musicians of old

Chapter 975 Homestay
Darkness is not a barrier, but a medium.

The world's surface has already returned to where it came from, and the texture is gradually peeled away from the body. Those dense tactile sensations that belong to the mortal world, mixed with the smell of smoke, emotions, memories and physical laws, are left outside the door like a heavy coat.

Yiyong, a wasteland area.

Colorful particles floated in the air, and the sand beneath my feet stretched back to the horizon, extending to the cliff and waterfall. At the boundary of the leaden sky was an absolutely straight, flat line. There was no wind, and a continuous, extremely low-frequency hum emanated from my mind, as if space itself was slowly vibrating.

This is the road I came from, and now Fanning walks it again, reliving that dissipated and vague feeling—cooled ashes, remnants of old dreams, whispers of thick fog, walking through the scarred woodland, brushing against the drooping branches on my shoulders, a non-existent sting, the occasional "moonlight," the cold, silvery touch that briefly lingers in my hair.

Yiyong, surrounding the mountainous area.

The two continued walking side by side. The sand gradually sloped, its texture became firmer, and concentric circles appeared. Their steps felt like stepping on the fossilized spine of some enormous creature, and the wind brought more fragments of sound.

Migration, basin area.

The air grew increasingly "thick," and the sunken edge of the earth resembled a giant mouth, within which a thick, milky-white mist swirled slowly. Deep within the mist, strange rocks could be vaguely seen standing upright. Fan Ning stepped into the mist, feeling its stickiness and warmth, as if sinking into a pool of amniotic fluid filled with memories.

Around the world, in the lobbies of thirty-nine specific theater chains, and at the theater headquarters where "Song of the Earth" was previously shown.

The audience had all left, and the emergency exit doors were tightly closed, but in the first two rows of the audience seats in the middle of each theater, twenty or thirty people had been reassigned—selected knowledgeable individuals, artists, or scholars whose spirituality met the requirements and who were trustworthy—there were even more at the theater headquarters, all the musicians of the old symphony orchestra.

Thus, the sum exceeds a thousand, representing witnesses worldwide. Following the cinematic mapping relationship of "27→9→3→1", they collectively metaphorically represent the convergence point of the "path".

They all stared intently at the "empty" stage.

What I saw was not the scene of the real world.

A blurry, swaying scene, like an underwater view, shows the silhouettes of two people walking side by side on a glowing, ever-ascending staircase. On either side of the staircase are flowing blocks of color and geometric shapes, their exact nature indistinguishable. There is no sound in the scene, only a low, continuous hum, like the sound of an organ pipe, vibrating directly inside the skull.

They couldn't see the two people's faces clearly, but they knew who they were.

Someone instinctively reached out, trying to touch the flickering light and shadow before them, but their fingers passed through nothing but air.

Inside the Tower of Light.

Fanning walked step by step inside this huge, inverted funnel-shaped vortex deep in the sky.

The halos intertwined and rippled, like a golden halo of an annular solar eclipse nested, swirling, and flowing with unfathomable black shadows. The branches higher up burned with unrestrained passion, like flames, and further up, the light of true knowledge was enough to shatter skulls.

But he doesn't need to climb; the road flows beneath his feet, carrying him upward.

Those old wounds are just scenery along the way.

The Gate of Lights is a warm, stable, and drowsy area of ​​yellow light, like a safe childhood night, leaving a faint warmth on the skin like candle wax.

The Gate of Enlightenment, with its countless rotating geometric spots of light forming a portal, allows thought to pass through like glass illuminated by the morning light of reason.

The Gate of Whirlwind Fire, a realm of pure heat and motion, where spirituality is scorched and crackled, twisting into an invisible vortex of flame.

The Gate of the Moon, with its allure and tragic wounds, lies behind the deepest and most enigmatic fissures of extinction, a tidal force that brings tranquility.

The Gate of the Polar Night: all the dormant violence brews in the darkness. Those who pass through it may either ascend higher or fall directly into the void through a gap.

The gates of dawn, the unhindered daylight, the dazzling brilliance—everything seems to be redefined. In the last moment before waking, the gateway to invading the world's will with one's consciousness.

Fanning walked past them with steady steps, as if flipping through a well-read masterpiece. With each step, he left the weight of himself as a mortal being—along with the fragments of his melancholy past—into the vortex below.

In the theater, people saw two silhouettes shrouded in multiple halos, going against the current, traversing a distorted yet magnificent torrent of images pieced together by people's subconscious. Some saw them walking in a melting starry space, some felt they were sinking into a cold abyss, and some heard intermittent, solemn chords that brought tears to their eyes.
Walk through the world, and then reach the heavens.

Finally, ahead lay a smooth, mirror-like, seamless boundary.

Mr. F extended his hand again, gesturing for people to enter.

Both of them had gained access to the wounded "Door Gate" through pioneering paths, and Mr. F's time was probably even earlier, even before Pogrerich.

