musicians of old

Chapter 910 Burning the Manual
During the time it took for the "phantom" to complete its temporary reconstruction, Fanning's gaze alternated between the sacrificial site on the tower, the swirling, vibrant sea below, and the fading green moon that obscured half the sky behind it.

It's purely a natural way to observe and wait.

It's hard to say which scene will be more devastating to an ordinary person's mind.

The sixth item.

The Byzantine Holy Communion Cup is supported by an unseen force, and the crucifixion on the wall contrasts sharply with the imagery of desire fulfillment.

Faced with it, the believers fell into a kind of destructive indulgence and frenzy, no longer moving in unison, but instead becoming a jumbled mess.

The number of temptations in the "pool" is twenty-six, and the number of suffering is seven. This means that temptations outweigh suffering, but suffering is its essence.

The first suffering of the "Pool" is childbirth, the seventh suffering is thirst, and all suffering, when taken to extremes, will transform into appetite.

This is still not surprising.

The knowledge gained from the "Mass Gratitude" incident in the South is clear.

Once, the dissipation of the summer dream was a bruise in Fan Ning's heart, but now, even the projection of the grand history has shattered, and even Joan is dead, so these things no longer have any meaning.

Fan Ning stood under the moonlight, listening calmly to the fragmented, viscous roars that mingled between sobs and excitement. He watched as the flesh withered and crumbled, turning into wisps of mist mixed with the colors of blood and desire, which were then absorbed by the Holy Communion. The liquid in the cup rippled, becoming even darker and more viscous.

The seventh item is a South Asian Indian peacock candlestick, featuring a bronze peacock with its dazzling tail feathers spread and a gray, cloudy gemstone held in its beak.

The believers knelt quietly before it, and then began to speak.

He spoke to himself, using various languages, dialects, and even unrecognizable syllables, whispering the deepest secrets of his heart—shameful desires, vile thoughts, untold crimes, twisted preferences, inexplicable restlessness and fear. With each substantial syllable uttered, the speaker's body arched more and more in a circular shape.

“Plop. Plop.”

As the stiff "corpse rings" collapsed one by one, the mirror-like and cloud-like substances within the cloudy gemstone surged violently, refracting more images of misfortune and disaster.

The platform of the tower gradually quieted down. Apart from the two people, there was no other living person left, only a pile of filth.

In addition, there are seven "inferior phantom objects" that exude a strong ominous aura. These auras are interconnected and form a complete and terrifying array.

"The number of witnesses is seven." Mr. F breathed a sigh of satisfaction.

It was his turn to raise his cane, tracing slow, twisting, silent lines through the air.

The movements seem to mimic the growth of plants and the trajectory of stars, yet they defy common sense in every way, as if carving something in viscous air.

As the cane was swung, the suspended "raging silver flakes" of dust stopped shimmering and solidified in mid-air, like insects trapped in amber.

A strange sense of "negotiation" is revealed in this act of tribute, or rather, it is the use of a "formalistic" respect for order to "persuade" or "beg" Pogrerich's remaining control rules to temporarily lie dormant, to make way for deeper chaos, so that in a moment, the "noon stagnation" can regress to the "noon preparation" stage.

The filth scattered everywhere began to wriggle.

The eyeballs connected by nerve threads at the back, the pale, bloodless limbs, the ashes of burnt oil residue, the colorful spring mud, the dark red congealed matter of indulgence, and the mottled impurities whispering in confusion—everything seemed to be moved by an invisible hand, slowly but purposefully wriggling toward several specific "lines."

The six-pointed star altar symbol has finally reappeared at the top of the tower.

This time, it wasn't some groove or scratch on the ground, but rather six bulges like intestines, filthy slurry, and vicious decorations; they were "alive."

"Please, Master Fanning, the necessary preparations are complete. It's time to set the pace." Mr. F gestured "please" to Fanning, as if inviting him to dinner.

Then he went ahead of himself.

Fan Ning frowned slightly, then took a step, lifting his foot to cross the raised lines of the six-pointed star.

Walking to the center of the six-pointed star, Mr. F squatted down and casually threw a stack of yellowed musical score manuscripts on the ground.

The lettering on the cover exudes an ominous aura.

The Secret Realm of Apocalypse.

"Noble truths often arrive in a shocking and extraordinary guise, while the mediocre see them as a disaster. Now, a small spark is needed to restart the great process."

A pale flame quietly ignited from Mr. F's fingertips, approaching the edge of the sheet music.

"Let's start with this little piece of mine."

The high temperature corroded the edges of the sheet music, and the paper began to burn quietly, slowly curling, slowly carbonizing, and slowly emitting wisps of smoke.

Everything seemed to burn much more slowly than usual.

The flames took on a deep, vibrant green hue under the moonlight.

Theoretically speaking, the only living people in the world right now are the two of us.

The two of them stood in the center of the tower below the "Midnight Moon" burning paper, one standing and the other squatting, waiting for the musical score to burn out at a suffocatingly slow and irrationally deliberate pace.

The air was completely silent; the ever-present whispers and roars seemed to have vanished, with only the faint crackling of the flames breaking the silence.

“One winter night in 1891, in Moscow,” Mr. F began slowly, his voice filled with emotion.

The strange opening sentence, coupled with the somewhat awkward Chinese, made Fan Ning, who was standing to the side, glance at it.

"The music academy has many salons where people love to play Chopin and Liszt, and for composition studies, they admire Brahms, as well as Glinka and Berlioz."

“One winter night, the theme was Liszt’s works, five years after Liszt’s death. Everyone took turns playing virtuoso etudes. My classmate Rachmaninoff played “The Hunt” and “The Bell”, which were met with enthusiastic applause. But when it was my turn, I chose another piece that was ‘out of place’.”

“One of the piano pieces in the collection ‘Harmony of Poetry and Religion’ is ‘God’s Blessing in Solitude’.”

"Have you heard of it?" Mr. F asked at this point.

“I’ve played it.” Fan Ning glanced at him and answered casually, “In later works, number S.173, item 3.”

“Loneliness, a feeling that is more enjoyable than winning applause in a salon.” Mr. F, who was squatting on the ground, nodded, his face and beard under his top hat showing a vibrant dark green.

“A standing ovation is just as enjoyable,” Fanning said.

“Most of your works were probably not written in this ‘enjoyable’ state of mind, but rather in the former,” Mr. F pointed out.

“If you have to link it to the output of ‘artistic creation,’ you could say that,” Fan Ning did not deny. “Loneliness is a friend of art, but to be honest, I also like liveliness and have the ‘ability to enjoy’ it, so there’s no reason for me to deliberately avoid it.”

“Of course there are differences between pioneers.” Mr. F chuckled. “If the paths were exactly the same, they wouldn’t be ‘paths of pioneers.’ However, the commonality of ‘loneliness’ is always the common part of them. This is the fate that is nailed to all ‘paths of pioneers,’ whether it should be or it is.”