Days passed. While the upper-class elites and entertainment journalists of the Core Worlds continued to endlessly debate whether the Mord Tida concert was real or an elaborate hoax, the truth was already quietly circulating through the lower levels of the galaxy.
Deep inside the cramped, dimly lit residential blocks of various planetary systems, the miners' families finally began receiving the data caches sent by their family heads.
The footage was a far cry from the pristine, multi-angle holographic broadcasts the Accord was used to. It was recorded purely through heavy-duty industrial safety packs. The resolution was grainy. The camera violently shook every time the miner moved. The audio peaked and clipped from the sheer, overwhelming volume of the crowd.
But to the people watching it, it was absolute magic.
Most of these mining families lived in cheap, heavily subsidized sectors where high-end entertainment was a rare luxury. Word spread quickly. A mother would show the video to her neighbor in the communal laundry sector. A teenager would share the file with his friends in the alleyways. Soon, the raw, unedited footage of Composer Percival standing in a dirt crater was being passed around like a sacred relic among the working class.
The segment where the power went out, the part where half a million miners stomped and clapped to the driving beat of 'We Will Rock You' became instantly iconic. It was a cultural virus, entirely bypassing the corporate music industry and infecting the streets directly.
Lightyears away, in the sprawling, industrial harbor of the Gate Planet, Proxima, the humid air was thick with the smell of brine, rust, and burning ozone.
The harbor was a massive, chaotic junction where both aquatic seacraft and low-orbit spaceships were repaired and maintained simultaneously. It was a notoriously difficult place to navigate, and it was almost a weekly routine for the dock workers to have to dredge out an amateur pilot who had miscalculated their landing trajectory and plunged their ship straight into the dark sea.
The work here was incredibly dirty. Much like the miners on Mord Tida, these dock workers spent their days covered in grease and sweat, navigating damp, corroding infrastructure that the local government should have replaced decades ago.
Currently, a crew of heavy-lifters was taking their designated fifteen-minute meal break, huddled under the dripping awning of a cargo warehouse.
Sitting on an overturned crate, a young dock worker named Chester was absentmindedly eating a block of dry synth-ration. Without even realizing it, his grease-stained fingers were tapping hard against his metal lunch tin.
Tap-tap-SMACK.
Tap-tap-SMACK.
An older, heavily scarred docker sitting across from him took a drag of his vapor-stick and grinned. "Can't get the beat out of your head, huh, kid?"
Chester violently blinked, his hand freezing in mid-air. He looked down at his lunch tin, his cheeks flushing slightly beneath the dirt. He laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ah... sorry. I didn't even realize I was doing it. It's just a really good song. I've never heard that kind of music before in my life."
Another docker, wiping motor oil from his wrench, nodded vigorously. "Chester ain't lying. That shit fucking rocks!!"
A third worker leaned against the wall, raising an eyebrow. "Is that what the genre of that music is called? 'Rocks'?"
The second docker shrugged heavily. "I don't know, man. The video description said the miners over on Mord Tida coined the term. They kept saying the song 'rocks'."
The older docker chuckled, blowing a cloud of gray vapor into the damp air. "Well, that's exactly why I didn't become a miner. Those poor bastards can't get their heads on something other than rocks."
A loud, crude round of laughter rippled through the resting crew.
Chester smiled, but his eyes were distant, completely lost in thought. He kept staring at his hands, his fingers twitching slightly as if itching to recreate the screeching, distorted melody he had heard at the end of the grainy video.
The older docker noticed the boy spacing out. "You alright there, Chester?"
"Yes..." Chester murmured, slowly looking up. "Umm... Uncle Koligg? Do you still have your electric guitar at home?"
Koligg paused. In the current era of the Accord's music industry, electronic string instruments were heavily looked down upon. True prestige belonged to classical, beautifully carved wooden acoustics and grand orchestral instruments crafted by master artisans. Electric guitars were widely considered cheap, mass-produced garbage meant for amateurs who couldn't project their sound naturally.
"Oh, that old piece of junk?" Koligg laughed, scratching his beard. "Yeah, it's gathering dust in the closet, I think. Why? I just bought a real artisan acoustic last month, kid. You want me to teach you some actual fingering techniques on it? Might finally help you get a missus, too!"
