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In the
Ryan walked over to the dining table and found a stack of newspapers placed to the right of his plate. Turning to his busy wife with a puzzled look, he asked: "Didn't the *Altor Weekly* just come out yesterday? Why is there another edition today?"
As a manager at a trading firm, he needed to stay informed about every aspect of Altor to coordinate the purchasing and sales of various goods, so he subscribed to the comprehensive *Altor Weekly*.
His wife
With that, she hummed the lines "Angels of joy, holy and fair, radiant light upon the earth," and the atmosphere in the dining room and kitchen instantly turned cheerful, filling everyone with good spirits.
Ryan hummed along with his wife's tune for a couple of lines, then sat down in dignified fashion before his son and picked up the *Altor Weekly* "supplement."
Starting from the very bottom as an apprentice at the trading firm, he had never been the cleverest or sharpest among his cohort, but he was the most diligent and hardworking. Through sheer stubborn refusal to give up, he had clawed his way step by step out of poverty, learned to read, acquired a wealth of knowledge related to commerce, and gradually risen to his current position as a manager—blessed with a happy family and a reasonably comfortable life.
That was why, upon first hearing *Fate Symphony*, he had felt it was the voice of his own heart—the spirit he could never articulate—and had resonated profoundly with the music. His entire family had become passionately devoted to Lucian Evans's compositions.
Ryan unfolded the *Altor Weekly* and saw that the lead story on the front page bore a single, somber, ink-black word:
"Obituary."
A chill crept up his scalp, and the thought immediately arose: "Which great figure has passed away?" This could cause enormous fluctuations in the sales volume or price of many goods.
His gaze quickly dropped downward, and behind that word he saw row upon row of deep black type that seemed to carry an oppressive, crushing weight:
"The immortal master of music, the great pianist and conductor, the founder and revolutionary of an era of music, the guide, pioneer, and perfecter of the current symphonic movement and structure—the Lord's beloved musical genius, Mr. Lucian Evans—passed into the Lord's embrace in the early hours of June fourth, taking with him his unparalleled masterwork."
……
Reading this passage, Ryan's head buzzed. He simply could not connect this obituary with Mr. Lucian Evans. "Lord above, he was so young, so impossibly gifted! He could have led Altor's music world for decades to come!"
His slightly blurred vision drifted further down, and each line of type pierced his heart like an arrow:
"…Mr. Evans's journey from the slums to the pinnacle of musical mastery was a life of unyielding defiance, of never surrendering—a life of battle, a life of radiance!"
"…Let us offer our most profound condolences, and pray that this beloved child of the Lord will continue to sing His praises and glorify His name from Heavenly Mountain."
Elena emerged from the kitchen carrying breakfast and caught sight of Ryan's dazed, grief-stricken face—his eyes rimmed with red. She nearly dropped the food in shock. "Darling, what's wrong? Why are you crying?"
"I… crying?" Ryan asked in a bewildered, sluggish voice, feeling only that his eyes were swollen and everything in his vision had gone hazy.
*Drip.* He saw a tear fall onto the open newspaper, where it quickly spread and bled outward, blurring the elegies of musicians and nobles alike into illegibility.
"I simply cannot believe it is true. His passing is a loss the music world will never be able to mend." —
"Perhaps it is because his works were too magnificent and his soul too pure that the Lord chose to call him home early." —
"He gave us the spirit of never giving up and the joy of music, yet departed without taking anything for himself. I do not wish to weep, but I cannot stop myself." — Phyllis.
"He has ascended to Heavenly Mountain, leaving behind a peak of symphonic music that few will ever scale. The 'wealth' he bequeathed to us recognizes no rank or class, no wealth or poverty—anyone with a grateful heart and an unyielding spirit can harvest life's most valuable treasures from his work. Should the day come when I die, I hope to be buried near so great a man." —
Ryan stared at the small damp patch on the paper and murmured almost unconsciously: "I actually really am crying…"
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At the city gate between Adrang District and the Market District, clusters of people had gathered. Some sobbed alone; others stood in silent, grief-stricken hollowness.
Quite a few young women wept in one another's arms, their expressions full of sorrow.
None of them could read, but the ink-black type, dark as the bottom of a coffin, made it unmistakably clear that this was an obituary.
"What great person's death has sent the common folk into such despair?" Betty did not believe for a moment that the passing of some high-born lord, powerful landowner, or cardinal could move the poor of Adrang District to tears—unless they'd been paid to cry, in Copper Fels.
Driven by fierce curiosity, Betty approached two of the gate guards, who were clearly showing signs of grief themselves. "Sirs, what does this obituary say?"