Children of the Rune – Winterer - Chapter 362

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Episode 132.
May Your Final Performance
Be Your Greatest (7)
Joshua listened to everything the people were saying, but merely stroked his chin with three fingers and smiled faintly. Then Giovani suddenly rose from his seat behind Joshua and spoke.
“Hispania”
When Giovani spoke the name again, Mrs. Molte began to feel as though she had heard it somewhere before.
“There are many people in this world who despise those who speak casually of things they cannot do, as though they were nothing. Confidence is admirable, but there are many ways to express it.”
“I appreciate the advice.”
This time Joshua also rose to his feet.
“I do not do such things without reason. Now, what good does it do if you all look at me with eyes full of disbelief? Do I seem to have spoken nonsense? But there are countless ways to prove it. Are you not all experts? How can you call yourselves experts if you cannot even test whether you possess talent in your own field of expertise?”
Joshua did not wait for the people’s response. He walked forward immediately and, seeing that the person sitting in front was holding a script, he spoke.
“Open it to any page. What page is it? Page thirteen? That must be the part where Maximilien hears the news of Countess Constance de Bandeville’s marriage proposal. At the beginning of the page, Maximilien’s line should be something like this: ‘That lady is over forty years old, yet slender and beautiful as a butterfly? How I wish she had golden wings. I could sell them, for I have much to do with the money.'”
Joshua did not even glance at the script, yet he naturally remembered the content precisely. As the people sent him looks tinged with suspicion, he took a step back and sang an improvised song.
The most beautiful in Bandeville,
A lady like a butterfly with golden wings—
Since your wings are gold,
I must sell them to buy my youngest a coming-of-age robe.
The golden dust that falls from the wings,
I must gather it to repair the outer walls and moats.
What else remains?
No chance new wings will grow?
Now, a Countess without wings,
Farewell, and please wait for the next candidate.
Though it was a simple melody without high notes, when Joshua finished singing, not even the sound of a cough was heard for several seconds. The faces around him had forgotten even what they had been about to say.
After some time had passed, one person barely managed to speak.
“If you had prepared the song beforehand, you would have said so. Why all this talk about three days and such? Are you mocking us?”
Joshua sent him an irritated look.
“I just composed it.”
Then several people began speaking at once.
“Do not lie. You must have written the lyrics beforehand.”
“No, that cannot be. The melody does not seem to have been composed on the spot either.”
“What are you saying? Could such a song come out without practice?”
“That is not the skill of just one or two days of practice!”
As the voices of argument grew louder, Joshua pressed his forehead, and several people began humming the song they had just heard, while the surroundings became bustling. Suddenly, the sound of an instrument was heard among the skeptical crowd.
“Hmm?”
It was the sound of a violin. After playing a few short melodies once more, the person who smiled brightly toward Joshua was Rigi Strauss.
“Creating an improvisation is not quite an impossible feat.”
Then Strauss, still seated, played a passage similar to a jig. The old musician’s fingers moved without faltering, and those who had been chattering fell silent as one.
Strauss, releasing the bow from his hand, continued slowly.
“On the other hand, improvising lyrics would be difficult for me. But is there not someone among you who could do such a thing?”
Rigi Strauss glanced at Selma Rayslink beside him, then turned his gaze toward Mrs. Molte.
“Madam, this old man still remembers, from a decade past, how you lay upon the lounge in the green room without drawing a single labored breath, yet conquered the most demanding piece of that entire performance.”
Sui de Molte’s cheeks flushed—not from the compliment, but from the shame of the memory. It was a song she had sung back then, insisting that Rigi Strauss, who was the music director at the time, give her the climactic piece, desperate to flaunt her abilities.
“Thus all of this is merely an ability that any person might possess—the only distinction being that one person holds it all. It is arduous work, yes, but none can declare with certainty that it is impossible.”
At that moment, Will Maycock stepped forward, shaking his head.
“Scriptwriting, composition, lyricwriting, singing, direction, choreography—even those who have mastered their own disciplines find it difficult to possess more than two or three of these skills. Moreover, one must invest an extraordinary amount of time to achieve such mastery. Yet Hispania does not appear to be of an age to have done so. I confess, I believe this young man is making sport of us.”
The people who had wavered when Rigi Strauss came to the defense now leaned back toward suspicion upon hearing Maycock’s words—a man whose authority was equal to, if not greater than, Strauss’s own. Maycock continued.
“Therefore, young Hispania, if you wish to work alongside these distinguished individuals gathered here, you must either prove your own words, or humbly retract them and offer an apology. One or the other. Hantke mentioned it as well, though you may have forgotten—I shall say it once more: to speak of the specialized disciplines these people have honed over many years as though they were trifling matters, to claim you can do it all, is—ahem—decidedly discourteous for one so young.”
Joshua was not troubled by Maycock’s rebuke. Rather, he answered with unshakeable confidence.
“A fair point indeed. Very well—how shall I prove it? Like this?”
