Luther Vahn hadn't slept.
Sleep was for mortals. For accountants. For people who have never touched divinity with their bare hands.
He stayed in his silk-lined chamber, eyes bloodshot and wild. Fingers danced on black keys; a storm claimed him, finding its own melody.
Cool keys tingled his fingers, trapping him in endless night.
Ink from scattered sheets mingled with burning candles, shrouding him in a creative fog.
This was more than fun. He was unraveling.
"Howl."
"Imperial March."
"O Fortuna."
Again, he pressed forward.
The music unmade him in a different way each time. One piece showed how much he wanted it. Another made him feel like a hungry warrior in his chest. The last made his lungs feel as if fate itself were beating them like drums.
Each time, the music unraveled him anew. One exposed longing. Another awakened a warrior's hunger. The last made his lungs beat with fate.
He wasn't a man anymore.
He was resonance incarnate.
As dawn crept into Velmora, Luther looked less like a conductor and more like a myth clawed into flesh to make music bleed.
And he still wasn't finished. There was one more score to try. Yet this piece carried the risk of failure, and even the danger of losing a part of himself to its haunting melody. The cost of mastery was unknown and ominous, looming over Luther as he prepared to face it.
The ninth.
This was the one Charles had warned him about.
He stared at the first page. Then the second.
He whispered, "Well. What's the worst that could happen?"
And he played.
Only three bars.
Just three.
And something broke inside him. It showed when his finger hit a sharp, unforgiving key, drawing a thin line of blood where ivory met skin. It felt as if a string in his chest was being unwound by a blade of memory and grief, and even the piano trembled.
The air rippled, and his qi surged wildly, as if his soul couldn't decide whether to weep or scream.
His voice broke mid-note.
His hands stopped.
His breath caught.
Tears welled in his eyes unbidden. He neither sobbed nor cried like a child.
He broke down quietly, almost beautifully.
"…You bastard," he whispered, staring at the ink on the page. "What did you lose to write this?"
The answer, of course, would come later.
But for now… he had work to do. It was time to rally the troops.
The Harmonic Bloom Studio, Morning Rehearsal
To say the ensemble arrived 'reluctantly' would be an understatement. Dread weighed heavily on their faces: exhaustion lined their eyes, jaws were clenched or slack in resignation, and every step was dragged as if their bodies rebelled against returning to rehearsal.
The room thickened with silent complaints, suppressed groans, and the kind of tension that comes when no one wants to be there.
They shuffled in like the dead had risen just to rehearse a funeral. Faces were pale and eyes red, many studiously avoiding one another. Their voices rasped with fatigue. Mutters of complaint, short curses, and the sour tang of last night's drinks filled the air, matching their heavy, reluctant movements.
The oboist walked in wearing someone else's cloak. The bassist had a magical mug of coffee that was vibrating with unspent rage.
The percussionist? Still wearing a battle skirt and humming a fight chant from last night's drinking contest.
"Morning, maestro," the harpist croaked, rubbing her temples. "Did we offend you in a past life?"
Luther stood in the studio's center, holding a black-gold tome, his face shining like someone who'd discovered life's secret and wanted to use it.
"Good morning, miracles," he greeted cheerfully.
The orchestra immediately backed up, several members exchanging alarmed looks. One violinist mouthed a silent curse, while the percussionist gave a weary shake of her head.
"You've either lost your mind or had a really good night," said the clarinetist suspiciously.
Luther's grin widened. "Both."
He handed out scores one by one.
"Howl."
"Imperial March."
"O Fortuna."
"Adagio for Strings."
"Look," said one violinist, "if this is some noble's cosplay fantasy, I swear I will—"
"Shut up and listen," Luther interrupted, stepping to the piano. "Just once. Then you can go back to being glorified bar singers with fancy sticks."
Grumbles came from several corners. A cellist shot Luther with a skeptical look and started to leave, fingers drumming on her case. Nearby, a trumpeter muttered but stayed put.
But then—
Luther played.
Piece 1: Howl
Luther didn't speak. He sat, allowing the weight of the moment to settle upon everyone in the room.
The room stilled. He touched the keys; the first notes fell softly, haunting and light. Each sound lingered, as if the studio refused to let go. The word 'howl' echoed beneath—melding words, music, and promise.
The opening notes fell like light, broken raindrops. Each hung in the air a heartbeat too long, as if the studio refused to let them go.
Then—
He sang.
A low tenor hum, no lyrics at first—just resonance. A vibration of the soul through breath. His voice layered over the piano like dusk sliding over the horizon. Subtle. Smooth. Grieving.
As he played, the black-gold tome flickered beside him. It glowed faintly with qi-reactive ink; the notes on the page shimmered in rhythm with his soul.
His left hand played strong, slow chords, steady as thunder. His right hand moved lightly, almost like mist above a flame. The melody grew and ached.
He reached the first refrain.
And sang it fully.
"If I howl into the sky… will the stars still hear me?"
Those words weren't in the score.
They came from him, from something ancient and cracked and molten in his chest. His voice surged. Broke. Recovered. Carried the weight of something lost and too beautiful to name.
The studio responded. For a moment, the members froze, lowering their instruments, holding their breath, and staring at Luther.
Some blinked in shock, while others leaned forward, their hands shaking as if they were caught by a force they couldn't see.
And one by one...
They joined. The violinist's bow shook above the string. The flutist's first notes were hesitant but strengthened with each breath. Musicians caught each other's eyes—agreement without words.
