The melody was unlike anything he had ever created or heard. It was vast, ancient, and impossibly clear — a heavenly cascade of sound that felt like it was rewriting the air around him. Every note carried weight, yet every note also felt pure.
He forced his head up, eyes wide, as the old man who wore his face continued to play without mercy.
Then the extra arms vanished.
One by one the floating instruments clattered to the floor as the old man's multiple limbs faded into nothing, leaving only two ordinary hands on the keys. The music did not weaken. If anything, it grew sharper, more focused, as if all that power had been compressed into a single pair of hands.
Ongaku pushed himself off the pillar, blood running from the corner of his mouth. He raised both palms and slammed them together.
*CRACK—BOOOOM!!!*