At this moment, Fan Ning reached out first and touched the surface that was originally impossible to open.

There was no resistance; the sensation of peeling away was as light as a sigh.

In the audience at the theater headquarters, the blurry image before their eyes changed completely at that moment. No longer were there steps, no longer were there blocks of color; the screen became pure white, bright and blinding.

Two small human figures stood on an endless expanse of "three-dimensional" white space.

Then, patterns began to emerge from the "white" surrounding the two figures—exquisite, intricate, and symmetrical decorative patterns: vines, roses, gemstones, geometric shapes, and small portraits of angels and saints. They "grew" out of the pure white, with a generally light color that was almost the background. The lines were clear, the tones were beautiful, but the texture was like wallpaper pasted on a flat surface, without thickness, shadows, or any further changes in light and shadow.

These visions are too transcendent, and somewhat unfamiliar, abstract, and unsettling; even those who have encountered "Pureroma" would likely be perplexed.

Sheeran, Joan, and Roy suddenly clutched their chests, bent over to varying degrees, and let out a short gasp.

It wasn't because of pain, but rather a feeling of "the connection being tightened".

It was as if an invisible thread pierced through the depths of their chests, extending upwards, and then the thread was taut, pulling the spiritual or divine core of the three women forward.

Joan and Roy exchanged a glance, and the light in the symphony hall cast their trembling shadows between the audience seats.

"You..." Shiran's eyes were somewhat unfocused as she murmured to the air, "Have you gotten there yet?"

"Doesn't it feel a bit like the former Radiant Gardens below?" Mr. F smiled as he walked.

"That's not hard to guess," Fan Ning replied casually.

The Garden of Radiance, in the middle of the Tower of Radiance, is the dividing zone between the lower three gates of spirituality and the upper three gates of divinity, a mixed area of ​​psychic knowledge and true knowledge, the lowest point that "Pureroma" can descend to. The scenery is relatively peaceful and the danger is relatively small—unless one tries to climb further and try to consume the remnants of true knowledge left behind by the witnesses.

The former appearance of the Radiant Garden should have been a shadow cast on the center of the Radiant Tower after the houses were illuminated by sunlight.

So it's normal that they look somewhat alike and have certain similarities.

Because this is a residential area.

Fan Ning looked back, and the smooth, boundless plane was behind him, overflowing with a contradictory pale yet profound purple hue. The side of the door that came from was the pinnacle that mortal beings could reach, while the side of the door, where he stood, was... such an indescribable place.

Sound is completely absent here, leaving only a vast, all-encompassing silence. Light is everywhere, even, soft, and shadowless, illuminating every inch of the smooth, porcelain-white ground and the air itself.

They began to walk, and Fanning surveyed his surroundings, as various scenes began to "grow" with his observation.

A valley, a garden.

The lush green lawn was so perfect it seemed unreal, its edges so sharp it looked as if it had been cut with a ruler and a knife. Every shrub had leaves of the same shape and uniform color, free from insect damage and yellowing, arranged in an absolutely symmetrical geometric pattern. Flowers were in bloom: roses, lilies, irises. The number of petals, their curves, and the gradations of color followed beautiful proportions, breathtakingly beautiful, and chillingly beautiful.

Fan Ning walked by, his footsteps almost silent, yet seemingly carrying an invisible pressure. Some flowers quietly turned into extremely fine, colorful dust with his steps, disappearing without a sound, while another identical flower instantly "grew" out of the empty space.

This garden, this valley sculpted from layers upon layers of "beautiful and mysterious stickers," is as magnificent as a treasured collection and as sacred as an exhibition hall, with an abstract "fragrance" that is neither flower nor wood permeating the air.

Fanning wandered around some paths.

The path before us is flanked by neatly trimmed hedges, within which bloom roses that never fade. The path is paved with regular white pebbles, all the same size, arranged in a perfect geometric pattern.

Fanning reached out to touch a rose petal.

The sensation from his fingertips was like that of some kind of tough yet elastic plastic. He gently pinched it, and the petal did not break, but was slightly dented. It immediately returned to its original shape after he released it. Of course, if he used force, it would still turn into glass-like powder.

Fan Ning withdrew his hand and continued walking forward.

The path meanders to a small botanical garden with a fountain where water jets flow from bottles held by angel statues and fall into a pool below. The water appears frozen, not flowing or splashing, but if you stir it, it will gurgle and flow.

In the center of this botanical garden is a white stone table and two white stone chairs.

There was an open book on the table. Fan Ning walked over and looked at the pages.

The page was filled with neat handwritten text in a rather old and elegant font. The font was small and the information was dense. The content was a discussion of music theory, with insightful viewpoints and rigorous logic. Fanning turned to the next page, and the content was exactly the same. She turned to the next page, and it was still the same.

He closed the book, then wanted to look at something else.

"What are you looking for?" Mr. F's voice came from the side.

“A worm,” Fan Ning said calmly.