Chapter 74 - Listen

DUN, DA-DUN.

A sound rang out. A performance: a beautiful melody drawn from an instrument crafted by a master and painstakingly adjusted by a tuner.

The audience wept, their faces full of wonder, entranced by the sound alone. Yet they held even their breaths for fear of disturbing the performance. As though intoxicated by their response, the performer poured still more passion into the music, drawing the audience into even deeper rapture. It was an endless spiral, a virtuous cycle in which wonder bred emotion and each left a deeper impression on the other.

A performance so beautiful that even a heartless Iron Man could never be moved.

WAAAAH!

CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP!

The moment it finally ended, thunderous cheers and deafening applause erupted from the seats. Flushed with excitement and emotion, the audience leaped to their feet and cheered as though they could go on for hours. The performer answered with a smile. It was a picture-perfect scene, the heartwarming conclusion to a concert every performer dreamed of.

Or so it seemed, until one man watching with folded arms and a cold expression opened his mouth.

“... I’ve lived a long time, but that’s the most fucking awful performance I’ve ever heard.”

* * *

[“Team Leader, you’re an idiot, aren’t you?”]

THWACK!

[“Squawk!”]

“Want to get hit?”

[“Oh, damn it! Say that before you hit me!”]

Maybe her forehead had toughened from being hit so often, as though she’d mastered some sort of invulnerability technique. Or maybe she was too worked up to feel the pain. Either way, the bluebird Yu Na-gyeong sprang back up the instant the flick sent her sprawling atop Limon’s head and protested, wings flapping.

[“Besides, you really did something stupid! Who hears a performance and immediately starts trashing it?”]

“What do you call all the critics in the world, then?”

[“They’re professionals!”]

“Far as I know, critics don’t need a license.”

[“Well, no, but...”]

“Professional or not, it seems odd to say you need qualifications to speak honestly about what you heard.”

[“Why do you only argue logically at times like this when you’re so reckless the rest of the time?!”]

“Because a logical argument gets under your skin more than just flicking your forehead.”

[“That’s your reason?!”]

The realization that he’d been toying with her left Na-gyeong fuming for a moment. Then she said sulkily,

[“That’s not what I’m talking about, anyway. I’m talking about basic human decency!”]

“I once knew a philosopher who argued that all bards were a menace and the decent thing to do was beat them and drive them out.”

[“What lunatic said that?!”]

“Plato.”

[“... Plato, as in one of the greatest sorcerers in history?”]

“Yep. The man sure could talk. Back in the Bronze Age, he won autonomy for the former Greek territories with nothing but his powers of persuasion.”

[“That’s why the Free Cities League is still called Europe Outside Europe... Wait, no! It’s cowardly to hide behind a great historical figure!”]

“By that logic, my very existence is cowardly.”

[“Oh, come on. You’re not a great historical figure, Team Leader. You’re a mad dog.”]

THWACK!

[“Ow! Stop hitting me on the head! I’m already worried about having a birdbrain. What if you actually make me stupider?!”]

“If you’re that worried about your brain cells, why not stop talking without running things through your brain first?”

[“Dying didn’t cure that habit. You think trying will?”]

“You say that like it’s something to be proud of.”

Limon clicked his tongue at the bluebird, who puffed out her chest as she said it. But Na-gyeong’s feathers might as well have been made of iron; his withering look didn’t faze her. She merely asked curtly,

[“So where are you going this time?”]

“Good question.” Limon scratched his cheek, then pulled out his notepad and flipped through it. Scanning the places he’d marked in advance, he said,

“Looks like there’s a classical concert at that cultural center in an hour.”

[“Team Leader, you just came from that concert after mouthing off and getting glared at by everyone.”]

“Hmm. What about the musical at this theater? The online reviews are pretty good.”

[“Yesterday you said you’d never trust what people say online again.”]

“Then this traditional percussion performance...”

[“Three days ago, you got thrown out of one of those for saying the performers didn’t know the first thing about tradition and were just abusing their instruments.”]

“... Na-gyeong, do you have some problem with me?” Limon frowned at her constant sharp retorts. Na-gyeong looked at him in disbelief.

[“That’s what I want to ask you.”]

“Why?”

[“Why? You said all that ridiculous stuff about trying to love music, but for weeks now, every concert we go to leaves you looking dissatisfied.”]

She had a point. Limon wasn’t making this unlikely pilgrimage from concert to concert because he had time to kill. He was following Julia’s advice, trying to improve his violin playing as part of his training.

“It’s not that ridiculous. It’s hard to get good at something you don’t like.”

[“... Coming from you, Team Leader, that obvious truth sounds remarkably unconvincing.”]

Na-gyeong was dumbfounded. Limon had little interest in music and had only picked up an instrument for the first time a few months ago. She knew better than anyone how frighteningly fast he’d improved. To her, his words sounded even more obnoxious than an exam candidate claiming to have earned a perfect score just by reading the textbooks.

