musicians of old

Chapter 873 Nighttime Ramblings (Part 1): Starlight
"Carol, what exactly is this idea?"

"'Flash mob'?? Did you invent that term yourself?!"

Sheren stood beneath the sculpture, bathed in the last rays of twilight, still wearing the uniform of the St. Lenia Women's Grammar School, holding a violin in her hand, her cheeks flushed with excitement, gazing at the conductor's baton in the boy's hand.

Beside her were several other familiar faces from the string section.

A "secret rehearsal plan" outdoors.

Fanning, holding a guitar and dressed in tattered clothes, watched all this from a distance, watching the twilight filter through Sheeran's pale golden hair, casting a soft glow on her.

"Those of you playing the second cello, stand a little further up. After the cellos come in from the exposition section, you can slowly walk out." The younger Fan Ning listened intently to the effect and offered guidance and adjustments from time to time.

"Wow, that's amazing!"

“I could clearly feel a fuller echo coming from here.”

"That sounds much prettier."

Hiran and several other classmates looked with admiration and surprise at another shadowy path.

The path was deserted.

Fan Ning stood in the path, holding a guitar, smiling as she looked at her younger self and her friends.

"Then the night watchman’s lamp shone on my head, and by its light I walked through the darkness. People heard me and looked up to me, waiting in silence for my guidance. They dared not have confidence, so I smiled at them."

Some tiny specks of pure light floated up from them.

This is somewhat similar to the dawn in Himachal Pradesh that I once saw in another dimension, but it is more serene and dreamlike, closer to "starlight"—a revelatory golden yellow, a profound purple, a deep red, and a bright blue. It drifts toward the "Night Watchman's Lamp" at Fanning's waist.

"This is."

Fanning's hand, raised in thought, remained suspended in mid-air.

He was unable to salvage anything from the crumbling river of history; everything was too deeply shattered, too difficult to decipher, to the point that, as a forgotten figure in a state that was "relatively normal, but in reality abnormal," it was uncertain whether he had truly entered the river of history.

He was merely observing and pondering, and yet, the malice from the "worm" had already become ubiquitous, like maggots clinging to bones.

But what are these "starlight" if they are not "grids" salvaged from the ground?
What is its significance and use?

Fan Ning couldn't understand it, and no one could explain its mystical meaning to him.

A confirmation, a touch.

A confirmation of placement, a touch of reconciliation.

Perhaps that's the only way he could describe it, and he found a bittersweet sense of loss and relief in it.

These rays of light gathered in the deathly gray cavity of the "Night Watchman's Lamp," like dust attracted by static electricity.

The lamp's original golden surface had long since shattered, losing its sacred "secret of illumination," and could neither be restored nor relit. But now, some faint particles were flickering within it.

The "lights" are gone, but the "starlight" shines.

The surrounding environment of Meyer Square has become unstable again. Waves are churning, bubbles are surging, and meaningful mockery and flapping sounds are hidden deep in the branches. A puddle of viscous water, a forked path, or the shadow cast by a twisted architectural ruin could all lead your wandering steps to the wrong place, a place of no return.

But Fanning is still searching for and getting closer to those places where "historical echoes" resonate strongly, because after the broken lamps gather their initial "starlight," they seem to occasionally create a faint ripple of a specific color that only they can see.

This became his special compass, guiding him through the chaos of the river. The guitar played a few clear, leaping notes, carrying an innocent clarity, leading to the "divine purification" motif written in French horn. Although it was a product of his immature creative period, all the positive explorations and reflections, and the elements that sought to form a strong personal style, showed early foresight.

On the now ruined square, the semi-transparent silhouettes of students gradually emerged.

Clutching their sheet music and carrying their instrument cases, their faces beamed with the excitement of a successful performance. They waved to each other, their smiles like shattered glass in the sunlight.

That was the electrifying scene after the "Giant" performance of Symphony No. 1 in D major on Mayerplatz ended.

From myths and legends to local customs, from folk tales to youthful love, the audiovisual works that blend humanity and nature have left an indelible mark on history.

It is about the heroic view of youthful spirit, about flowers, fruits, thorns, morning light, nature, and youth.

Golden-red starlight rose from the phantom, carrying heat and reverence, converging on the silent lamp.

Laughter and cheerful voices were silent, completely inaudible; only the music of the night flowed.

Fan Ning quietly walked through the silent cheers and headed towards the Saint Lenia Auditorium at the end of the main street of the square.

Climb the moss-covered steps one by one.

"Student, there is construction ahead, you are not allowed to pass." A soft, sweet girl's voice rang out.

Fanning ignored this.

"Fan Ning, you're not allowed to go any further!"

"Don't you know how dangerous this is?!"

The girl in the purple dress looked worried and angry, and rushed forward to pull him away, but the unreal figure simply passed through another unreal figure.

It's all vanity, all chasing the wind.

The auditorium was packed with people and very noisy, but of course, you still couldn't hear anything.

Countless police cordons, countless camera equipment racks.

Amidst the silent wailing and painful howls, the hallucinations of heated debate and meaningless screams, Fanning, clutching her guitar, continued walking inside.

Inside the symphony hall, the echoes of the strange symphony still lingered, and the incongruous feeling of various radiant essences rising in the air could not be dispelled. Stains, residues, and black slime clung to the surroundings.

Fanning, carrying her guitar, walked down the road and brushed past another Fanning who looked younger and was covered in blood.

Inside the symphony hall, there were some people who looked like police officers doing rescue and inventory work, as well as a man who looked like an investigator wearing a soft felt hat.

“The Special Patrol is always doing the right thing, so why should it need to explain itself to you?” Benjamin asked casually as he worked.

A cold glint flashed in Fan Ning's eyes, but the texture and composition of the voice quickly changed again.

"Question less, listen more to the arrangements." The voice coming from Benjamin's mouth was actually Pogrerich's indifferent voice. "When you are told to step down, step down. When it's your turn to be a hero, go up and be the hero, as in the past, and as now."

Why waste time?

The voice wasn't directed at him; it must have come from the boy behind him.

Fan Ning, however, did not turn around. He had heard so much that he stumbled along, his hand constantly rummaging in his pocket, pulling out a crumpled piece of stiff paper and unfolding it.

It was a ticket stub from a piano recital he had attended.