Chapter 57: Gripping the Throat of Fate (Large Chapter Bonus Update)

11:20 in the morning, in the director's office on the third floor of the Musicians' Association.

Othello's stern, pale-grey eyes looked at Victor before him: "Victor, it's time you made a decision. Twenty full minutes, and you can't even pick a piece you're satisfied with? These are the crystallisations of your musical inspiration over the past twenty-odd years."

Victor sat in the chair across from Othello, his face ghastly pale and his expression blank. The desk before him was covered with his own compositions, but his gaze drifted over them unfocused, as though he were looking through them at something else entirely — perhaps the first instrument he had ever held in his life, a violin, or perhaps a dark and chilling cemetery.

Hearing Othello's words, his lips trembled faintly and he struggled to speak: "Could you... let me think a little longer? Director Othello."

Wolf, seated beside him across from Othello, laughed with a sharp note of mockery: "Think a little longer — and what, you'll come up with something better? Victor, come on, stop stubbornly holding on. Perhaps you think there's a decent piece buried in those mediocre works? Don't waste Director Othello's time. He's waiting to have lunch with Her Highness the Princess."

Othello nodded and pulled out a pocket watch to check the time: "Her Highness has invited me for lunch at one o'clock sharp. The carriage from the Association to Ratasha Palace takes fifteen minutes, but the downpour from last night still hasn't stopped — there's serious flooding in many areas, and we'll need to take detours. We should leave at least ten minutes early. And before that, I intend to nap for an hour to prevent fatigue from making me lose my composure. Victor, you don't have much time. Ten more minutes — if you still can't decide, then Wolf will take your place. He recently performed a concert at the invitation of Count Lafati, and his coordination with the orchestra is flawless."

Ratasha Palace was the seat of the Vorlite Principality's royal court.

Wolf's eyes blazed with extreme fervour and desire. With the connections he had cultivated among the nobility, all he needed was to hold a concert at the Sacred Hymn Hall — as long as nothing went seriously wrong — and he could advance further along the path of music, likely becoming a director of the Association himself one day. He drew a deep breath and looked at Victor: "Victor, I don't want to steal your performance opportunity, but for the sake of the Association, you have to make a decision."

Victor withdrew his gaze and stared at the music scores on the desk for a full two minutes. Then he extended his right hand and pointed to a single score: "That one."

Such a simple gesture, such a simple sentence, yet it seemed to drain every last ounce of strength from Victor's body, leaving him slumped in his chair. Still, once the decision was made, though Victor was filled with disappointment and reluctance, a faint sense of relief crept in — at least he no longer had to exhaust his mind and burn his soul trying to compose something new. That piece had tormented him for nine years without ever being finished.

"Perhaps this is a good thing. I won't be tormented to sleeplessness every night anymore," Victor thought numbly and despairingly.

Othello clapped his hands in satisfaction: "Victor, I'm glad you were able to decide. However, your mental state is rather concerning. If you can't recover before the concert, I have some potions here that might help — though they may have a slight impact on your health. Now then, you're all dismissed. I'm going to take my nap."

Wolf, thick with disappointment, walked toward the office door alongside Victor, who moved as though even walking had become difficult. As the wooden door closed behind them, Wolf cast a venomous glare at Victor: "Enjoy your last concert at the Sacred Hymn Hall. Don't let your wife down at Heavenly Mountain."

"You—" Victor could not tolerate anyone using his wife to attack him. He turned on Wolf with fury.

Wolf spread his hands and let out a cold snort through his nose, his voice cutting: "Why look at me? It's you who will disappoint your wife, not me, Victor."

With that, he left with a cold smile. Victor, as though struck at his very core, covered his face and sank into a crouch on the ground. Lot, Phyllis, and Herodotus, who had been waiting nearby, grew alarmed and hurriedly helped him to his feet.

"Take me to the rest room so I can calm down. I'll start rehearsing all the pieces this afternoon," Victor said, his voice feeble.

Lot, Phyllis, and Herodotus exchanged bitter glances. Now they had to start thinking about how to get Mr. Victor back on his feet.

…………

Leaving Victor's house, Lucian held his umbrella and ran through the torrential rain. The wind drove sheets of water under the canopy, drenching his clothes all over again and making his yet-unrecovered weakness painfully evident.

