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******
"I am going to perform one of my compositions right now, on that stage," Marvin proposed, his voice smooth as velvet, commanding the absolute attention of the room. "If I fail to move this room—if my music is truly the 'child's play' you claim it to be—I will publicly apologize to you, admit my music is trash, and Ms. Diana will donate an additional one million pounds to this hospital charity on my behalf."
The surrounding crowd murmured, captivated by the sheer, staggering financial weight of the bet.
"But," Marvin continued, his aura flaring into a chilling, breathtaking manifestation of absolute confidence. "If I receive the genuine applause and approval of the esteemed guests in this room, you will pay a different price. You will walk up to the microphone. You will formally apologize to Ms. Diana. You will publicly announce your immediate resignation as Senior Executive Producer at EMI Records, confessing to the international press that you have fundamentally lost your ear for true talent. And then, you will walk out the front doors of the Savoy, and you will never return to this industry."
It was a brilliant, flawless execution.
Marvin hadn't challenged him to a fistfight, nor had he demanded a barbaric, humiliating physical act like barking like a dog on the floor.
In high society, that would only make Marvin look like a savage and turn Grant into a victim. Instead, Marvin had engineered the ultimate, gentlemanly career suicide. If Grant lost, he would be forced to excommunicate himself. He would be intellectually and professionally bankrupted in front of the very elite he was trying to impress.
'Damn it, refuse!' Grant's rationality practically wept in terror. 'Do not agree to this! It's a trap!' But the Madness reigned supreme. Driven by the suffocating weight of the Incubus charm, Grant Brook proudly raised his balding head. He looked at the eleven-year-old boy with sneering disdain, completely blind to the guillotine poised above his neck.
"Heh. You vastly overestimate yourself, kid," Grant spat, straightening his poorly tailored tuxedo jacket. "I accept this bet. I can't wait to watch you humiliate yourself."
A heavy, electric silence descended upon the ballroom.
"Marvin, are you absolutely sure you can handle this?" Nancy whispered, her voice laced with genuine panic. She had somehow squeezed through the tight circle of billionaires to stand directly behind her nephew. It was important to understand the stakes: this bet no longer involved just Marvin's ego. He had tied his reputation directly to Diana's honor in front of the global press.
"Do not worry, Aunt Nancy," Marvin replied, not looking back, his voice an anchor of absolute, unwavering certainty.
A few feet away, Amy stood quietly, her gown brushing the marble floor. She didn't look panicked. Her Midwestern pragmatism was rapidly evolving into a sharp, Hollywood-honed intuition. She looked at the sweating producer, then at the impossibly composed boy she worked for. 'He isn't guessing,' Amy realized, a shiver running down her spine.
High above the ballroom floor, concealed by the shadows of the velvet-draped balcony, Prince William gripped the mahogany railing. He unclenched and clenched his fists repeatedly, his knuckles stark white.
"I..." William suddenly muttered, his voice trembling with a complex, resentful awe. "I suddenly wish we had lost our bet up here."
Harry, who was practically leaning over the railing to watch the drama unfold, blinked in confusion. "What? Why?"
William glared down at the ballroom floor, his blue eyes flashing with a mix of jealousy, profound respect, and the heavy burden of his own royal impotence.
"Because," William hissed through his teeth, "he is defending Mum's honor. He just did what I am not allowed to do. If we had lost, I could have just handed him the ring and thanked him. As long as Marvin destroys that rat and avenges Mother, I... I wouldn't even care."
"Shut up and watch," Harry whispered back, too completely enthralled by the spectacle to argue. "He's going to the stage."
Down on the floor, the crowd parted for Marvin as if he were parting the sea.
He walked slowly, elegantly, toward the host. "Sister Diana," Marvin asked softly, his voice dropping to a gentle, intimate tone meant only for her. "Could I borrow your stage?"
Diana looked down at the boy. The media portrayed her as a fragile victim, but she was a woman of profound intuition. She had heard the heartbreaking, ethereal magic of his humming on the Dorchester. She knew exactly what he was capable of.
She offered him a radiant, encouraging smile, her sea-blue eyes shining with fierce affection. "Go, my little knight," Diana said.
Marvin offered her a flawless, aristocratic bow, then turned and walked toward the grand stage erected at the very front of the Lancaster Ballroom.
He climbed the carpeted steps. The string quartet had completely stopped playing. The room of five hundred elites—movie stars, fashion icons, European politicians, and banking tycoons—fell into a breathless, pinpoint silence. All eyes were locked on the incredibly handsome, sharp-suited little man stepping up to the microphone.
Marvin adjusted the heavy, chrome stand with effortless grace.
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," Marvin's voice rolled through the massive ballroom speakers. It was a rich, hypnotic resonance that immediately captivated the acoustic space.
"Perhaps some of you in the back were unaware of the gentleman's wager that has just been struck between myself and Mr. Grant Brook, so allow me to clarify the stakes," Marvin announced, his tone pleasant, conversational, yet laced with an undeniable, theatrical gravity.
"Mr. Brook and I have made a bet. If the music I am about to perform manages to genuinely move the majority of you—if you find it to be true art—Mr. Brook will take this very microphone. He will formally apologize to our gracious host, Ms. Diana, and he will publicly announce his permanent resignation from the music industry, as a man who can no longer recognize talent."
A ripple of shocked, electrified murmurs swept through the high-society crowd. This wasn't just a performance; it was a blood sport dressed in a tuxedo.
Marvin paused for a fraction of a second, letting the brutal reality of the stakes settle over the room, before continuing:
"Therefore, if you are satisfied with what you are about to hear... please, do not hesitate to give me a round of applause."
