enchanting lady, when she draws close to the flames, the audience’s gaze fixates on her slick, oily arms, worrying that the fire might ignite along the grease on her skin.

　　People watch women play with fire to behold how they, amid perilous flames, imbue the fire with a graceful, flirtatious charm.

　　The performance of the "Son of the Devil," however, evokes an entirely different sensation.

　　Lizzie couldn't even sense the barrier between him and the raging flames. As the fire expanded, it hissed like a serpent, consuming the entire stage in the blink of an eye. Yet, with just a clenched fist, the roaring blaze that had been crackling moments before was extinguished completely.

　　However, despite being so intimately connected with the flames—almost merging into one, blurring the line between fire and flesh—his expression remained utterly indifferent from start to finish.

　　This peculiar contrast elevated the performance's brilliance, conjuring a bizarre world as if crafted only by geniuses and madmen.

　　The performance came to an end. The "Son of Satan" abruptly raised his hand, extinguishing all flames, then walked into the cage on the side of the stage, flanked by two thugs armed with rifles.

　　It was only then that the audience noticed: both his hands and feet were shackled with heavy chains, the iron shackles crawling with rust and bloodstains, a sight that instilled dread.

　　Clearly, the circus hadn't exaggerated; they genuinely believed he was as dangerous and terrifying as an alligator in a swamp.

　　Lizzie couldn't resist pulling out the flyer, gazing at it again and again.

　　The flyer didn't detail the misdeeds he had committed; it only said he was intelligent and talented, had survived an alligator's jaws, and mastered the skills of all circus members in less than half a year.

　　Logically, such a person should be revered, chased after and adored wherever he went. But because of his horrifying appearance, instead of receiving worship and admiration, he was feared, stripped of dignity and freedom.

　　The man was completely engrossed in the performance, failing to notice the chains or the cage: “I wonder if this ‘Son of Satan’ is from Paris…”—truly a high compliment indeed.

　　The next act was labeled “Duel.”

　　The host said, "Don't let his magician persona fool you—while he can make fire dance with breathtaking mastery, he could just as easily be a dead shot if he wished. Everyone here must have seen gentlemen dueling outside taverns. Unlike savage outlaws, they are sticklers for rules in the dueling arena, strictly adhering to the codes of *Social Etiquette*: Both parties take positions, pistols held perpendicular to the ground, then it's all about skill—whoever draws faster survives the duel."

　　At this point, the host paused: "We originally wanted to invite a gentleman to the stage for a duel, but gentlemen fight for honor—who would stake their life on a circus act？"

　　Scattered laughter rippled through the audience.

　　“So, we've invited Tom Baum—a washed-up, retired marksman willing to bet his life in a showdown with our 'Demon Child'!”

　　The man clapped approvingly, "Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant! Now that's a real performance! It respects the honor of gentlemen while delivering an unexpected twist! I never thought New Orleans could boast such a spectacular act, no less impressive than a Paris show—truly remarkable!"

　　But Lizzie found nothing remarkable about it.

　　No matter how clever or composed the "Demon Child" was, he was just a magician.

　　Even if he were a prodigy capable of drawing and firing a gun as swiftly as a sharpshooter, his speed could never surpass that of a true marksman—those gunmen make a living with their pistols, their familiarity with the weapon rivaling a magician's mastery of playing cards.

　　Moreover, she was convinced that Tom Baum was confident enough to kill the "Son of the Demon" with a single shot; otherwise, he would never have publicly accepted the duel.

　　For the sake of this so-called spectacle, they were sending a living, breathing person to his death…

　　Lizzie furrowed her brow slightly, suddenly no longer wanting to watch.

　　She intended to get up and leave immediately, but the theater lights dimmed once more, and two bright beams of light struck the stage.

　　The chains binding the "Son of the Demon" were unlocked, and a gun holster was fastened to his leather belt. The two each took fifteen steps back, standing face to face.

　　The orchestra's melody grew darker and heavier, the timpani's drumbeat mimicking the rhythm of a ticking second hand—boom, boom, boom—like a countdown to death, filling the air with a foreboding sense of doom.

　　The "Son of the Demon"‘s jaw tightened slightly, whether due to the duel or something else, it was unclear.

　　Tom Baum, in contrast, flexed his five fingers confidently.

　　"In accordance with the *Social Code of Conduct*, we shall all serve as witnesses to this duel!" the host exclaimed loudly. "Let us all wait for the signal to fire — rest assured, this duel is absolutely fair and just. We guarantee that if either party fires before the si