On roads shrouded in the white mist kicked up by the downpour, there were very few pedestrians and carriages, allowing Lucian to run fast without worrying about obstacles. But the problem was that after a short distance, his frail body forced him to stop and gasp for breath — and the wind kept catching the umbrella, hindering his progress.

"Maybe if I arrive a few minutes early, I can still stop the list before it reaches Princess Natasha's hands." Lucian waded through a deeply flooded patch, walking and panting along the ankle-deep street, then broke into a run again once he had caught his breath.

As he ran, the wind bent his umbrella backward so fiercely that his weakened frame could barely hold on.

"My clothes are soaked through anyway." Without hesitation, Lucian closed the umbrella, tucked it under his arm, and let the rain hammer down on him directly as he sprinted forward at full speed.

This time, without the umbrella's hindrance, Lucian charged through the downpour with abandon, his pace growing even faster.

Only by giving everything could one avoid regret — and every ounce of Lucian's persistence, struggle, determination, and sheer stubbornness was on full display in this moment.

Bean-sized raindrops struck his face with a faint sting.

…………

Normally, it took over twenty minutes to travel from Victor's house to the Musicians' Association. Lucian made it in just six.

At 12:41, outside the main entrance of the Musicians' Association, Lucian stood bent over with both hands on his knees, his back arched, gasping for air in great heaving breaths. His soaked hair clung to his face, and droplets of water dripped from his jaw onto the ornate stone tiles outside the door. His clothes were drenched through and through, hanging heavy on his frame.

After catching his breath slightly, Lucian pushed open the door and stepped into the hall.

Elena, startled by his appearance, emerged from behind the wooden counter: "Lucian, is it really raining that hard outside? You had an umbrella and you still got this drenched?"

"It's nothing. Elena, where is Mr. Victor?" Lucian asked quickly.

Elena thought for a moment: "He should be in his rest room. I saw Phyllis carrying lunch upstairs just now."

"Thank you." Lucian handed his umbrella to Elena with a hurried word of thanks, then turned and rushed toward the stairs.

Elena stared after his retreating figure, puzzled: "What's got him in such a rush?"

…………

Weak and struggling, Lucian climbed the stairs with surprising speed, reaching Victor's rest room in under a minute. He knocked urgently on the door.

It was Lot who answered. His complexion was terrible. When he saw Lucian, he merely nodded — he was not surprised by his arrival.

Lucian stepped inside and saw Victor sitting behind his desk, his face buried in his hands as though all his passion and hope had been drained away. He showed no reaction to the knocking at all, like a painting drained of colour.

Phyllis, Herodotus, and Rhein — who had come over after hearing the news — all sat silently on the sofa nearby. The simple lunch laid out before them remained untouched, not a single bite taken.

"Has Mr. Victor settled on the programme list?" Lucian asked them.

Lot, Phyllis, and Herodotus were all too dispirited to answer. Only Rhein nodded: "Yes. He's using one of his older pieces."

Lucian exhaled, forced down the surge of disappointment and frustration, and walked up to Victor. He planted both hands on the desk and spoke loudly: "Mr. Victor, I've written an excellent piece, and I hope you'll listen to it. I'm certain it can give you the inspiration you need to compose a perfect symphony. Is it still possible to change the confirmed programme?"

There was still a sliver of hope. In his urgency, Lucian had not been careful with his tone or his words — they sounded weak, even blunt.

"You've written a piece?" Herodotus, caught in his despair and grief-tinged anger, shot back with a laugh that was half-exasperated, half-incredulous. "In the middle of all this — and this fellow is still going mad! Not a shred of decency!"

Similarly, Phyllis fixed Lucian with a furious glare from her beautiful ruby-red eyes, her dissatisfaction and anger plain to see. This was no time for fooling around!

Lot stepped forward, ready to pull Lucian away, not wanting him to agitate Mr. Victor any further.

Victor seemed not to have heard Lucian's first words. His weak, exhausted voice seeped through his palms: "It's no use. Ten minutes ago, Director Othello left for Ratasha Palace to have lunch with Her Highness. The programme can't be changed. There's no hope."

"Is there nothing that can be done now?"