The scent of ozone and copper lingered in the air, a bitter perfume for the dying. Jin lay amidst the wreckage of his glass-walled sanctuary, his lungs rattling like dry parchment in a gale. The flickering neon lights of the recording studio, once his crown of glory, now pulsed like the failing heartbeat of a star. He had been the architect of dreams, the man who sculpted voices into gods, yet as the shadows pooled in the corners of his vision, he realized that he had merely been building monuments of sand. His heart, a muscle worn thin by the relentless demands of an industry that ate its young, gave one final, agonizing thrum against his ribs before falling into the cold embrace of the abyss.
He expected the void. He expected the eternal silence that follows the final note of a requiem. Instead, he felt the sun.
It was a harsh, unforgiving heat that bit into his skin. Jin's eyes snapped open, but the ceiling of acoustic foam and LED strips was gone. In its place was a sky of bruised violet and burning gold, vast and terrifying. He tried to sit up, but his limbs felt heavy, uncoordinated, and strange. He looked down at hands that were no longer his—smaller, calloused by the handle of a hoe and the grit of the earth, the skin tanned a deep, earthy bronze. He was no longer the king of the charts; he was a boy, clad in rough-spun linen that smelled of woodsmoke and sweat.
He lay in a field of swaying, azure-tipped wheat. In the distance, the village of Porto-Kyoto clung to the hillside like a cluster of white barnacles. Its architecture was a fever dream of distant lands: the steep, curved eaves of eastern pagodas fused with the whitewashed walls and blue-tinted tiles of western coastal hamlets. The wind carried the scent of salt water and cherry blossoms, a melody of aromas that made his head spin.
Where is this? he thought, his voice cracking with the pitch of adolescence. This is not the end. This is a cruel encore.
As if in response to his inner turmoil, the air before his eyes began to ripple. It was not the cold light of a screen, but a shimmering, ethereal mist that congealed into ancient, floating runes. They glowed with the luminescence of bioluminescent fungi, casting a pale light upon the dirt.
[THE GREAT SILENCE HAS ENDURED TOO LONG]
[THE ARCHITECT OF HARMONY HAS BEEN RECLAIMED]
[AWAKEN, VOID-BORN PRODUCER. THE STARS CRAVE A NEW SONG]
Jin—now Julian—stared at the floating script. It felt sentient, a parasitic presence that had tethered itself to his very soul. A Producer? he spat inwardly, his mind reeling with the memories of his past life's betrayal. I gave my life to that altar. I will not be a priest for another god. Leave me to this dirt.
He stood up, his legs shaking, and began to walk toward the village. He ignored the runes that trailed after him like spectral hounds. He passed a stone well where women in silken robes and heavy wool shawls washed clothes, their voices low and fearful. There was no singing. No humming. The world felt muffled, as if the very atmosphere were made of wool.
He reached the village square, a mosaic of cobblestones where the salt-heavy breeze of the Iberian coast met the discipline of an eastern market. It was here that he saw her.
She was huddled near a stack of empty crates, her back to the crowd. Even from a distance, Julian could see the abnormality. Great, sweeping wings of mottled grey and iridescent emerald were folded tightly against her back, their feathers twitching with every muffled sob. She was a Harpie, one of the "Windswept," the non-human outcasts whispered to be harbingers of storms.
The peace of the afternoon was shattered by a low, guttural roar. From the forest's edge, a beast emerged—a Great Tusked Mana-Boar, its hide encrusted with jagged obsidian crystals that pulsed with a malevolent, sickly light. The village guards, armed with crude spears and shields of rusted iron, backed away in terror. The beast's presence seemed to drain the color from the world, its very breath a miasma of decay.
The creature charged. It didn't aim for the guards; it aimed for the center of the square, where the Harpie girl sat.
"Liora! Run!" an old man shouted from a doorway, but the girl remained frozen.
As the beast closed the distance, its tusks lowered to gore her, the Harpie threw her head back. She didn't scream. She opened her mouth and let out a sound that Julian felt in the marrow of his bones.
It was a single, sustained note. It was the sound of moonlight hitting a frozen lake. It was the sound of a first kiss and a final breath. As the melody rippled through the air, the obsidian crystals on the boar's back began to crack. The creature's frantic charge slowed. Its hooves, which had been tearing up the cobblestones, now trod softly, as if walking on clouds. The beast's red, murderous eyes faded to a dull, peaceful amber. It slumped to the ground mere inches from her, its heavy head resting on its paws, drifting into a deep, enchanted slumber.
The village was silent. Not the silence of peace, but the silence of superstitious dread. The guards didn't cheer; they spat on the ground and made signs against the evil eye.
Julian stood paralyzed. His professional mind, the part of him that he had tried to bury in the grave, was screaming. The pitch... the resonance... it's not just magic. It's perfect.
The runes flared again, brighter this time, burning with an emerald fire.
[MUSE DETECTED: THE HARPIE OF THE LONELY STRAIT]
[POTENTIAL: BEYOND THE FIRMAMENT]
[CURRENT STATE: OBSESSION SEED PLANTED]
[MISSION: BIND THE SOUL TO THE SCORE. RECRUIT THE FIRST VOICE]
Julian looked at the girl. She was trembling, her wings drooping in shame as the villagers began to hurl stones and insults at her, fearing the "witchcraft" that had tamed the beast. His hands clenched into fists. He knew that look. It was the look of a talent that the world was too small to contain.
"You fools," Julian whispered, his voice gaining a resonance that didn't belong to a peasant boy.
He stepped forward, pushing through the crowd. He didn't see a monster. He didn't see a pariah. He saw the foundation of an empire. He saw the one voice that would force this silent, grey world to scream his name.