"Sorry, I didn't know he'd go that far," Tiffany said cautiously, watching William's reaction.
"You don't need to apologize to me for him."
"I shouldn't have brought you here so rashly."
"If I didn't want to come, not even Aunt Lisa could have convinced me."
"Yeah, I know."
Banquet hall.
At the front of the banquet hall was a delicate stage with heavy curtains on both sides.
The banquet had twelve tables, and William and Tiffany's seats were at the very back—the "junior" table, as Dollas called it.
Even so, everyone at the "junior" table was over thirty, a whole twelve years older than William.
By coincidence, Warren was at the same table, sitting directly across from William. When he saw William, he froze for a moment before giving an awkward, sheepish smile.
"Everyone."
An elderly man who looked to be in his seventies stepped onto the stage. He wore a traditional Tang-style outfit, a green jade pendant at his waist, and a flute tucked into his belt.
As soon as he spoke, the once noisy banquet hall went completely silent.
"He's Mr. Thomas, a top figure in traditional Chinese music. At least seventy percent of the guests here are his students."
"The banquet is officially starting."
William thought Thomas would at least give a half-hour speech, but to his surprise, he had only come up to announce the start of the banquet.
Noticing William's surprise, Tiffany explained, "Mr. Thomas has always believed in expressing himself through music. If he has something to say, he says it with a tune. Whether others understand it depends on their own perception."
"Quite the personality."
William kept his eyes on Thomas as he slowly stepped down from the stage, thinking to himself, if he could invite this man to compose music for one of Earth Games' titles, it might become a massive hit.
Just as he was thinking that, he felt a look coming his way. Even though there was quite some distance between them and many people in between, William had the clear feeling that Thomas's gaze was on him.
He quickly looked away, his heart giving a small jolt. That single glance carried so much authority that it instantly brought back the feeling he'd had whenever he faced a teacher as a child—that tension when they didn't even need to say a word, yet you already felt nervous.
The banquet had no set program, just guests at each table chatting among themselves. William didn't know anyone, so he focused on eating.
Tiffany wasn't interested in socializing either, so the two of them stood out as the odd pair—heads down, eating without joining in on any conversation. If someone spoke to them, they'd answer briefly. If no one did, all the better.
They still found time to exchange quick comments about which dishes were good and which were average.
About twenty minutes later, Thomas walked back onto the stage.
"Everyone full enough? Then let's start tonight's charity auction."
The moment William heard "auction," his ears perked up. Sure enough, it was bound to happen—otherwise, why call it a charity banquet?
"First, let's welcome Master Alan."
Alan was also a big name, a fellow disciple from the same school as Thomas. While he wasn't as famous, his skill was on par.
"Thank you, Senior Brother. Thank you, everyone."
Alan stepped onto the stage to a round of applause, calm and composed. His outfit was the same style as Thomas's, except without the accessories at the waist.
"According to tradition, I'll get straight to it."
He pulled a long, white instrument from his clothing.
"That's said to be a bone flute that's over a thousand years old," Tiffany whispered.
William had no idea what a flute's age had to do with its sound, but for someone who only knew how to play piano, the tones from that flute were unbelievably pure and dreamlike, stirring the imagination.
Alan played a steady tune, like a mountain stream flowing quietly, washing away grudges and sorrows of a thousand years.
When the piece ended, William had a better idea of what Tiffany meant earlier—Thomas wanted people to tell stories through music. But music alone couldn't tell a full story; it could only give you a setting, and what happened within that setting was entirely up to the listener's imagination.
That's what perception was—how closely the scene in your mind matched the feeling of the music. For example, with a sad melody, modern listeners might imagine distance, separation, or loneliness.
Ancient listeners might think of war, failure, or bitter wine.
Music was one of the few things that could transcend time without ever going out of date, and the stories it carried were just the same.
To really understand the story in a piece of music, you have to look at all sides of it—the background of its creation, the time period, the composer's own experiences, and more. Only when you understand all of that can you grasp its deeper meaning.
That's also why Thomas didn't care if the audience understood everything. At their level, they no longer needed outside approval—rather, others had to understand their music in order to gain their approval.
Alan's performance was a hard one to follow. In fact, every year's charity banquet was like this: Thomas and his fellow disciples would take turns opening, and the next slot would be given to the most respected or most popular figure in the music world at the moment.
"Edgar Brown."
The man who walked up was in his mid-forties to fifties, looking lively and full of energy.
"I see him on TV all the time."
William remembered his days at Aunt Lisa's house—back when he sat with her on the couch watching TV, Edgar often appeared on different shows.
A man at the same table said enviously, "Of course it's him again. This makes it his third year in a row."
Leung's performance was a chant without any lyrics. If Alan had brought the audience into a bamboo forest filled with birds and flowers, Leung took them to the seashore, letting them feel the waves shift between passion and restraint, stirring everyone's emotions.
The performance flowed perfectly.
Just as William was wondering who would take the stage next, Thomas stepped up himself and announced the first auction item of the night.
"The first item is the commercial distribution rights for Alan's bone flute piece, 'Ethereal.' Starting bid: one hundred thousand."
Commercial distribution rights were different from commercial usage rights. Usage rights let you use the work yourself, but distribution rights allowed you to sell it to others for their use.
"One hundred fifty thousand."
"One hundred eighty thousand."
"Three hundred thousand."
…
In just one minute, the price for the distribution rights to "Ethereal" had jumped from one hundred thousand to eight hundred eighty thousand, which was also the final price.
William didn't make a bid—partly because he hadn't been given a paddle like the others, and partly because he didn't know the market well enough to judge its value.
"The quality of 'Ethereal' is high, but a bone flute's use is too limited. Out of ten movies, maybe one would even have a place for it. It'll take a long time to earn back that eight hundred eighty thousand."
"This isn't just about money. If I had the cash, I'd have bid too. It's a once-in-a-lifetime chance to connect with Master Alan."
According to what the people at his table said, buyers usually partnered with production companies to earn a small licensing fee from these pieces. Even if they didn't resell them widely, the licensing price wasn't very high, and selling too much could even lower the value. It wasn't really a profitable business.
But being able to use it as a way to get acquainted with a master-level figure—just exchanging a few words, making yourself a familiar face—might lead to them giving you some guidance. That kind of opportunity was something money couldn't normally buy.