Marvin stepped back from the microphone. He didn't ask for a backing track. He didn't sit at the grand piano. He simply stood in the center of the stage, bathed in the warm, golden spotlight.
He closed his eyes.
To the audience, he appeared to be taking a deep breath, gathering his emotional focus like a seasoned maestro. But internally, his soul was rapidly scanning the vast library of his previous lives, pondering exactly which piece of magic to unleash upon the mortal world.
This was his very first public performance in front of the European elite. For a ruthless perfectionist like the Incubus, there could be absolutely zero flaws in this debut. He wasn't just trying to win a bet; he was determined to brand his supremacy into the psychological bedrock of every billionaire and executive in the room. He needed something that transcended human pop music. He needed a melody that bypassed the eardrums and struck directly at the soul.
A siren's lament? No, too aggressive.
A dwarven battle march? Too chaotic for the acoustics of the Savoy.
And then, deep within the shimmering, ancient archives of his mind, he found it.
'I've got it. That's the one.'
Marvin's eyes snapped open, a brilliant, terrifyingly beautiful light seeming to ignite within his ocean-blue irises. He had selected a masterpiece.
This was a piece of music forged in the fires of a world entirely alien to the one Marvin currently inhabited.
In his past life, it was a sacred hymn created by the various ascended deities of the Senvra Continent, designed specifically to praise and awaken their supreme god who had been locked in a deep, cosmic slumber for ten thousand years. The melody was magnificent, impossibly grand, beautiful, and devastatingly moving.
As an Incubus born from the demon race, he had technically been at war with the gods who composed it. But Marvin possessed the soul of an eternal artist. Even if it is the sacred music of my mortal enemies, the demon within him had reasoned centuries ago, 'how could I possibly not learn it? True beauty has no allegiance.'
Standing on the grand stage of the Savoy Hotel, bathed in the warm, golden beam of a single spotlight, Marvin remained completely silent. He stood perfectly still, his eyes closed, his hands resting loosely at his sides. He let the silence stretch for ten seconds. Then twenty. Then thirty.
Down on the floor, the suffocating tension began to fracture.
Grant Brook, who had been sweating through his tuxedo shirt, felt a sudden, massive wave of hysterical relief wash over his chest. He wiped his balding forehead with a cocktail napkin, a cruel, triumphant smirk returning to his face.
"Hmph. I knew it," Grant muttered to the empty space around him, as the executives had already backed away. "What kind of music could a little American kid actually make on the spot? He's frozen. He's showing his weakness now. The brat is choking under the pressure, hahaha!"
A low, buzzing whisper began to ripple through the crowd of European elites. Billionaires exchanged confused glances. Photographers lowered their heavy cameras.
Just then, Marvin opened his eyes.
Beneath the stage lights, his deep, azure pupils seemed to flare with a sudden, dazzling, almost supernatural luminescence. He leaned forward, his perfectly proportioned, incredibly handsome face nearing the chrome vintage microphone.
At the exact same moment, a deep, resonant, and impossibly melodious voice flooded the Lancaster Ballroom.
He dialed his Incubus charm and vocals up to eleven..
There were no lyrics. There was no backing track. It was a raw, guttural, ethereal vocalization. But carried within the very frequency of the sound was an imperceptible, highly concentrated wave of Incubus magical energy.
The initial tone of the vocals was not high or aggressive; it was incredibly smooth and melodious, instantly wrapping the ballroom in an aura of profound, pastoral peace. As the sound waves hit the audience, the magic bypassed their eardrums and painted vivid, sensory illusions directly into their minds. The elite crowd suddenly felt as though they were no longer standing in a stuffy London hotel.
They could vividly smell the sharp, clean fragrance of wild summer grass. They could smell the rich, damp scent of freshly turned earth, the comforting aroma of freshly baked wheat bread, and the sharp, sweet tang of homemade corn liquor.
The rigid shoulders of the aristocrats dropped.
The exhausted, paranoid thoughts of the politicians and movie stars rose and fell in perfect synchronization with the gentle music, soothing their frayed minds and entirely calming their restlessness.
And then, without warning, the rhythm fractured.
The guttural, wordless singing suddenly became rapid, sharp, and clear. A faint, terrifyingly metallic edge bled into Marvin's voice. Through the magic, the audience didn't just hear the shift; they felt it. It sounded exactly like the violent, chaotic clash of steel swords and the panicked, blood-curdling neighing of armored warhorses.
The enemy was approaching.
They were slaughtering the innocent. The beautiful, fragrant pastoral illusion Marvin had just built in their minds was violently, ruthlessly shattered.
The ambient lighting in the ballroom hadn't changed, but to the five hundred guests, the sky above them felt suddenly filled with dark, suffocating, heavy clouds. The sheer emotional weight of the song pressed down physically onto their chests, making it genuinely hard to breathe.
Visibly, the faces of the most powerful people in Europe became grim and pale. The heirs of the Ferrero empire stared blankly ahead. Isabella, the legendary actress, unconsciously clutched her diamond necklace, her expression twisting into one of profound, empathetic pain, as if her own heart were about to stop beating from the sheer terror of the invasion.
The guttural sounds emanating from the boy grew increasingly rapid, driving a frantic, intense tempo. Resistance had emerged in the narrative of the song. The audience could feel the heartbreaking agony of men bidding their final farewells to their weeping parents and terrified wives. They felt the desperate, converging energy of farmers and blacksmiths taking up arms, flowing together like furious streams from city to city, village to village.
*****
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