musicians of old

Chapter 972 Curtain Call
No bouquets were thrown onto the stage.

The second bow was deeper.

As he stood up this time, Fanning's gaze shifted slightly, slowly sweeping across the front row of the audience from left to right. The faces were only vague outlines in the dim light, but he knew who was sitting where.

Professor Anton, Sir Viardrin, Dean Gould, and other professors applauded, their thoughts unknown. The twenty-odd inspectors of the Special Patrol Department wore somber expressions. Luna, a petite figure, clutched her handkerchief. Masters like Lückert, Schillings, and Niemann shook their heads in regret. Caplan removed his glasses and wiped the lenses. Further to the side, in the shadows, a congregation in clergy sat quietly, hands on the Gospels. The theater's senior colleagues leaned slightly forward.
A third bow.

A few minutes earlier, in a secret room on the lowest floor of the Special Patrol Headquarters.

Laxus stood before a black stone altar, which was rather unusual, resembling a "long table" with a "sand table" on its surface, polished to resemble the world's topography, with the outlines of continents and oceans delineated by extremely fine gold lines.

But there were no other props on this "sand table," except for forty white candles, their flames pointing straight up, casting swaying shadows on the walls of the secret room.

These candles were not randomly placed; they corresponded precisely to the thirty-nine theaters Fanning had secretly selected, plus the headquarters theater at the performance venue.

"The flag has been lowered, so the music should stop too."

A low sigh drifted from the secret chamber as Lasus's fingers brushed across the air.

The first group consists of twenty-seven candles, starting from the edge, one after another. As the wicks wilted and the flames shrank to a dark red dot, each candle extinguished, the gold lines near the stone slab dimmed a little.

The candle smoke left a straight gray line in the still air.

The second group consisted of nine candles. The flames flickered briefly before abruptly disappearing, as if they had been snapped off.

The third group consisted of three candles. They burned the longest, with the flames even leaping up for a moment before slowly fading and finally going out, leaving long, pale trails of wax.

Now, only one is left.

A candle standing at the location of the theater chain's headquarters.

Lasus stared at it.

The smoke from the candles that had been extinguished earlier drifted above it, forming a very straight, almost static "white column of smoke".

The column of smoke is extending upwards, remaining straight, static, and solid throughout the process.

But just as it was about to reach the top of the chamber.

The person who was assisting in the secret ritual of Lasuth suddenly felt an unsettling "pull"!
It seemed to emanate from a realm far beyond the ordinary scope of the laws of nature, a realm that transcends the laws of nature.

He stared intently at the white column of smoke above the candle in the headquarters theater.

The column of smoke showed obvious signs of "softening" and "loosening," as if the profound expression of commemoration and farewell that had just occurred was being "heard" or even "savored" by some incomprehensible being.

Lasuth's expression was extremely grim. He quickly wrote down his secret conclusion, sealed it in a metallic letter that gleamed with a cold light, then cut his fingertip with a knife and smeared a drop of blood on the letter's seal.

The letter transformed into a phantom messenger in the shape of a falcon. The messenger let out a silent whistle, pierced through physical barriers, and disappeared into the dimly lit secret room.

Fanning straightened up after bowing for the third and final time.

This time, he held his pose a little longer. As he leaned forward, the wood grain at the edge of the stage magnified in his eyes. He saw the tiny scratches and the uneven sheen from years of wear. He heard his own breathing, exceptionally clear amidst the applause. As Fan Ning straightened up, the illusory eagle messenger flew directly in front of him, wings outstretched. Fan Ning's "gaze swept over it," revealing not a lengthy explanation, but only a cold, analytical conclusion:

"There's something on it."

Fanning barely showed any additional expression.

After bowing comes a handshake.

He first shook hands with Walter, the conductor of "Das Lied von der Erde". The hardworking artistic director's hands were dry, his grip was strong, and the handshake lasted a second longer than usual.

Walter nodded deeply, but only managed a weak smile before letting go and stepping aside.

The second person to shake hands was Miss Nightingale. Her dark women's suit today gave her a cool and aloof look. Her silver earrings swayed slightly around her neck. Her fingertips were icy cold and trembled slightly when they touched Fanning, but she still smiled at Fanning with great enthusiasm and optimism.

Then Fanning turned to face the old symphony orchestra.

He shook hands with the members, each section leader and each section musician. His gaze met briefly with everyone before jumping away, but Sheeran stared at him intently, as if trying to memorize every detail of the moment. Roy's scent was somewhat familiar to him; it was a perfume he often used for formal performances, a faint scent of herbs, blackberries, and peaches. Joan's profile was exceptionally clear in the stage lighting, with a slight redness on the tip of her nose.

He responded to each smile with a quiet smile.

Then they walked off the stage.

First, there's the front row of seats in the center, then the seats on the left and right, and then the VIP seats a little further back.

He shook hands with each person without saying a word, only nodding, his gaze briefly meeting each one's.

And many more: some of the friends of the Councillors of Thiorien, the earliest supporters of the factory owners who were “artistically named”, the priests of the church, representatives of the remnants of the South, former alumni of the University of St. Lennia, children of the youth symphony orchestra and choir under the arts relief system, the executives of the Turner Arts Centre who he could or could not name, and some elderly, respected artists with white hair.
Shake hands, nod, make eye contact, then let go.

The applause continued to rise softly.

A few whispers, footsteps, and the rustling of clothes could be heard in the hall. Under the guidance of the staff, the audience members at the edges and those in the upstairs boxes began to leave in an orderly manner, albeit reluctantly. The black tide slowly surged toward the exit, but its viscosity was almost like asphalt.

The musicians finally began to move. The violinists slowly lowered their bows, the violists laid their instruments across their laps, the wind instrument players began to disassemble their instruments, and the percussionists bent down to pick up some things and tie together loose pieces that were easy to lose. Everyone moved very quietly, as if afraid of making a sound and disturbing something.

But in fact, the applause in the entire symphony hall continued to rise quietly and steadily.

Fanning finally stopped shaking hands and instead waved to the wide-angle view of the hall.

Then he turned around and went back onto the stage.

He walked unhurriedly toward the exit passage on the other side, his boots making a rhythmic thud on the wooden floor. There were lights in the passage, but it was very dark compared to the main hall. Just as he was about to enter the passage and leave the stage, he paused for a moment.

But he didn't turn back.

He continued walking, his figure swallowed by the darkness.

(End of this chapter)