Old-time musicians

"Symphony No. __ in C sharp minor"

"Untitled"

The first movement is a funeral march.

Guests gathered in the splendid symphony hall, and the heads moved slowly in the shadows. The huge array of crystal chandeliers overhead rotated slowly, reflecting countless jumping and overly rich torrents of light and shadow on the top of the sound-absorbing wall.

Blurred vision is brought into focus on the first line of the score page.

All the musicians stood still, and the cold air was silent.

Fan Ning took a deep breath and handed the trumpet lead Lindsay, who was soaked in the golden light, with the gesture of preparing to shoot.

"#do-#do-#do-/#do——"

"#do-#do-#do-/#do——"

“#do-#do-#do-/mi——————”

The triplet motif repeats like a funeral, and the desolate and sad introduction played by the trumpet solo is like the sigh of a widow in the dusk, lost in the rain and fog, and like a self-pitying person smiling dumbly towards his motherland in the sky.

Fan Ning felt that the procession of the funeral was not as fast as he expected. The "time bar" was dragging its stumps and crawling at a disgustingly slow pace.

"#do-#do-#do-/mi——"

"#do-#do-#do-/mi——"

“#do-mi-#sol-/#do!——————”

He keeps advancing the beat of the trumpet, which is extremely monotonous or repetitive, and creates the illusion that time and space are stuck. The movements of the characters are all presented in slow motion. When the whole band's strong performance ends with the last two notes of the introduction, When the beat exploded, the big brass clock on the wall and my own inspiration seemed to be slowed down.

"Bravo!!"

"Crash!——"

Applause roared from the audience seats from all directions.

Fan Ning, who had achieved world-renowned success, walked towards the award-winning table amidst all the fiery and admiring eyes.

Facing the crowd of black heads in the audience, he bowed with a smile, then lowered his head and opened the speech in his hand that had been polished to perfection by secretarial staff for several months.

"To be honest, do you really think it is necessary to save this terminally ill world?"

"Ask yourself, your ultimate intention in returning to the world is to bring joy to others and support others in danger? Do you really think there is the possibility of effective communication with these low-level creatures?"

"You probably still have some worldly thoughts and want to be refreshed and happy. Haha, it's not harmful and don't be hasty for a while. I, and a few people, made an appointment to meet under the sky where the rose-red aurora and the blue-green electric light compete for color. You, there was neither night nor dawn that day, only the hour preparing for noon and the hour standing still at noon."

The crystal chandelier was flowing like a soap film on the speech. Fan Ning, whose pupils were trembling violently, suddenly raised his head and saw countless eyes in the audience directed at him.

The gaze from the "Truth Tiger".

And, the dizzying and sticky torrent of colors shot in from more than a dozen doors on the walls of the symphony hall.

"Crack!!"

There was a sound of wood breaking, and the ground of the award seat suddenly collapsed, and Fan Ning fell directly.

Everything falling before my eyes is a meaningless collection of colored pixels.

But Fan Ning, who was head down and weightless, discovered that beneath the deepest void, there was a large mass of indescribable crimson things, such as ruins, stumps, dilapidated buildings, or a pile of collapsed words.

"Clang!"

There was a hard metallic sound that kept stimulating his violently beating heart.

"Clang!" "Clang!"

"哐哐——" "哐哐——" "哐哐——"

The heavy and huge body of the steam train has been running again for several minutes. The wheels collided with the gaps between the spliced ​​rails, making regular noises.

It was the noise at the end of the dream just now.

Fan Ning woke up with his hands on his chest, yawned tiredly, and then slowly opened his eyes.

In the neatly decorated first-class carriage, well-dressed gentlemen and ladies are reading newspapers, eating or chatting in low voices.

He screwed up the black silk top hat and looked at the ticket and pocket watch in his hand.

April 10, 916 in the New Calendar, 18:05 in the evening.

This is the northern continent, the Tioline Empire.

The train has passed Eagles Station, and the night outside the window has just fallen. What you can see in the distance is the big port of Metraun with the noisy kerosene engine. On the bank of the dark river rich in salt products, stands the Vane, which is driven by an ancient clockwork device. Ermindo Lighthouse, its light shines in the haze on the river every night.

Next stop, Ufranser.

Fan Ning looked at the scenery outside the car window with a thoughtful look in his eyes.

"Musician?" A man's voice sounded in his ears.

There were three people standing in the carriage aisle, two of them were dressed as railway police officers, and the leader was a plainclothes man in a gray jacket.

Usually such a formation is a wicket.

However, the latter kicks away the air when walking, creating an "ember" dissonance.

For ordinary knowledgeable people, this is not noticeable, but Fan Ning knew that this was an investigator with a high rank in the Special Inspection Department.

He frowned slightly and looked at the music book and pen spread out on the table in front of him.

"#do-#do-#do-/#do——"

Written there was a trumpet introduction composed of black ink and marked with four sharps, in C sharp minor, a monophonic melody, which was exactly the inspiration for the new work that he had written down shortly after boarding the train in the early hours of the morning.

The dark notes also twisted vaguely.

But soon they returned to their original state without any changes.

The three were not talking to Fanning.

"Just art practitioners."

On the spacious row seat across the aisle, the gentleman with bottle-bottom glasses withdrew his left hand from "playing the piano" on the table and handed a hard-cover certificate mixed with tickets directly to the three people standing in the aisle. His right hand was still holding a music journal "Hoffman Phonograph".

"I'm from Pozodanico County in the southeast, and my itinerary is Uvransell," the railway police whispered to the investigator next to him, and then asked politely, "Art practitioners? So is it for performances, visiting relatives, or tourism, etc.? How long do you plan to stay in Uvransell?"

"A business trip." The gentleman with bottle-bottom glasses smiled and said, "I graduated from the Eagles Conservatory of Music almost 20 years ago, the composition department, but now I mainly make a living in art management. The guy next to me is a true bass singer."

"Attending the first quarter work meeting of the Turner Art Hall chain." The old man next to him added with a somewhat impatient look on his face "Gentlemen, what is suspicious about our behavior or clothing?"

"Don't get me wrong, this is a kind of respect." The plainclothes investigator of the Special Patrol Office smiled faintly and placed a small leaflet with a red stamp on their table. "I am a staff member of the Imperial Ministry of Culture and Media. I am only interested in chatting with people in the art world."

"Welcome to Uflansell. With this leaflet, you can go to the city attractions and hotels on the list to receive a small souvenir. If you have other "potential artists" you like, please call or write to recommend them."

The ticket inspector quickly came to Fanning.

"Not an art practitioner."

Fanning's tone and emotion when he spoke were as unrecognizable as his appearance in the eyes of others.