“That’s just because I’m exceptionally talented.”

[“Wow. That’s incredibly obnoxious, and the fact that I can’t deny it makes it worse.”]

“But it’s true.”

Na-gyeong couldn’t deny it. Instead, she planted her wings on her hips and snapped,

[“So what? You’re so talented it’s off the charts, and now every other performance sounds terrible to you?”]

“I wish it were that simple.”

[“What’s that supposed to mean?”]

“I’d have to hear a performance first to know whether it’s terrible.”

[“... Then what was that thing you listened to so intently a little while ago before leaving a scathing review?”]

“That’s what I’d like to know.”

[“...???”]

Ignoring the question marks practically floating above Na-gyeong’s head, Limon flipped through his notepad again. One entry made him narrow his eyes.

“Hmm. An indie band...”

[“You’re going to try band music now?”]

“These guys play whatever the hell they want, like wandering swordsmen, don’t they? They should have some bite.”

[“You’re probably the only weirdo in the world who expects an indie band to be as fierce as wandering swordsmen...”]

With his next destination decided, Limon headed for the indie band’s scheduled performance site noted in his pad: Undae Street of Music. Street performers of every kind gathered there regularly, from indie bands and music students to aspiring rappers and singers. At the sight of the crowd waiting around a stage set up in the middle of the street, his hopes rose a little.

But the moment the indie band took the stage, his face contorted.

“... I’m a fucking idiot for getting my hopes up.”

[“Huh? Why?”]

“Looks like this one’s a bust too.”

[“They haven’t even started playing!”]

“Some things you can tell at a glance.”

Limon sighed and studied the band members with eyes that had turned pitch-black instead of their usual gold. Vines tangled around the guitarist’s arms like blood vessels. A bat’s head protruded from the vocalist’s throat like a growth, and six insect legs sprouted from the drummer’s back. But their hideous forms, which looked at first glance like a dark mage’s chimeras, weren’t the reason for his reaction. His experience had already told him what sort of performance to expect. And unfortunately, his hunch proved right again.

RATATATATAT!

“Yeah, yeah, yeah!”

Insect legs beat the drums alongside the sticks. Vines plucked the guitar alongside the guitarist’s fingers. High notes rang from the bat’s mouth instead of the vocalist’s throat. Watching the constellations the band members had contracted move even more vigorously than the performers as soon as the music began, Limon sighed.

“Fuck. If you’re going to use skills to play, don’t go around calling yourselves an indie band.”

Na-gyeong, perched on his head, answered him.

[“Come on, that’s asking too much. Who makes music without skills these days?”]

“Julia didn’t use that shit.”

[“That’s why Julia’s a genius they call the Witch of the Violin.”]

“Even so, I’ve been to dozens of concerts. How is it that not one of those bastards plays without a skill?”

Limon was indignant. That was why he’d looked dissatisfied throughout his recent concert-going.

[“What’s wrong with using skills?”]

“What, are you defending them because you used to be a player?”

[“I’m not defending them. I just don’t get it. Whether they use skills or not, a good performance is a good performance, isn’t it?”]

“... A good performance.”

Limon frowned at Na-gyeong’s genuinely puzzled question, then looked back at the stage through eyes that had returned to their original gold. Perhaps because he’d suppressed the power of the constellations, the band members now looked normal, and the music came through more clearly. It certainly wasn’t bad. If they’d been playing terribly, this many people wouldn’t have gathered to cheer so enthusiastically.

“Yes. Most people might call that a good performance.” He nodded slowly, then continued in a low voice. “But I didn’t come here to learn to love that kind of performance.”

People called him behind the times, but he didn’t deny that skills were useful. He might even have been reasonably satisfied if he could simply hear their performance properly. But after gaining the ability to perceive constellations, having his ears opened by the Violin of Deepest Black, and continuing his lessons with Julia, Limon heard things differently from ordinary people. The musicians’ strangely clumsy playing. The constellations’ skills forcibly covering it up. The dissonance between the two overlapping sounds, audible to him alone, grated on him.

[“Well... if that’s how you feel, there’s no helping it. Let’s try somewhere else.”]

“Yeah. Next time, I’ll look up concerts by people who don’t use skills at all.”

Perhaps Na-gyeong could tell he was genuinely irritated. Without picking at his words any further, she nodded readily, and Limon turned to leave the Street of Music with her perched on his head. Or rather, he tried to.

DING!

“...?”

Amid the indie band’s performance and the audience’s cheers, a curious sound reached him from a corner of the bustling Street of Music.

[“Team Leader? Where are you going all of a sudden?”]

DING, DING-DING.

Ignoring Na-gyeong’s confusion at his abrupt change of direction, Limon followed the sound. And then he saw it: a performer sitting on the edge of a flower bed, playing a guitar without a skill, in an isolated corner of the Street of Music that had neither a stage nor an amp—not even a proper chair.