The flutist stepped forward, eyes wide, hands trembling. She didn't wait for a cue. She answered him. Her notes soared like wind meeting storm—fragile, then bold.
Next came the violist. No tuning. No warm-up. He followed instinct, letting his bow weep as it slid across the string. He didn't know what key they were in. It didn't matter.
The oboist joined next, mouthpiece finding breath before thought. The harmony clicked into place. Raw. Undeniable.
Then the cellos rumbled.
The harp joined, gentle as moonlight. Percussion thundered, finding its heartbeat.
All the while, Luther kept playing, his piano echoing with something almost divine, his voice thin and stretched between grief and glory.
It was no longer a solo. It was a summoning.
When the orchestra played together, their qi mixed—the studio transformed. The air listened. A sea of stars swirled on the ceiling. And the Phantom Concerto?
They were not musicians anymore.
They witnessed something sacred.
When silence returned, the outside world felt changed.
Piece 2: Imperial March
"Now," Luther said in a low, hungry voice. "It's war."
No fuss. No warm-up.
Only the boom.
A single strike on the bass drum broke the silence. It sounded like the war-gong of ancient warlords. It echoed through the studio, loud and unyielding.
A brief pause followed, like a general's breath before giving the next command.
Then...
Boom. Boom. Boom-boom.
The strings snapped behind it, not in a graceful manner, but in an authoritative way. They didn't play; they marched. Every note is a step. Every chord is a command.
The horns came next, and their brass notes sounded like the roar of warbeasts across the plains. Their voices rose together, as if they were calling the ancestors to pay attention.
And underneath it all, the piano came to life.
Not soft. But a steel grinder.
It was like a siege engine rolling through the soul, with chords banging against the gates of heaven.
Qi pressure spiked. It didn't settle; instead, it kept rising.
It didn't just hum in the air. It screamed.
The resonance stones embedded in the studio's floor glowed a deep red and shook with harmonic tension.
With each synchronized crescendo, cracks spread out like spiders, and the ground itself seemed to be trying to hold back the music's anger.
And then the illusory phantoms showed up.
The hidden memory, built into the studio's foundation, reacted to the rhythm. They didn't forget. They obeyed.
Ghostly armies poured down from the domed ceiling above. Warriors in ghostly armor, reserved and solemn.
Cloaked generals with faces faded like old stories. Siege towers loomed. Cavalry charges. Ash and flame banners float in the air.
The orchestra didn't flinch. They became the army.
Every musician's qi surged into their instrument, transforming them from artists into champions.
The flutist gritted her teeth as wind affinity howled through her lungs—no longer a melody, but a storm-screech above the battle.
The percussionist bled from one ear but didn't stop. He struck with every ounce of fury he'd ever buried—every humiliation, every doubt, pounded into the world.
The harpist's hands blurred. Her strings echoed like divine arrows loosed into enemy lines.
And Luther?
Luther was not a conductor anymore.
He was a Warlord.
His baton moved like a general's blade, guiding the tempo and shaping the music. His left hand kept the beat, his right led the emotion. His eyes were intense, and his voice rose above the music.
"CONTROL your resonance!"
A cellist staggered, qi backlash rippling through her spine. She dropped to one knee—but kept playing, tears streaming down her face.
"You are not meat sacks—we are Virtuosos!" Luther bellowed.
"We do not follow the rhythm—we forge it! You are not trapped in the song—you command it!"
The studio responded.
Floating lanterns above turned into flaming spheres of golden qi, circling the ceiling like planets. Crimson banners appeared in the air, trailing through invisible winds. The room pulsed with energy and grandeur.
Even the light changed.
No longer cool white.
Now, it burned.
Golden. Scarlet. Black like dried blood.
The world outside that chamber faded away. Time held its breath. The studio became a battlefield carved in sound and memory, and they were its heroes.
The violins played sharply, blending with the timpani's thunder in a crescendo so intense it seemed to cut through the qi field like a storm splitting the sky.
The trumpets pierced it like cavalry over the ridge. Bold. Brash. Unforgiving.
The climax hit with the force of destiny. Every note screamed like a name carved into a forgotten war memorial. Every beat felt like the last before the fall.
The final note crashed like an avalanche through their bones.
And then… silence.
But it was not peace. It was the aftermath.
Ashes. Breathless lungs. Broken shields. Bloodied banners in the soul.
The music ended, but the war stayed.
The studio dimmed. The light faded from crimson back to neutral white.
But nothing felt neutral anymore.
The musicians looked at their hands as if they didn't belong to them. They felt older, tougher, changed by something they had experienced. A single bead of sweat dropped from one musician's brow onto the wooden floor, a small reminder of their humanity after such an extraordinary performance.
"…That piece didn't ask for permission. It commanded my will."
Luther turned to him, sweat on his brow, his chest rising and falling like someone who had just come through a battle.
"And you obeyed," he said. His smile was feral. "Good."
He closed the tome with trembling reverence.
"This isn't just music," he whispered. "This is resurrection. It's a revolution. It's taking back every forgotten note our ancestors died trying to remember."
A few of the musicians began to weep.
Not from sorrow. But from awakening.
The harpist knelt on the cracked floor, still clutching her instrument. "We're not just performers anymore… are we?"
Luther shook his head slowly.
"No," he said. "You've heard the march. You've seen the ghosts. You can't un-hear it now. You're part of the score. You're part of something."
He looked around at them.
Eyes wide. Tears running. Fingers trembling.
"No more wedding quartets. No more tavern serenades."
He lifted the tome above his head, holding it high like a banner in battle.