Franz's health was not particularly robust, and he often found himself struck by sudden illness just as inspiration surged and creative passion overflowed, so he understood perfectly when he said to Lucian: "Mr. Evans, I know what you're going through. I'll stay with you to finish the song." Then a sincere smile spread across his gaunt face: "After hearing you play the song's melody on the piano and learning that it's merely the choral finale of a symphony's fourth movement, I can already imagine its beauty, sanctity, grandeur, and emotional power. And this is the first time human voices have been introduced into a symphony—it's an innovative revolution!"
"To be able to contribute to such a magnificent musical creation, to help you complete it, Mr. Evans—this is my honor, a memory I can treasure again and again in my old age."
To adapt the long poem to fit the rhythmic beauty of this world's Common Language, to remove any phrases that might be blasphemous, and to align it with the original melody despite the differences in words, Lucian had to repeatedly discuss and revise the work with Franz, a musician well-versed in poetry and song. Both had expended enormous effort before reaching completion. And Franz was a man who loved music with his whole heart, and who admired Lucian to an extraordinary degree, so after understanding the full vision and hearing the choral melody, he was unsparing with his praise.
"Ahem, thank you for your cooperation over this period, Franz. Our work is nearly done—all that remains is to rehearse with the lead singer and choir to see if there are any rough spots. Do you think the difficulty is too high?" Lucian deliberately covered his mouth and coughed, then asked in a manner of feigned manic energy.
Franz shook his head firmly: "It is very difficult, yes, but simplifying passages would rob them of their perfection. I believe an outstanding orchestra and vocalists can rise to the task."
"That's exactly what I think as well." Lucian and Franz exchanged a smile.
Just then, a gentle knock sounded on the practice room door, and the handle slowly turned as the visitor quietly pushed the door open—apparently afraid of disturbing their discussion and rehearsal.
"Lucian, Franz. You weren't in the middle of something?" The newcomer was Victor. This was a practice room on the fourth floor of the Musicians' Association.
Lucian answered with a smile: "Teacher Victor, we've just finished."
"Then I've arrived at just the right moment. First, congratulations, Lucian, on completing this symphony that I'm simply itching to hear. Second, let me introduce a friend." Victor gestured toward the young man who had entered with him. "The renowned vocalist Mr. Fabrini, who also serves as the lead cantor of the Golden Cathedral choir."
As "Ode to Joy" neared completion, Lucian had asked Victor to help him find an outstanding vocalist and an exceptional choir or church choir.
Fabrini was around twenty, with brilliant blue eyes and golden hair. He was slender and handsome, like an angel in service to the God of Truth. But unlike most men, his face bore a light application of makeup, his lips were a vivid red, and his clothing was lavish—giving him a strangely enchanting air.
"Mr. Evans. I've always admired your music. I never imagined I'd have the chance to work with you." Fabrini's voice was pure and gentle.
Lucian found nothing strange about Fabrini's appearance or bearing, since the vast majority of outstanding vocalists at present were castrato singers, and he was also the lead cantor of the Golden Cathedral. So he smiled and said: "A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Fabrini. I hope our collaboration goes well."
With Fabrini, Lucian made no effort to put on an attitude of non-discrimination, because by the standards of current social mores, castrato singers were extremely popular. A countess in the Gusta Empire had been passionately enamored of their singing and had once even started a war over a castrato singer.
"Mr. Evans, I'll go ahead with the choir to the concert hall and wait for you there. Oh, and—you don't look well. Please take care of yourself." Fabrini's tone was gentle, as though this was simply how he always spoke.
After watching Fabrini leave, Lucian "involuntarily" broke into violent coughing, as though he were trying to hack up his entire innards.
"Lucian, are you all right? Is it aftereffects from that assassination attempt?" Victor asked with concern, then suggested: "Your concert date still hasn't been set. Why not wait until you've recovered before proceeding?"
Lucian "resolutely" shook his head: "It's nothing, Teacher Victor. Just a few lingering injuries—they won't affect the concert preparations. I am a knight, after all."
Perhaps the word "knight" put Victor's mind at ease, for he nodded gently: "We're all musicians—we understand the mental state you're in right now. But as your teacher, I'm still a bit worried. Tonight, I'll arrange for a doctor from the poorhouse to come check on you. Don't wait until after the concert and end up with some incurable ailment."
"All right. Thank you, Teacher Victor." Upon hearing it was just a poorhouse doctor, Lucian didn't refuse. He could already control his heartbeat, blood flow, and the movement of his internal organs, to say nothing of the techniques Natasha had taught him. He could easily feign a condition of lingering illness that posed no immediate threat to life.
……
A little over a week later, the Flower Moon was approaching its midpoint.
In the concert hall on the fifth floor of the Altor Musicians' Association.
"Fabrini, how many times is this? Why are you still making mistakes in this passage?" Lucian's emotions seemed to "lose control" as he roared toward Fabrini at center stage.
