The lingering echoes of the Tsukinomori Music Festival, like sweet sparkling wine, slowly dissipated within the auditorium.
The afternoon sun slanted through the high, stained-glass windows, casting colorful splotches of light on the polished floor.
Girls, their faces flushed with satisfaction, left the performance hall in twos and threes, chatting and laughing; the air was filled with the unique, slightly tipsy ease and joy of youth's end.
Nagasaki Soyo, however, walked against the flow of people, heading alone towards the stage.
The Brass Band Club seniors were busy packing up instruments and music stands, and seeing her approach, one senior immediately offered an apologetic smile: "Ah, Soyo-chan! Didn't I tell you not to bother coming to help? We already felt bad for making you run to the storage room this morning."
"It's fine, Senpai," Soyo forced a smile, displaying her characteristic gentle and proper expression, and took several music stands from the senior's hand. "I wanted to help."
"And…" She paused, her voice softening a few degrees, "I caused everyone trouble today."
"Nonsense!" The senior quickly waved her hand, her smile sincere. "Soyo-chan is always so reliable and considerate."
"Go take care of your own things; we're really fine here!"
Despite the seniors' repeated refusals, Soyo insisted on staying.
She carried the music stands, quietly walking towards the backstage passage.
After the hustle and bustle, the empty stage area was exceptionally quiet, with only the faint clinking of equipment being moved.
The hint of grievance and resentment in the girl's heart, in the calm after the busyness, quietly resurfaced like mud at the bottom of a pond.
Although, upon calm reflection, the 'coercion' and 'CD murder' from this morning were most likely an absurd misunderstanding caused by her own fear, that blond boy's dismissive remark, "insignificant person," was like a tiny thorn, pricking her heart, which had always been afraid of being rejected.
'Will Mom come home tonight?'
The girl forced herself to change the subject.
'There seems to be salmon in the fridge… I'll make teriyaki salmon…'
"Nagasaki-san?"
A clear and resolute voice suddenly rang out, like a pebble dropping into a deep pool, sending ripples spreading behind her.
Soyo turned around, a little surprised.
The afternoon sun poured generously through the tall, floor-to-ceiling windows of the corridor, dyeing the air a warm gold.
Against the light, a figure was walking towards her.
Her distinctive blue twin tails bounced lightly with each step, the sunlight outlining her slender silhouette, giving her a soft, golden fringe that made her almost unrealistically bright.
'Huh? Someone I don't know… Is she calling me?'
Soyo blinked, a little confused.
"Nagasaki Soyo-san?" The blue-haired girl took a few more steps, stopping in front of Soyo.
She tilted her head slightly, her light golden eyes sparkling with a pure and fervent light in the sun, looking directly at Soyo.
The focus and expectation in her gaze made Soyo feel a strange… panic?
"…Yes?" Soyo instinctively hugged the music stands tighter.
"I am Togawa Sakiko from Class C." The girl introduced herself gracefully and confidently, with the poise characteristic of a Tsukinomori student, yet the light in her eyes was exceptionally vibrant, even somewhat burning.
"I'd like to ask you something, if I may," Sakiko said, getting straight to the point, her voice clear and carrying a heartfelt sincerity.
"Are you interested in forming a band?"
"Eh?"
Soyo was stunned; the music stands in her arms seemed to become weightless.
The sunlight streamed through the glass window, warmly enveloping the girl who had just invited her.
Her blue hair glowed softly in the light, her golden eyes shone astonishingly bright, and a smile full of confidence and expectation bloomed on her lips.
At that moment, in Nagasaki Soyo's eyes, Togawa Sakiko was as radiant as a beautiful, breathing oil painting kissed by the sun.
The performance hall, though the show had ended, was not entirely empty.
Gogogogo~
Fuuki and Mutsumi, in perfect sync, pressed themselves against the inner door panel, like two guardian statues.
