The final, echoing silence of "Skyfall" was shattered by the roar of the standing ovation. The sound was a physical force, a tidal wave of emotion that washed over the stage. Gil, Rita, and Juno all took their bows.
In the second row, a famous singer with iridescent scales turned to her manager, her eyes wide with a desperate, hungry light. "Find out who Percival is," she hissed, her voice a low, urgent command. "I do not care what it costs. I need a song like that. I need his name attached to my next album."
Throughout the VIP sections, the same scene was playing out. Managers were furiously tapping on their datapads, their faces grim with the sudden, terrifying pressure of a new standard being set. They did not know that the composer they were all desperately trying to find was the same masked man they were politely applauding as just the first-chair violinist.
In the front row, Crix Halcard did not applaud. He remained seated, his gloved hands resting on his knees, his eyes narrowed. He looked around, not at the stage, but at the audience. He saw the tears on their faces, the fierce, unified emotion in their eyes. The Viziers beside him heard a glorious, patriotic battle anthem. Crix heard something else entirely. He heard the sound of a thousand disparate voices being united by a single, powerful idea. He heard a rallying cry. The battlefield, he realized with a chilling certainty, had just been set.
On stage, the masked man walked over to Juno, who was still breathless from the performance and the applause. He took her hand and led her towards the side of the stage.
"Good luck," Juno whispered to Briane as they passed her.
Briane gave a small, confident nod. Percival then turned and held out his hand to her. She took it, and he began to lead her towards the now-empty singer's podium.
A new wave of murmurs and thunderous applause swept through the audience. Briane Taleini, the Crystal Canary, was the singer for the final song! Halfway to the center of the stage, Briane leaned in close to the masked man.
"You are sweating a lot," she whispered, her voice a soft, melodic tease.
A quiet chuckle came from behind the mask. "Hah, well, the audience's eyes are all on me. It is quite a hot temperature from their piercing gaze."
They arrived at the podium. "I will see you on the other side," Briane said, a new, professional focus in her eyes as she released his hand.
Percival walked back to his position at the head of the orchestra. He tucked the Stradus under his chin, looked across the sea of musicians, and gave a sharp, single nod to Gil.
Gil, a fierce, rejuvenated fire in his eyes, returned the nod. He raised his baton once more, ready to begin the final piece.
[Billie Eilish – No Time To Die]
Gil's baton fell, and Rita's hands moved. The sound that came from the Savarius was not a grand statement; it was an unsettling question. It played a wandering, circling G-sharp minor arpeggio, but the harmony was deliberately poisoned by a recurring C natural. It offered no comfort. It was not the sound of a story beginning, but of a memory turning sour.
In the front row, Crix Halcard, a man trained to detect threats, felt an immediate, prickling sense of unease. He did not understand the music, but he understood the feeling. Something was wrong. The pointy Vizier of Educational Alignment on the other hand, felt it. It was a subtle, nagging dissonance, a musical technique designed to create an atmosphere of unease, of a beautiful surface with something deeply wrong underneath.
Then, Briane's voice arrived. It was not a performance; it was a presence. It came as a breath, a whisper so close and intimate to the microphone it felt internal.
"I should have known... I'd leave alone..."
The delivery was almost clinical, a statement of fact delivered with the cold clarity of hindsight. In the VVIP box, Alexei Park leaned forward. This was not the triumphant anthem his daughter had just sung. This was something darker, more dangerous.
Across the aisle, the famous singer had her eyes wide with professional shock. Briane's usual style was a powerful, crystal-clear soprano, a voice that could fill a hall on its own. This was different. This was intimate, almost claustrophobic. It was a confession stripped of all theatricality.
"Just goes to show... That the blood you bleed is just the blood you owe."
The lyrics were a splash of ice water. The rotund Vizier, who had been expecting another pretty ballad, shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Crix Halcard, for his part, felt a flicker of recognition. It was the core thesis of his own grim, unforgiving worldview. Suffering was not a tragedy; it was a debt being paid. He found himself, for the first time, actually listening.
A flicker of the past. The orchestra began to swell, a traditional, cinematic cue, a promise of a grand, emotional chorus. The strings climbed, the tension built... and Briane's voice refused to follow. It remained a controlled, venomous whisper.
"We were a pair," she sang, a simple, factual statement of a now-obsolete reality. "But I saw you there... Too much to bear."
The media mogul in the second row let out a soft, almost inaudible gasp of admiration. He saw the genius of it. The orchestra was the rising panic, the internal storm. Her voice was the cold, unwavering eye of that storm. The composer was promising a release and then deliberately denying it. It was a masterful, unsettling act of will.
"You were my life, but life is far away from fair."