Fabrini looked at the pale, exhausted, irritable, and angry Lucian and explained with a sense of grievance: "Mr. Evans, these passages are simply too difficult. They require repeated practice to sing perfectly." His brilliant blue eyes glistened with what appeared to be the sheen of tears.
"But we've already practiced them dozens of times!" Lucian waved his arms forcefully.
Fabrini took several deep breaths and bravely stood up to the "tyrant": "It's not enough, Mr. Evans. Either give me more time, or revise these passages to make them easier."
"Absolutely not! The passages must not be changed—I cannot bear to see their perfection ruined! Fabrini, please, just try a little harder. I know you can deliver a flawless performance! The schedule will be pushed back a few days as you've suggested. Ahem… just hope it won't be too long…" Lucian spoke as though in a frenzy, but immediately collapsed into violent coughing, bending over and crouching at the front of the stage.
Franz hurried over to support him. Fabrini, startled and flustered, rushed to Lucian's side and gently patted his back: "Mr. Evans, please don't worry. I'll master these passages perfectly as quickly as I can."
When the rehearsal ended, Fabrini—dressed in a black shirt embroidered with gold thread patterns—walked off the stage. Halfway down, he suddenly turned back for no clear reason, gazing toward the front of the stage.
It was as though the image of Lucian's frantic, desperate demeanor still lingered there.
"Perhaps Mr. Evans already had a premonition of what was to come, which was why he seemed so urgent, so severe. Nothing at all like the quiet, steady, courteous, and gentle person the rumors described." Years later, when Fabrini recalled the most memorable thing about this concert, he set down these words in a tone that was part fatalistic conviction and part deep emotion: "He was so focused, so devoted, so frantic—as if he wanted to burn with the most brilliant and resplendent light possible, without a single regret. I received the Lord's grace. I was fortunate enough to meet Mr. Evans at this time, to rehearse and perform this symphony alongside him, to witness a side of him unlike anything I had seen before, and his devotion to music and to the Lord."
……
The merchant Grindon, whom Lucian had encountered in the town of "Masawa," had returned to the north after departing Altor. Bound for the Kingdom of Syracuse, he sold off all his goods and was preparing to purchase Syracuse's local specialties to bring to the fortress in the Dark Mountains of the Vorlite Principality when he spotted the latest issues of the Musical Review and Symphony Herald at the local Musicians' Association.
While eating a greasy breakfast, Grindon leafed through the newspaper—then suddenly froze, his knife and fork hovering mid-air, his eyes bulging as he read the passage again and again in disbelief. Then, in a mixture of elation and chagrin: "I can't believe that just after I left Altor, Mr. Evans ended his travels and returned…"
"May 26th, Sacred Hymn Hall, homecoming concert… Should I go? It's about sixteen days from here to Altor."
Grindon was currently in a large city near the border between the Kingdom of Syracuse and the Vorlite Principality, and it was already May 15th. His expression shifted back and forth; he set down his knife and fork, rose, and paced back and forth before finally making up his mind: "I already missed Mr. Evans's first concert. Under no circumstances can I miss the second! And after three years of traveling, the quality of his new work is absolutely worth anticipating!"
"Hm—I'll hand the purchasing over to Steward Errolan, and I'll ride to Altor immediately with a few guards. If we don't lose time, eleven days might just be enough…"
Grindon believed his social standing was reasonably decent. He knew many nobles, so he should be able to secure tickets to the Sacred Hymn Hall. There might be a timing problem, but how could he simply give up without even trying?
……
Thirteen days later, on May 28th.
Grindon did not arrive in Altor in a state of dejection. Quite the opposite—he was brimming with energy, for he had received word along the way that due to rehearsal difficulties, Lucian Evans's concert had been postponed to June 1st.
After entering the city, Grindon did not rest but headed straight for the Sacred Hymn Hall. He could not put his mind at ease until he had secured a ticket.
"What? Sold out? There are still four full days left!" Grindon demanded with some irritation. "I know Sir Camige of the Hain family, I know—" He rattled off a string of noble names.
The Sacred Hymn Hall staff member facing him gestured toward the throngs of citizens all around: "I'm sorry, sir, they truly are sold out. As you can see, the number of people who want to hear this concert is enormous. And as far as I know, even Sir Camige didn't manage to get a ticket."
"Ah?" Grindon turned back in dismay and discovered the area around the Sacred Hymn Hall teeming with people—a dense, dark sea of humanity.
A reporter from the Altor Weekly stood in a corner, observing the scene, and scribbled rapidly in a notebook: "Except during the Altor Music Festival, no musician has ever drawn this many people to their concert. They seem to have forgotten that Sacred Hymn Hall tickets are not the sort of thing people of their station can obtain…"
"Lucian Evans has become the object of frenzied pursuit for the entire city, the entire principality…"
"This is a peculiar phenomenon. Perhaps we need to invent a new word to describe it…"
(To be continued.)