They both simultaneously peeked out half their faces—Fuuki revealing his sharp blond hair and calm eyes, while Mutsumi showed her light green hair tips and quiet amber pupils.
Their gazes were fixed, unmoving, on the "timeless masterpiece" in the nearby corridor.
Sakiko was happily chatting with the girl named Nagasaki Soyo, her face beaming with an unclouded, brilliant smile.
"Forming a band…" Fuuki's voice was extremely low, his gaze still locked on the scene.
"Mutsumi, what do you think?"
Wakaba Mutsumi was silent for a few seconds, also not taking her eyes off them, only retracting her head a tiny bit, in unison with Fuuki.
"The guitar… is something I can truly own."
She paused, as if feeling it wasn't complete enough.
"Every day… I play for a long time."
"Saki said… together, is good."
Fuuki understood; that guitar had been the only "thing" in her silent world that could make her own voice heard, something entirely her own.
And Sakiko's invitation, for her, was like giving her a stage to enjoy this beauty more, to share this precious "possession."
Fuuki's gaze returned to Sakiko.
The girl still seemed to carry the invisible, strong radiance of "Gravity" he had felt in the auditorium earlier.
It was this sudden, inherent "Gravity" from Sakiko that made him instinctively nod in agreement to what seemed like an impulsive suggestion.
'With Sakiko, this special existence that can cause 'Gravity' anomalies, nearby, forming a band might provide an excellent observation field.'
'Participating firsthand, experiencing the subtle connection that might exist between the band and 'Gravity' up close, is far more effective than passively observing.'
'This is indeed a… 'experiment' worth trying.'
"Fuuki, are you coming too?" Wakaba Mutsumi's voice rang out again, interrupting his thoughts.
She turned her head, her amber eyes quietly looking at him.
Fuuki didn't hesitate, nodding his head.
The moment he nodded, a rare, tiny upward curve appeared at the corner of Mutsumi's lips.
The smile was shallow, faint, like a wisp of thin ice melting on a spring lake, fleeting, yet carrying a pure, heart-stirring warmth.
Fuuki paused slightly.
But this daze didn't last; his thoughts were immediately occupied by another matter—just before he was drawn to Sakiko while watching Morfonica's performance, he had distinctly noticed a subtle, almost imperceptible increase in his mental recovery speed.
Although it was quickly interrupted by the "Gravity" emanating from Sakiko, that momentary feeling was clear and distinct.
During the subsequent performance, he had deliberately tried to "appreciate" the music, attempting to trigger this effect again, but to no avail.
'Deliberate effort, yet ineffective?' Fuuki mused thoughtfully.
'Perhaps the key to activating this mental recovery effect is to be mentally invested in the band's 'performance,' rather than merely 'listening'?'
'Later, I can try going to some Livehouses, experiencing it firsthand.'
'Or, after Sakiko forms a band, try participating in the performance myself?'
'Perhaps there will be a different new experience.'
'However…'
'Tsukinomori Music Festival is over, and there's no sign of Wayward.'
'What exactly was their purpose in appearing at Tsukinomori? And what are they planning?'
Sakiko, at the end of the corridor, seemed to have finally reached some consensus with Nagasaki Soyo.
A brilliant smile bloomed on her face as she lightly jogged towards the door where Fuuki and Mutsumi were hidden.
Buzz… buzz… buzz…
Just as Fuuki was about to step out to meet her—his phone in his pocket suddenly vibrated violently, short and rapid.
Several messages flooded the phone screen, brief but impossible for him to ignore.
============
Tokyo, a quiet hospital room somewhere.
Warm-toned lights softly illuminated the room.
By the bedside chair, an elderly man with white hair, dressed in a hospital gown but in high spirits, was engrossed in an anime playing on TV, his fingers gently tapping the armrest to the rhythm of the opening song.
Suddenly!
Zzzzzzt—!
A harsh static noise rang out, the TV screen flickered violently, and the anime protagonist's cute smiling face instantly vanished, replaced by the serious face of a news anchor.