Another loud, roaring round of crude laughter echoed under the awning as the men elbowed each other.
Chester just smiled softly and shook his head. "No need, Uncle Koligg. The electric one is good enough for me."
…
At some point, the grainy safety-pack footage spread widely enough through the underground networks that it inevitably breached the surface. A raw, unedited file was uploaded directly to Stellarcast.
Instantly, the galactic net exploded, but the reactions were fiercely mixed.
The wealthy elites and music critics of the Core Worlds were quick to turn their noses up at the leak. They immediately flooded the comment sections, complaining about how abysmal the video resolution was. The visual static and blown-out audio offended their high-end sensory implants.
The relentless haters and conspiracy theorists used the terrible quality as fuel. They loudly doubted the video's authenticity, claiming it was just a random body double standing on a box, lip-syncing to an audio track transmitted from orbit. They argued that the real Percival was probably lounging comfortably on a luxury star-yacht somewhere, laughing at the gullible public.
Other, more objective listeners tried to defend the clip, pointing out the undeniable genius of the moment. Even with the power completely cut off and the venue swallowed in darkness, the Composer had managed to make music out of the void, turning a panicked audience into a living, breathing instrument.
But even then, the classical music snobs fired back. They called the primitive, repetitive rhythm the absolute worst out of all of his so-called "made-on-the-spot" songs. It had no complex chord progressions, no sweeping orchestral swells. Just boots, hands, and shouting.
However, the streets had an entirely different idea.
To the lower-class citizens of the galaxy, the song's simplicity was exactly what made it perfect. The easy, provocative lyrics, the primal beat, and the screaming, distorted wail of the electric guitar transformed it into an instant anthem for the working class. All you need is a pulse.
Suddenly, a massive, unprecedented wave of youth across the low-income districts of the Accord wanted to learn how to play the electric guitar. Teenagers dug through their attics and basement storage units, pulling out cheap, stashed-away electronic instruments and wiping the dust off the fretboards.
In one cramped, damp apartment in particular, a young boy was currently standing in the middle of the living room, aggressively wielding a worn-out sweeping broom as if it were a Fender Stratocaster.
His two little siblings were sitting on the patched-up rug in front of him, giggling wildly as they slapped their hands against the floor and clapped in perfect sync.
Stomp-stomp-clap!
Stomp-stomp-clap!
"WE WILL, WE WILL ROCK YOU!!" the boy shouted at the top of his lungs, sliding on his knees across the cheap linoleum floor and miming a heavy guitar solo.
Sitting at the small kitchen table, their mother watched her children playing around. A small, deeply affectionate smile rested on her tired face. On the counter next to her, a dented, second-hand older model Compadre was projecting the grainy, low-resolution hologram of the Mord Tida concert, replaying the legendary moment over and over again.
"Brother!" the youngest sibling cheered, pointing at him. "When you get famous, what is your stage name going to be?!"
The boy paused his broom-shredding, tapping his chin as he seriously pondered the question. "Hmm... well, it has to sound cool like Percival–"
Before he could get a name out, a sudden, sharp chime echoed through the small apartment, immediately followed by three heavy knocks on the reinforced metal door.
The mother quickly wiped her hands on her apron.
The door slid open to reveal her husband. He was still wearing his heavy, soot-stained mining gear, his helmet tucked under his arm. But in his other hand, he was holding a tall, strangely shaped package wrapped in brown shipping paper.
"I'm home!" the father announced, a wide, exhausted smile on his dirt-streaked face.
"DAD!"
The kids instantly abandoned the broom and ran as fast as their legs could carry them, practically tackling his knees. Their eyes immediately locked onto the tall package.
"Father, what did you bring?!" the eldest boy asked, practically vibrating with excitement.
The father chuckled, stepping inside and letting the door slide shut. "Oh, I don't know. Why don't you open it and find out?"
He handed the heavy package over to the boy. The kids aggressively tore into the brown paper, ripping it away to reveal a sleek, slightly scratched, cherry-red electric guitar.
