—Today I said I'd update after twelve o'clock, mainly because I needed to listen to Beethoven's Ninth to get into the right mood, and it's quite long. After listening through it twice, it was already past ten o'clock, and as I kept writing, I realized I'd only just gotten to the beginning of this chapter — there was no need to set the mood in advance at all!
Tomorrow's first update will probably be around…, same reason as above.
Here are the final three updates — please spare some guaranteed monthly votes!
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Altor, Civic Square.
Having watched Lucian bow nine times amid thunderous, wave-crashing applause, having watched him return backstage to rest and prepare for the most important symphony of this concert, the tens of thousands of ordinary citizens, merchants, and adventurers gathered around the crystal wall — though their excitement had calmed considerably — found that the inescapable tide of homesickness left them unable to rest easy. An old man in his sixties, for instance, kept seizing the people beside him to pour out the feelings in his heart:
"Perhaps you don't know, but I come from the Shahran Kingdom — a country in the south of the continent, near the Free Cities Federation."
"We had an outstanding navy and brave warriors. When I was young, I trained aboard warships, hunting down those damned pirates."
"The thing I'm most dissatisfied with in Altor is that the spirits aren't strong enough — nothing like Pelade wine, with its burn going all the way down the throat and into the stomach. And there's a snow wine made from a peculiar grape that grows on the high alpine peaks — naturally ice-cold, crisp and sweet. Once you've had a sip, you never forget it. But it's a specialty of my home region, Luca — only the Count of Luca and our King are allowed to enjoy it. I used to serve as a gate guard for the Count of Luca, and I was lucky enough to steal a taste of the dregs left over at his wedding feast…"
"Hey, hey, hey — listen to me, I haven't even told you about the Luca pork ragout, the sheep's milk cheese, the honey, and the roast lamb! And I haven't told you about the passionate, carefree girls of the Shahran Kingdom, who chase after warriors that can defeat bulls and monsters…"
The old man's rambling made the middle-aged man beside him shake his head in disgust. The fellow talked too much, disrupting his own quiet reminiscence of every blade of grass and every tree back home — the only proof he had that his past existed, now that he'd been wandering so long.
The old man watched the middle-aged man move away with a look of bitter reluctance and murmured in a wistful tone to himself, "I haven't even told them about the little country house I have back in Luca, covered in green vines climbing the walls, with pale yellow flowers more beautiful than any other bloom. The floorboards in the corner must be warping by now, but I can't go home to fix them — I've been away over thirty years, my body's long since grown frail. I'd probably die on the way back…"
His voice gradually dropped, and something that might have been a film of tears traced the corner of his eye as he kept mumbling, "Go home, go home… Go home!"
As though he'd suddenly made some resolve, the old man threw both arms out in a violent gesture that startled Grindon, who was standing nearby.
"Sir, what's the matter?" Grindon asked instinctively — he'd been thinking of his own hometown on the border of the Vorlite Principality.
The old man chuckled brightly. "I'm going home! I'm going home!" His face radiated vitality, his spirit rekindled.
Then he smiled and added, "To have been able to hear Mr. Lucian Evans's symphony before I die — I have no regrets. His music seems to draw on folk tunes, yet it blends them so perfectly into the symphony — so melodious, so timeless. Heh, when I go back home and start missing Altor, I think the first thing I'll miss will be Mr. Evans and his outstanding, magnificent body of work."
"You're absolutely right!" Grindon beamed at the old man's praise. "When the first movement of this *Symphony from a New World* ended, I thought it was merely above average — passable at best — and the critics might even tear it to shreds. But the moment the second movement began, I never doubted again that this was something far beyond 'excellent' — truly great, a classic. It's probably just a tiny step away from rivaling *Fate*." Perhaps because he returned home often, Grindon still placed *Fate*, which he preferred, ahead of it, and made a pinching gesture with the hand that normally counted Gold Thalers. "Mr. Evans is absolutely the most brilliant and most talented musician of the last twenty years!"
Having finished his exclamation, Grindon was struck by a sudden thought: "If even a work like this is placed second to last, then what must the final d-minor symphony, the one called the 'Ode to Joy,' actually be?"
*Fate* being placed first was understood — it was a work from the past, meant to express the theme of homecoming, so no one questioned it. As for the two symphonies that followed, nobody had troubled themselves to guess at them before hearing them. But now that *From a New World* had thoroughly captivated their hearts, they realized this magnificent new work was not the grand finale — not the last piece at all!
The old man paused for a moment, then, with the understanding and gentle kindness that only the passage of years can bestow, he smiled and said, "Perhaps it's a work even more classic, more magnificent, more outstanding than *From a New World*. I trust Mr. Evans's talent and his judgment."
"So do I. What anticipation!" Grindon turned to face the crystal wall, watching the orchestra as they made their adjustments on stage, his voice taking on a distant, dreamy quality.
Out in the square, Betty and the others had more or less noticed the same question arising. They were collecting their thoughts, waiting with eager anticipation for the final symphony to begin, each of them genuinely convinced it would be an extraordinary and great work.
They seemed not to worry in the slightest that such hopes, such expectations, might end in disappointment. Not in the slightest!
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Inside the Sacred Hymn Hall.
Elena quietly wiped away a tear, then glanced at Joel and Elisa, who were still lost in reverie, and murmured to Phyllis, "I could hear in this music the longing Lucian felt during those three years of travel — longing for home, longing for friends. It was so sincere that it moved my soul completely. This is a truly divine, God-given melody. I think travelers will carry it far and wide, and it will be passed down through the generations."
Phyllis's eyes were equally reddened at the corners. "It reminds me of the experience of touring with Master Victor. At first I didn't feel it, but as the months went by, I couldn't contain my longing for my parents, for my Bern estate, for my beautiful bedroom, for my dolls, for my friends."
"I tried to turn that longing and melancholy into music — the piano piece you've heard, Elena, was the best creation to come of it. But compared to Lucian, the difference is vast. Before hearing this symphony today, I could never have imagined that homesickness and sorrow could be expressed in such a way. It's given me countless ideas."
Then she added with a mix of self-deprecating humor and genuine solemnity, "I think I'm beginning to worship Lucian…"
As classmates who had studied music together and witnessed Lucian in his earliest, most novice days, Phyllis — even after being shaken by *Fate*, even after being moved by the *Serenade for Strings in G Major* given as a birthday gift, even after resonating deeply with *Pathétique* — had only felt that Lucian was extraordinarily talented, held great promise, and deserved respect as a top-tier musician.
But after this direct comparison — the same emotions, the same inspiration channeled into creation — Phyllis felt that she had truly begun to worship Lucian.