The use of the past tense, "were," was everything. It was the sound of an autopsy on a dead emotion.
"Was I stupid to love you?... Was I reckless to help?... Was it obvious to everybody else?"
The actress felt the scathing self-interrogation like a physical blow. The humiliation in the last line, the fear of being seen as a fool... it was a performance of profound, internal pain, quickly suppressed.
Then, a new instrument entered, a sound so out of place it was jarring. A lone electric guitar, its tone clean and mournful. It sounded like a relic from another time, another kind of song, adding to the feeling of profound isolation.
"That I'd fallen for a lie... You were never on my side."
This was the verdict. The cold certainty in her voice was absolute. A famous singer looked at the stage, at Briane. 'Her usual songs are beautiful,' she thought. 'This... this is dangerous. This composer didn't just write her a song; he gave her a weapon. I need them for my next album!'
"Fool me once, fool me twice... Are you death or paradise?"
The feeling was a mantra of self-disgust. It was the sound of a lover being reclassified as a threat.
"Now you'll never see me cry... There's just no time to die."
The vow was not a statement of strength, but of emotional amputation. In the third row, Grokk Stonebeard, the Neman industrialist, a being whose entire culture was built on enduring hardship, nodded slowly. He understood this. Survival was not a victory; it was a joyless, cold necessity.
The paranoid piano, the lonely guitar, and now a simple, pulsing bassline joined together, creating a sparse, chilling soundscape. The audience was no longer listening to a concert. They were eavesdropping on a final, cold judgment, a transformation from a heartbroken victim into something new, something cold, and something terrifyingly resolved. And they all knew, instinctively, that Briane Taleini had not found this new voice on her own. She had been given it by the newly risen, mysterious, enigmatic composer. Percival.
The orchestra receded almost completely, leaving only the desolate landscape of the piano, the lonely guitar, and the simple, pulsing bassline. Briane's voice returned, its tone now detached, almost procedural.
"I let it burn."
It was a crucial confession, a statement of complicity. The speaker was not a passive victim. In the VIP box, Cassian Rhee felt a chill. He looked at his father, a man who had "let things burn" his entire life to climb to the top, and saw not power, but a profound, terrible emptiness.
"You're no longer my concern, mmm."
This was not the fiery rejection of a wounded heart. It was the cold closing of a ledger. The dismissive "mmm" was the sound of a file being slid into a drawer, never to be opened again. The singers, who had been so desperate to get a song from this composer, now felt a flicker of fear. This was not a hitmaker. This was a soul-reader. Her manager was already frantically texting his contacts: 'Find out the composer contact! who the composer is secondary. The NAME will become a brand.'
"Faces from my past return... Another lesson yet to learn."
The feeling was one of cynical resignation. Life was not a journey of discovery, but a repeating cycle of painful lessons. The second chorus returned, and the music swelled with it, the full orchestra and choir unleashed in a final, cold judgment.
"That I'd fallen for a lie... You were never on my side... Fool me once, fool me twice... Are you death or paradise?... Now you'll never see me cry... There's just no time to die."
It was in that moment that the critics, the seasoned listeners in the audience, finally understood. A wave of realization rippled through the hall. The first song, "Skyfall," with its grand, defiant "we," was not the song of the soldier. It was the song of the family waiting at home, the song of the nation, the story of the battle told by those who watched from afar.
This song, this cold, intimate, terrifying confession... this was the soldier's song. This was the view from the inside, the personal cost of the glorious battle. The two pieces were not just two songs; they were two sides of the same bloody coin.
The outro began.
"No time to die, mmm... No time to die, ooh."
The repetition was the process of internalization. The vow was no longer just a thought; it was becoming a core, cellular belief.
"Fool me once, fool me twice... Are you death or paradise?... Now you'll never see me cry... There's just no time to die."
The final repetition was the judge reading the sentence one last time for the record. The transformation was complete. The final, slashing, dissonant "Bond chord" from the full orchestra slammed a door, leaving the audience in a dark, unresolved silence.
For a long moment, the entire opera house was utterly still, the profound, unsettling quiet a stark contrast to the thunderous ovation that had followed the first piece. This was not a song that invited cheers. It invited introspection. It was a masterpiece, but a sad, chilling one.
Then, a single, sharp sound cut through the silence.
Clap.
It came from the front row. Crix Halcard, the Fleet Admiral, a man who had not moved a muscle through the entire concert, was on his feet. He was not applauding wildly. He was delivering a slow, deliberate, and deeply respectful clap. One after another, the other military officials and Solars in the audience rose, joining him not in a roar of celebration, but in a solemn, powerful standing ovation of shared, unspoken understanding. They had not just heard a song. They had heard their own eulogy.