The eldest boy let out an ear-piercing scream of pure, unfiltered joy. "HOOOOHHH!! It's just like the one Percival has!!"
As the children crowded around the instrument in absolute awe, the mother walked over and gently wrapped her arms around her husband.
"Honey," she whispered softly, glancing down at the guitar with a flicker of financial anxiety in her eyes. "Can we really buy that? We have the rent coming up..."
The husband wrapped his heavy arms around her, kissing the top of her head. "Don't worry," he reassured her gently. "It's a second-hand one I found at a pawn shop in the orbital transit system on the way back... I got it super cheap."
He looked down at his eldest son, who was currently holding the guitar like it was the most precious artifact in the entire universe. The father smiled, his exhaustion melting away.
Across the vast expanse of the Stellar Accord, this exact same scene was beautifully playing out in thousands of tiny, cramped apartments, as the early rotation of miners finally began making their way back home.
…
As the leaked footage spread like wildfire, a fierce, highly toxic debate erupted across the galactic social media platforms.
The fans who had desperately begged for proof of the Mord Tida concert finally had it, but the critics were still refusing to let it go.
[Thread: Percival's Mud Anthem]
> CoreComposer_Vax:
"Are you people seriously calling this music? Stomp, stomp, clap? That is it? That is the entire foundation of the track! This is what the galaxy is calling a musical prodigy? An eight-month-old toddler can make that exact same noise by banging their toys together. The Phantom of the Industry has officially run out of ideas."
> MelodyJunkie:
"You guys literally cried for weeks saying there was no proof of the concert. Now that we finally have it, you're complaining that the song structure isn't good enough? He made a million people stampede to a beat when the power was entirely dead!"
> ProximaStan:
"Now that actual ground-level footage drops, you're shifting the goalposts and complaining that the song is too simple? Come on, be real!"
> WetListener:
"I mean, logically, not all of his spontaneous songs can be a multi-layered orchestral masterpiece like 'You'll Be In My Heart'. They are literally made on the spot. He worked with the tools he had: boots, hands, and an electric guitar. It's weird, but it works."
> ClassicalSnob_99:
"It doesn't work. It's just crude noise. You people will blindly worship anything this kid throws at you. The lyrics are elementary at best."
> MelodyAnalyst:
"Let's look at this objectively. Not every single song made entirely on the spot is going to be a multi-layered, sweeping classical symphony. The man was stranded in pitch darkness in front of a million restless workers. The fact that he successfully improvised a shaking anthem using nothing but his heavy boots and his bare hands is insane. Stop hating just for the sake of hating."
However, the tone of the online debate drastically shifted when the first rotation of Mord Tida miners finally returned to the orbital transit hubs, gaining access to the main galactic network.
> CoreExtraction_77:
"Keep crying, rich boy. None of y'all know what you are talking about. None of y'all know the feeling when we were standing in that pitch-black pit, covered in mud. That young man stood his ground in the dark and violently shook the literal ground beneath our boots. You just had to be there to understand. That young blood wrote a song for us."
…
Meanwhile, the enigmatic man currently tearing the galactic net in half was entirely oblivious to the chaos. He was currently on a much-needed short break.
Far away from the industrial grime of Mord Tida and the flashing lights of the Core Worlds, Dorian Kepler and his family were vacationing in Kulau Than. It was a stunning resort planet famous for its pristine, white-sand beaches and perfect, tropical weather all year round.
In a highly exclusive, private section of the beach, the Kepler family was finally relaxing.
In the crystal-clear shallows, John Kepler was patiently holding his youngest son, Marcus, firmly by the waist, currently teaching the boy how to properly coordinate his swimming strokes.
Up on the warm sand, Juno was lazily sunbathing on a reclined lounge chair, her sun hat pulled low as she chatted idly with Lyra beside her.
Further out in the water, Dorian was currently surfing the crashing waves.
Invisible to everyone else, the towering, ethereal projection of Poseidon hovered effortlessly right beside him, gliding smoothly over the water. The God of the Sea stroked his thick, spectral beard, offering a wide, deeply approving smile.
"Hoho! You are a natural at this, little one," Poseidon boomed, his voice carrying the deep rumble of the ocean.