The background sound also switched to an urgent news jingle.
"Breaking news bulletin!" The female anchor's voice held a hint of almost imperceptible tension.
"Today, at approximately 2:28 PM, severe fires broke out consecutively in multiple locations within Tokyo, including Minato Ward, Shibuya Ward, and Shinjuku Ward!"
"The accident scenes are chaotic, and casualties are still unclear!"
The old man frowned in dissatisfaction, muttering, "What's going on! Just as it was getting good…" He reached for the remote control beside him.
But then, the TV screen switched to aerial footage of the scene.
Thick smoke billowed, and flames raged skyward.
One of the shots focused on a three-story building completely engulfed in flames—the police badge hanging on the building flickered in and out of view in the firelight, revealing it to be a police station in Tokyo's Kita Ward.
The flames wildly licked at the walls, but the shape of the fire had an indescribable strangeness, as if the entire building itself was excellent kindling, erupting violently from within.
At this point, an even more chilling scene unfolded.
Under the gaze of countless viewers in front of their screens, the police station building, enveloped in raging flames, began to violently twist and deform like clay being kneaded by invisible giant hands, following the frenzied dance of the fire.
Steel and concrete groaned with a teeth-grating sound, windows and doorframes were stretched into grotesque lines, and the entire building, defying the laws of physics, was slowly and terrifyingly twisted into a charred, monstrous, conical "tower" spewing hot lava, all within the inferno.
"This… this is…?!" The female anchor's voice was filled with shock and disbelief.
Just as this terrifying image assaulted the retinas of all viewers—
Bang!
The TV screen suddenly went black, completely losing its signal.
"Damn it! Who turned off the TV?!" The old man fumed, his beard bristling, and spun around in his chair, ready to give a good scolding to the inconsiderate nurse or caregiver.
However, when he angrily turned his head, all his displeasure and curses instantly caught in his throat.
In the empty space between the bed and the chair, a man stood silently, at some unknown point.
He was dressed in all black—a black trench coat, a black turtleneck sweater, black gloves, a black wide-brimmed hat.
His hat was pulled low, the shadow beneath the brim completely obscuring his face.
He stood there, like a human-shaped midnight that had materialized out of thin air in the room.
The old man opened his mouth, about to reprimand this uninvited guest.
But the man in black was faster.
He raised his right hand, and what he held was not a TV remote control.
It was a classic-looking—black revolver, glinting with cold metallic luster.
The dark muzzle, like the eye of an abyss, steadily pointed at the old man's glabella.
The old man's cloudy eyes instantly filled with terror, and a gasping sound of "ho ho" escaped his throat.
The man in black didn't hesitate for a moment, pulling the trigger.
Pfft.
An extremely faint sound, like a balloon popping.
There was no deafening gunshot, no flash of fire, no flying bullet.
Only a bizarre, bright red "X" shaped mark, as if branded with a hot iron, appeared beneath the skin of the old man's glabella!
The terror in the old man's eyes instantly froze, his body going limp as if all his bones had been removed, and he slid softly from the chair to the floor, lifeless.
Having completed this, the man in black twisted his wrist, smoothly flicking open the revolver's cylinder, which was empty.
He raised his empty left hand, making a grasping motion in the air.
Two gleaming, brass-colored bullets, shimmering with cold metallic light, appeared out of nowhere in his black-gloved palm as if by magic!
He unhurriedly loaded these two bullets into the cylinder, closing it with a "click."
His cold gaze, like a surgeon's knife, precisely turned to another bed in the ward, closer to the door.
A young man lay on the bed.
His eyes were tightly closed, his face pale, and he was connected to various life-support machines, clearly in a deep coma.
On the medical chart hanging at the head of the bed, the patient's name was clearly printed:
[Yuutenji Minoru.]
The man in black did not hesitate, the muzzle, like a poisonous fang pointed at a prey's throat, steadily aimed at the sleeping purple-haired youth's forehead.
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