The moment Ren's boots hit the stage, the mana flared around him in a whirl of glowing clefs and vibrating staves. The air was thick—not with pressure, but with expectation. Like the world itself was waiting to see if he'd hit a wrong note or rewrite the chorus.
The announcer's voice echoed again, dry and theatrical.
"Contestants, you have five minutes. You may observe your competitors. You may tune your instruments. You may compose your soul. When the final chime rings, you must play."
Ren had no instrument.
Which, upon quick self-reflection, seemed like a fairly significant oversight.
The other contestants had conjured theirs from their own mana:
– A tall, masked woman cradled a cello made of obsidian light and ember strings.
– A small, jittery man spun twin trumpets that released whispers instead of sound.
– A teen girl with iridescent scales tapped out arpeggios on a floating xylophone made of gemstones.
– A cloaked figure simply hummed, their mana responding like a living theremin.
And Ren?
He had vibes.
Which, to be fair, were not known for high musical fidelity.
He glanced around frantically until Cadencia's voice drifted into his thoughts through a one-way mental link.
"Close your eyes. Don't think about sound. Think about who you are right now."
He did.
In his mind, he saw the crossroads of everything: A field where void met harmony. Curiosity clashing with fear. Improvisation over structure. And somewhere, deep in the middle—
—a wind.
It whistled like a wandering tune. A melody without a map.
Mana surged into his palm, called by instinct rather than knowledge.
When Ren opened his eyes, he held it: a strange hybrid of a recorder, a travel flute, and… possibly a kazoo?
He blinked. "Is this… supposed to look this dumb?"
The flute vibrated in his hand like a dog offended by the idea it needed to sit still.
He shrugged. "Alright, buddy. Let's blow the roof off."
The final chime rang.
And the Gauntlet began.
◇
The first round was chaos in rhythm.
Each player released a torrent of mana-infused sound. Not melodies in the traditional sense—emotional compositions. A cello summoned grief in crashing waves. The whisper-trumpets bent light with every breath. The xylophone's cadence struck joy and nostalgia like a festival reborn.
Ren?
He closed his eyes and let his body do the work.
His flute burst with wind and laughter. His notes looped back on themselves, wrong then right again. A breeze turned cyclone, then settled into a tune that sounded like it came from someone walking toward adventure with no clue where the road ended.
The crowd—yes, there was a crowd now, watching from floating balconies—roared.
The judges, faceless beings of pure musical law, took notes with golden quills that scribbled in sync with their pulses.
At one point, Ren stumbled. The melody faltered.
A pause.
But instead of panicking, he grinned—and whistled the mistake back into the beat, making the error part of the rhythm.
The crowd went from roar to rapture.
By the time the round ended, sweat dripped from his brow, and his flute was faintly glowing with pride.
The announcer spoke once more.
"Two will advance. The others must yield."
All eyes turned toward the floating glyphs now scoring the round.
First to appear: the cellist.
Second?
"Ren Vireo."
◇
Back in the chamber afterward, Cadencia greeted him with something dangerously close to a smile.
"You improvised a soul signature through breath and chaos. That's not just survival. That's style."
Ren collapsed onto a cloud-shaped seat. "Can I nap for like six days now?"
"No," said Maestro Lileya, entering the room. "The next round is tomorrow. You've impressed the Conservatory, Mr. Vireo. Now we expect you to terrify us."
Ren groaned.
Then smiled.
He wasn't just passing through Cindale anymore.
He was becoming part of it.