Dorian's eyes lit up with sheer excitement. "Really?!"
Distracted by the praise, Dorian immediately lost his footing. His weight shifted too far back, the nose of the surfboard kicked up, and he violently wiped out, plunging headfirst into the salty foam.
Dorian surfaced a moment later, coughing and wiping his wet hair out of his eyes.
Poseidon let out a massive, hearty laugh that shook the air. "Don't take the sea personally, Nephew! She is a fickle mistress. Come, maybe we go a couple of rounds more so you can properly familiarize your bearings."
Dorian, looking up at the laid-back, incredibly chill uncle-like deity, couldn't help but smile. "Alrighty. Let's go again, Uncle!"
Back on the beach, Juno subtly lowered her designer sunglasses, casually admiring Dorian's toned, athletic physique as he paddled back out into the surf.
Just then, Briane Taleini and Ratik approached the lounge chairs, both wearing light resort wear and carrying trays of cold drinks.
Lyra immediately sat up, her eyes scanning the trays. "Where is the ice cream?"
"Tadaa!" Briane smiled, pulling a small, insulated cooler bag from behind her back. She opened it to reveal three large, premium chocolate-vanilla ice cream cones. "One for Marcus, one for you, and the last one for our Composer."
Lyra smoothly reached out and grabbed two of the cones at the exact same time. "Brother Dorian doesn't like ice cream," she stated confidently, before immediately starting to devour the frozen treats.
A while later, Dorian finally walked back to the shore, carrying his surfboard under his arm. He was dripping wet, breathing heavily, and grinning from ear to ear.
"Wwoo!! That was fun!" Dorian laughed, dropping his board onto the sand. He looked out at the shallows. "Do you want to try next, Marcus?"
Marcus, who was happily munching on his own ice cream cone near his dad, shook his head. "After this is done!"
Dorian paused, suddenly realizing something. He looked down at the cooler bag, then over at the girls. "Wait. Where is mine?"
He slowly turned his gaze toward Lyra. The girl was sitting cross-legged on her towel. She had a perfectly thick, highly incriminating ring of bright chocolate and vanilla ice cream smeared explicitly all over her lips, chin, and the tip of her nose.
She stared directly into her older brother's eyes, her expression completely unbothered. "Don't look at me," Lyra mumbled, her voice slightly muffled by the massive mouthful of dairy. "I didn't even manage to get a single one for myself today. The resort must be running low."
It was, without a doubt, the most blatant lie Dorian had ever witnessed.
Dorian let out a slow, dry, deeply amused chuckle. He dropped his towel, stepping forward as a dangerous, playful glint flared in his golden eyes. "Hoo... it wasn't you, was it?"
Realizing her immediate doom, Lyra's eyes went wide. She violently tossed her empty paper wrappers into the air and instantly bolted across the golden sand, her bare feet kicking up miniature dust storms behind her.
"Get back here, you thief!" Dorian laughed loudly, instantly giving chase across the pristine private beach.
The entire family watched the two siblings sprint wildly along the shoreline, their unified laughter drowning out the gentle crashing of the waves.
…
The vibrant evening sun was slowly dipping below the horizon, painting the sky above Kulau Than in breathtaking shades of violet, orange, and gold. The gentle, rhythmic crashing of the waves provided a perfect, soothing soundtrack to the private beach pavilion.
From the resort's kitchen, the private chef and his serving staff approached the long wooden table. They carried massive silver platters loaded with the fresh catch of the day, perfectly grilled and steaming with aromatic spices.
As the chef carefully placed the final platter in the center of the table, John Kepler offered a warm, genuine smile. "Thank you so much. This looks absolutely incredible."
The serving staff paused, their eyes widening in genuine surprise. They were entirely used to serving the ultra-wealthy elites of the Core Worlds, people who treated the staff like invisible, automated Compadre. Hearing a polite, sincere word of thanks from the head of the table deeply touched them.
They bowed respectfully. "Please, enjoy your meal, sir," the chef said warmly before signaling his staff to leave the family in peace.
The moment they were out of earshot, Ratik snatched her brightly colored tropical drink off the table and took a massive, fervent gulp through the tiny straw.
