That voice was like a ray of hope piercing through the abyss for the traditional instrumentalists. Gabriel’s declaration had been like a heavy lid sealing the well of despair they were trapped in. They couldn’t play the melodies he mentioned-pieces that had been lost to time for countless years. His words condemned them, burying their craft under the weight of history.
But then, a calm and steady voice shattered the silence, lifting that oppressive lid. It wasn’t just anyone speaking. It was Diomidis Stevens, who had remained silent until now.
Diomidis Stevens slowly stood under the gaze of the crowd, his every word deliberate and clear:
“Since Mr. Bright just claimed that we traditional instrumentalists can’t produce melodies more beautiful than those of the piano, I shall humbly perform a piece on the Celestial Harp.”
Kayden’s eyes turned toward Diomidis Stevens. At last, he understood why the man had brought a box with him to the event.
Diomidis Stevens had always been a humble and composed figure, a master who lived beyond worldly desires. His actions today were meant to salvage their dignity. It was this selflessness, this quiet yet profound sense of righteousness, that earned Kayden’s deep respect.
Had Stevens remained silent, ignoring the insult, Kayden might have felt a hint of disappointment. After all, he was seated in the section representing traditional instrumentalists.
“The Celestial Harp! That’s Dr. Stevens!” murmured the crowd, excitement flickering in their eyes. At last, it seemed, there was a chance to redeem their pride.
“Dr. Stevens, do you truly know how to play the Celestial Harp?”
“If Dr. Stevens says he can play it, I believe him. He’s not the kind to lie.”
They couldn’t perform The Phoenix. They couldn’t strike the rhythm of The Snail’s Drum Dance. And they couldn’t play Seasons of Spring. Now, only the Celestial Harp could save the day.
The Celestial Harp-a legendary piece, equal in fame to the other three masterpieces!
Diomidis Stevens stepped onto the stage, his movements steady and unhurried. He looked at Gabriel and Luther, who held the microphone, and spoke with measured calm:
“The Celestial Harp is the weakest of the four masterpieces, and the only one that has survived through the ages. I’ve only scratched its surface. Young man, I admit modern pianos are remarkable, but on Seclela’s land, they will never be king.”
He continued, his voice firm and resonant:
“The Phoenix bids farewell to the departed, granting peace to souls on their eternal journey.
The Snail’s Drum Dance embodies the spirit of Seclela, showcasing harmony and the art of the people.
Seasons of Spring paints the thousand-year totems and traditions of Seclela, capturing its timeless essence.
And The Celestial Harp-it plays the sorrows of the world, soothing the suffering of humanity.”
These words were directed at Luther, who avoided Stevens’ piercing gaze, his confidence faltering. Yet inwardly, Luther muttered to himself:
“Such pretentious nonsense. He hasn’t even played a single note and already spouts all this drivel.”
Luther wasn’t convinced. He knew that bamboo flute well-it was an ordinary instrument, incapable of producing anything extraordinary. He’d sooner believe someone could coax beauty from a simple pan flute than from that bamboo stick.
Despite Stevens’ confidence and commanding presence, the audience shared Luther’s skepticism.
“Can this old man really play a piece like that? Something powerful enough to soothe the world’s sorrows?”
“Do you believe it? If such a piece existed, wouldn’t we all have heard it by now?”
“Believe it? I don’t. Let’s see how he tries to fake it.”
“Compared to Mr. Falcon, this man is just asking for humiliation. Talks a big game, though.”
The murmurs of doubt were sharp and cutting, but Diomidis Stevens remained undistracted. He lifted the bamboo flute-a simple, unremarkable instrument that anyone could make with a piece of bamboo and a few holes-and began to play.
The first notes of the flute resonated, floating through the air like visible dragons spiraling upward. The melodies pierced the ears of everyone present, silencing their doubts in an instant. Those who had been slouched in their seats unconsciously straightened, their eyes drawn to the stage.
These reactions were involuntary. None of them had chosen to sit upright or focus so intently. It was as though the music had seized control of their bodies, compelling them to respond.
Could music truly possess such power?
As the performance deepened, the melody began to stir emotions within the listeners, unlocking vivid images from their minds. Memories long buried surfaced, and hidden feelings broke free. The song painted pictures in their hearts-its beauty was like a flowing river, cascading over them with elegance and grace.
The audience was transfixed, each person lost in a world of their own creation.
But Kayden noticed something amiss. He turned to Christina and asked quietly, “Is your master injured?”
Still immersed in the music, Christina frowned at the question. After a moment, she replied, “Now that you mention it, I remember my master saying this piece is beautiful, but he’s only played it three times in his life. The backlash on the body is severe. It requires core strength and perfect breath control.”
“Why?” Kayden pressed. “What’s wrong with him?”
Christina’s eyes widened as realization struck. “You mean… my master might not have the stamina to finish it? At his age, his breathing could fail him!”
Kayden nodded solemnly. “Exactly. He’s pushing his limits.”
“Ah!” Christina gasped, her concern evident.
Just as she spoke, a sudden turn of events unfolded on the stage.
Diomidis Stevens faltered, coughing violently. The flute’s haunting melody came to an abrupt halt as blood spurted from his mouth.
“Dr. Stevens!” gasped the traditional instrumentalists, leaping to their feet in alarm.
“What happened to him?”
“This isn’t just a simple piece-it’s a divine melody that demands immense physical stamina. Only a true master could even attempt it. Dr. Stevens is brilliant, but it seems he’s injured.”
“What should we do?”
Meanwhile, the audience groaned in disappointment. They had been completely immersed, only to be yanked back to reality.
“What’s going on? What happened to him?”
“Can’t you see? He couldn’t finish. Poor guy. He started strong, but that’s it.”
Breathing heavily, his face pale, Diomidis Stevens wiped the blood from his lips and steadied himself. “I apologize, everyone. I made a mistake. Let me start again.”
A voice interrupted him.
“There’s no need.”