Gil stepped down from his conductor's podium. He turned to the roaring, applauding crowd and gave a deep, formal bow. The audience's response was deafening. The White Beast had returned, and he had come back on a tidal wave of sound that had just swept the galaxy.
He took a microphone from a waiting stagehand. "Thank you," he said, his voice, now amplified, a low, resonant rumble that calmed the hall. "It has been a long time since I have felt the fire. Tonight, that fire has been rekindled."
He then gestured to Juno, who was still standing by the wing of the stage, a look of dazed, happy shock on her face. "Juno Park," Gil announced, and a new wave of applause erupted for her. "A new voice, with the strength of a Solar and the heart of a true artist." He then called Briane from her own podium. She came and stood beside Juno, the two of them a study in beautiful, powerful contrasts. Gil then turned and bowed deeply to Rita, who returned the gesture with a slight, almost imperceptible nod of her head. He thanked the rest of the musicians, his voice full of a genuine, profound respect.
Then, he turned back to the audience, a new, dramatic tension in his voice. "The music, the arrangements, the lyrics, and the very soul of what you have heard tonight," he began, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "all of it came from one mind. Please, join me in thanking the composer..." He paused, letting the name hang in the air for a perfect, dramatic beat. "Percival."
The audience held its breath. All eyes turned to the side of the stage, expecting a new figure to emerge from the wings.
Instead, the first-chair violinist, the silent, masked concertmaster who still held the legendary Stradus, stepped forward.
A collective, audible gasp swept through the hall. The actress in the second row put a hand to her mouth. The media mogul's eyes went wide. The Viziers in the front row stared, their minds racing to recalculate the power dynamics of this new, unknown player. The masked violinist was the composer.
Gil's voice boomed through the hall once more. "Thank you all for coming. I invite all of our honored guests to join us in the grand hall for the post-concert gala." He gave one final, magnificent bow. "Thank you."
…
[Backstage]
The moment they were out of the public eye, the professional calm shattered. Briane rushed over to Dorian and wrapped him in a hug. "Thank you, Composer," she said, her voice thick with a genuine, heartfelt emotion. "That was the first time I have ever felt like I was bringing my true potential to the galaxy. Please, call me if you have any more songs that might fit my voice. I will do it in a heartbeat."
"My pleasure," Percival replied, his voice a little muffled by her hug. "It was good that my song could fit you so nicely."
Just then, Juno, who had been talking excitedly with her father, ran over and launched herself at Dorian, her own hug a full-body expression of pure, electric joy. "That was incredible!" she shouted.
"Want to retire to Sela already?" he teased, his voice muffled by her hair.
"No," she said, pulling back, her eyes sparkling. "I will be a Solar, first and foremost. I will need to help my dad run his guild, after all."
"Of course, Young Guild Master," Dorian said with a mock bow.
Just then, Gil and Rita approached. "Alright," the old maestro said, a new, authoritative energy in his voice. "The next event begins now."
They all began to walk towards the grand hall. Briane and Juno immediately fell into an excited, rapid-fire conversation about the performance. Rita, Dorian, and Gil lagged slightly behind.
"Quite a fisherman, this composer," Rita said to Gil, her voice a low, amused murmur as she watched the two young women. "To catch Briane with his first lure."
"What? No," Dorian said, overhearing her. "She is a professional."
Rita just chuckled. "Sure, you do."
"Speaking of professional," Gil interjected, turning to Dorian. "You still insist on the mask? If you want, you can take it off. Tonight's gala will be much easier if the media moguls can see your face."
"No," Dorian said, his voice quiet but firm. "I will keep the mask. It is my final decision."
"Well," Gil sighed, "do not waste the connections you can make tonight."
He opened a set of grand, ornate double doors, and the sound of a glittering, high-society party washed over them. They all saw a vast hall, filled with the same audience from the concert, the top brass of the Accord, all in one room. And as they entered, every single head turned to look at them.
Gil and Rita's faces immediately shifted back into their usual public masks of cool, professional indifference. For them, being the center of a hundred powerful, calculating gazes was just another day.
But for Dorian, it was not.
⋘ 𝒍𝒐𝒂𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒅𝒂𝒕𝒂.. .⋙
🎮: Stardwey Valley: Completed.
🎬: -
♬:
- Your Name – Elton John (ch.9)
- A Lovely Night – La La Land (ch.20)
- Merry Go Round of Life – Howl's Moving Castle (ch.25)
- Small Fragile Hearts – Victor Lundberg (ch. 27)
- Skyfall – Adele (ch. 29)
- No Time To Die – Billie Eilish (ch. 30)
**A/N**
~Read Advance Chapter and Support me on [email protected]/SmilinKujo~
~🧣KujoW
**A/N**