"Hhhaaaa..." Ratik sighed, her shoulders entirely relaxing for the first time in months. "That was absolutely worth the wait."
Sitting across from her, Kio chuckled, cutting into a piece of grilled fish. "Careful now, Ratik. You still have two more massive planetary concerts to manage before this tour is over."
Ratik groaned, resting her forehead against her hand. "Please don't remind me. We still have two more weeks until we have to worry about that. Let me live in denial."
John raised his glass of water toward her. "A good break is definitely needed. Thank you for taking such good care of my son out there, Ratik."
Dorian smirked, leaning back in his chair with a piece of synth-fruit. "No need to thank her, Dad. I'm incredibly easy to take care of."
Ratik rolled her eyes so hard they almost got stuck in the back of her head.
"Sure you are," John laughed. "Though, to be honest... I have been getting flooded with comms calls from several of the planetary mining managers. They keep asking when 'the Composer' is going to come back down the pit for another shift."
Ratik snorted, taking another sip of her drink. "Well, it seems your noble effort to help us secure the venue has bitten you right back, John. You are officially his underground booking agent."
"They were very insistent," John chuckled, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "They told me that if I'm close to Percival, I need to order him to create more songs exactly like that one. I just told them I was only acquainted with a guy on his management team, and they finally backed off! Hahaha–"
John's hearty laugh suddenly caught in his throat, turning into a rough, dry cough. The lingering damage from decades of breathing in toxic dust in the deep-core mines was something not even Ambrosia could entirely erase.
Lyra immediately sat up straight, grabbing the water pitcher and quickly pouring him a fresh cup. "Here, Dad. Drink."
"Thank you, sweetie," John smiled gently, taking the cup and patting her hand to reassure her he was fine.
The conversation shifted back to easy, lighthearted topics. As the sun finally set and the stars began to twinkle over the ocean, the evening dinner smoothly transitioned into a wholesome, unforgettable memory for the group.
…
Meanwhile, on the Avalon forums, the newly established Pokémon Trading Card Game sub-section was currently experiencing its very first major cultural crisis.
What had started as a simple hobby was rapidly evolving into a cutthroat economy.
Someone had just uploaded a high-resolution image of a Holographic Charizard they had pulled from a booster pack. It was meant to be a simple flex, but it immediately triggered a massive, highly toxic thread of one-upmanship.
[Thread: The King is Here. Bow Down.]
> HoloHunter:
[Image Attached]
"Just pulled this beauty. I am officially accepting offers, starting at 10,000 credits. Cry about it."
> CardSlinger99:
[Image Attached]
"Cute. But look at the left border on yours. The printing is completely misaligned and crooked. Mine is flawlessly centered. Yours is a factory reject."
> PackRipper:
"Bro, @CardSlinger99, are you blind? Your top right corner literally has a visible white scratch on the foil. It's basically damaged goods. If I pulled an error card that gross, I would just rip the shit up and throw it away."
The showing off rapidly began to make players turn aggressively on each other. People were zooming in on the uploaded images, scrutinizing every single pixel, and even making stuff up just to devalue other people's holographic cards so their own would seem rarer.
> MetaBreaker:
"Half of you are literally using photo-editing software to boost the contrast and make the holo-foil look brighter. This is actually pathetic. Stop faking your pulls."
> HoloHunter:
"Hey! Mine isn't edited!"
> MetaBreaker:
"I wasn't even talking about you, you absolute casual!"
The ruckus raged on, insults flying left and right.
> CollectorPrime:
"This is completely ridiculous. We need some kind of objective review system. You can't just claim your card is better because you took a picture of it under a better desk lamp."
> CardSlinger99:
"Better yet, why don't we make a physical grade for each card? Someone needs to verify the authenticity, grade the physical condition from 1 to 10, and encase it in a tamper-proof plastic slab. That way, there is absolute, undeniable proof. No more show-offs with edited cards."
While the forum users continued to aggressively scream at each other over the scratched edges of glorified cardboard, a brilliant, highly lucrative seed had been successfully planted in the minds of the most dedicated TCG players.
Creating a standardized card grading company might not be a bad idea at all.