Joshua suddenly turned and approached the wall behind him. It was constructed of dark brown planks fitted together, and he withdrew a piece of chalk from his pocket, then began drawing horizontal lines in rapid succession across its surface.
“Wait, wait—what are you doing?”
Ignoring the question from Etern, who was both the Theater Master and the building’s owner, Joshua continued moving his hand swiftly, drawing staff lines. And in moments, he began filling them with notes.
“….”
While the others stood speechless, another staff appeared, and again notes and symbols filled the spaces. In this manner, Joshua worked without pause, completing two full measures of sheet music in a single breath, covering the entire wall before turning around.
“Now let us add the lyrics.”
The score he had created at a speed indistinguishable from simply copying something already before him transformed those watching into students seated beneath a blackboard—complete and utter dominance.
Joshua looked toward Maycock and spoke with relative courtesy.
“If you have the script, please select any page you wish and tell me the number.”
Maycock wore an expression caught between amusement and something else as he flipped through the script pages and spoke.
“Page nineteen.”
Beneath my bed at home there lies
A doll I was given
When I was seven years of age
And she would always say to me
Come here, my servant dear,
Hold me close and play with me
All beautiful things belong to me
You are ugly, don’t you see
I loved that doll so very much
Because she was unlike myself
Her eyes were truly blue, you know
And I would always answer her
Yes, my princess, I understand,
The golden bracelets and the shell combs too
All belong to you, my princess fair
For I am ugly, it is true
Love’s transformation brings such sorrow, yet it cannot be helped
How difficult it was to become a girl who no longer needed her doll
If there exists one unchanging truth in this world, it is that a girl must grow into a woman
The princess doll that once tormented the girl now sleeps forever beneath the bed.
Beneath my bed at home
lies a worn doll
I shoved away when I was twelve.
I wonder if you can hear my words.
Farewell, princess doll.
Your smile, your blue eyes—
I no longer wish to see them.
Do not emerge.
A princess with glass eyes that never wept,
a princess who never smiled with genuine warmth,
lying in the dust beneath the bed,
still wearing that same frozen smile.
Farewell, cloth doll.
The bed that has grown too small, and you—
I will not remain there.
I will grow.
What astonished the audience most was not merely that the two measures Joshua had just sketched on the wall formed a flawless thematic exposition, but rather the timbre of his voice itself. His technical prowess was undeniable, yet this was no tenor’s voice—not one a man should possess. Several people whispered softly among themselves.
“Listen… isn’t that a castrato’s voice?”
Though his usual voice was boyish, he was unmistakably male, yet he had shifted so effortlessly into the female register. Everyone hastily turned to page nineteen and discovered that the song Joshua had just performed was not Maximilien’s aria, but that of the heroine, Marie de Trois. Moreover, he had converted only a single line of dialogue into song: “Do I still appear to you as nothing but a jealous child clinging to dolls?”
Mrs. Molte asked, unable to conceal her bewilderment.
“Forgive the strange question, but… your voice seems…”
Joshua smiled wryly.
“If you’re about to ask whether I’m a woman, I’m afraid I must disappoint you. Abandon your preconceptions.”
“But… is that even possible? A man producing a woman’s vocal range?”
“The world contains all manner of people.”
Joshua answered simply and returned to his chair. He sat, resting his chin on his interlaced fingers while surveying the assembled crowd.
“As for choreography and direction, there is no way to demonstrate them here, so I shall reveal those privately to those involved in producing my performance. I trust you understand. Now then, let us proceed to questions. The atmosphere seems ripe for them at last. Shall we keep them brief?”
Someone from the back spoke.
“Regarding the schedule—isn’t it rather excessively tight?”
“Ah, yes. It is indeed ‘tight.’ However, I set this schedule because I believe it will work, and therefore it shall.”
Regardless of courtesy, his confidence was undeniably remarkable. Another person asked.
“Did you compress the schedule to economize on budget?”
Joshua raised one eyebrow playfully.
“Are you suggesting I begrudged paying the staff? I apologize, but I have rather substantial funds.”
The bluntness of his answer prompted several people to clear their throats awkwardly. Joshua smiled broadly and added.
“Had I lacked funds, would I have so boldly rented a theater and confidently invited all of you—renowned figures boasting the finest reputation in the region? Had I been financially constrained, I would have chosen to create everything myself, however long it took. As I mentioned earlier, I am capable of doing so.”
Another person spoke.
“Still, the timeline is excessively compressed. Frankly, I believe it’s impossible.”
“Is that so? Then come as an audience member on opening night and verify for yourself that it is possible.”
Mrs. Molte let out a kick of laughter. Joshua returned her smile.
“What on earth makes you so eager to finish it so quickly?”
Children of Rune – Winterer
Author: Jeon Min-hee
Published by: 14 Months Publishing
The rights to this book belong to the author and 14 Months Publishing.
To reuse all or part of the contents of this book, written consent from both parties is required.

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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