In her original world, the academy held a festival at the end of every term. To put it nicely, it was just to give the students who spent all day cooped up in laboratories and observatories a reason to go outside and get some sun.
Aside from her, there were only her mentor and a few researchers in the observatory, so she usually had no one to talk to. Consequently, on the day of the festival...
“Vina!”
Qiluo was leaning over the observation device at the time, her forehead pressed against the cold brass eyepiece, pretending she had already fused into one with the instrument.
She closed her eyes, trying to escape her fate by pretending to be asleep.
However, her mentor didn't give her the chance to keep pretending. A warm, strong hand grabbed her by the back of her collar.
“Stop faking it. Today is the academy festival. There are only a handful of people in the observatory to begin with; how can you have the face not to go?”
When Qiluo was pulled up, she was still clutching a pencil, which she had prepared to draw star charts with.
Her mentor snatched the pencil, set it on the desk, and pushed her by the shoulders toward the teleportation array.
She struggled a few times, trying to grab the stair railing, but her mentor was far stronger than her. She dragged Qiluo down from the observatory like a disobedient cat.
Once the light of the teleportation array faded, she was shoved into the academy hall by her mentor.
The hall was festively decorated, with colored mana lamps hanging from the vaulted ceiling. Every department had prepared a performance.
“This year's performance from the observatory is—” The host on stage flipped through cue cards, squinting at them for a long time. “A solo by Vina!”
Sparse applause rang out from below, mixed with a few curious whispers.
Standing in the wings of the stage, Qiluo covered her face with a program sheet. She reached out to grab her mentor's sleeve, only to grasp empty air.
Her mentor had already stepped three paces back. At some point, a glass of juice had appeared in her hand, and she was looking at Qiluo with a cheering expression, a tiny pink paper umbrella sticking out of the glass.
“I don't know how to sing,” she said, making one last desperate effort.
“It's fine. You can do it.”
With those words, her mentor gave her a gentle push toward the stage. She stumbled forward a few steps, her shoes stepping onto the wooden floorboards. The lights snapped on, blinding her and forcing her to squint.
Dozens of eyes stared at her from below. She stood right in the center of the stage, her fingers clutching the hem of her shirt. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
The sound technician, thinking the microphone was broken, tapped it, producing a sharp, piercing screech.
Qiluo Tian Gong gave up.
She still remembered that song. The melody was very simple, a common opening piece for academy festivals that every student could hum a few bars of.
But the notes she sang were off by several octaves. The teachers in the front rows exchanged glances, while someone in the back rows covered their ears.
Her voice was very quiet, but the microphone amplified her trembling to fill the entire hall.
By the time she reached the chorus, the melody had completely gone off the rails.
As she finished the last word, the entire venue fell silent, followed only by scattered, polite applause.
Opening her eyes, she saw her mentor standing below the stage, holding the glass of juice with the little paper umbrella, clapping harder than anyone else.
A few students nearby joined in, probably thinking that having the courage to sing so terribly out of tune in front of so many people was commendable in its own way.
She fled backstage, running through the corridor adorned with colored lights until she reached the fountain outside the hall. Her knees gave out, and she squatted on the ground, burying her burning face in her arms.
The sound of high heels clicking on the stone path came from behind; her mentor had followed her out.
“I'd rather die than go on stage again.”
Her mentor didn't try to console her with empty words, simply pressing the juice into her hands.
“This juice is for you. You did well. Honestly, everyone agreed you weren't the worst singer.”
“...That's because I was the only one who went on stage this year.”
“Exactly,” her mentor admitted without hesitation. “But you had the courage to go up there, and that means you've already won.”
She squatted down by the fountain, sitting side by side with Qiluo as they watched the water droplets reflect the colorful lights.
Her mentor reached out and gently patted her back, offering no further words of comfort.
The rushing sound of the water muffled the distant music from the hall.
Qiluo squatted by the fountain for a long time, until her mentor finally led her back to the observatory.
As they left the hall, she cast one last glance back at the stage, swearing to herself that she would never sing in front of anyone again for the rest of her life.
“Miss Lightweaver~ Have you still not made up your mind?”
A slightly playful voice interrupted Qiluo's memories.
“...Fine,” Lightweaver said, taking a deep breath before turning to face Meruru and Seina. “But I have one condition.”
“What condition?” Meruru tilted her head, looking at her.
“I'm not singing...”
Meruru seemed to hesitate. After a few seconds, she felt a tug on her sleeve.
“Sis—” Seina lowered her voice, her eyes still fixed on Lightweaver, though she didn't let go of Meruru's hand. “It's fine if she doesn't sing, as long as she's willing to get on stage.”
Meruru looked down at her tugged sleeve, then at Seina's protective stance, and sighed. “Seina has the final say. Thank you to our lucky chosen audience member for agreeing to come on stage—wait, huh?”
Meruru took half a step back, pretending to look this lucky audience member up and down.
She gasped dramatically, turning toward the audience with suppressed excitement in her voice.
“Wait—our lucky audience member, may I ask who you are—”
She thrust the microphone forward. Lightweaver tilted her head to avoid the mic that was practically poking her chin, then reached up to pull back her hood, revealing her signature white hair and colored tips.
The crowd erupted in a scream that nearly blew the roof off the gymnasium, punctuated by cries of “I knew it!” and “It really is Lightweaver!”
Lightweaver gave a slight nod in greeting. Instantly, someone in the crowd shrieked, “So cool!” but she pretended not to hear.
The spotlight followed her all the way from the side door to the center of the stage. Night Sakura set up her camera again, muttering, “A scene like this absolutely has to be recorded.”
Meruru took two steps closer to Lightweaver. “Since you're not singing, let's try something else. Miss Lightweaver, what are you good at?”
Lightweaver raised her hand. A few threads of light slipped out, and she wrapped them around her fingers with a gentle tug, stretching the threads into a perfectly straight string in the air.
“I can do this,” she said. Releasing her fingers, the threads of light seemed to come alive, weaving themselves together in mid-air.
First came the skeleton—a few thicker threads of light formed an outline, while finer threads darted between them like shuttles, gradually filling in the shape.
It wore a puffy dress, holding a microphone in one hand while extending the other forward with fingers slightly splayed, as if waving to the audience.
Even the curve of the hair tips was meticulously recreated.
It was Meruru.
The little doll woven from threads of light floated in mid-air, every single detail vivid and lifelike.
The audience let out a collective gasp of wonder.
The light-thread doll began to move, first tilting its head, then raising its microphone to perform an exaggerated bow.
It spun around in the air, looped back to Lightweaver's side, and landed on her shoulder, waving to the crowd just like its real-life counterpart.
Lightweaver tilted her head and whispered at a volume only the two of them could hear, “Does it look like you?”
Meruru stared blankly for a moment, then curled her lips into a smile, reaching out to poke the little doll's puffy skirt.
The audience couldn't see this tiny detail clearly; they only saw Meruru smile as Lightweaver stood beside her, the atmosphere between the two of them unbelievably harmonious.
Rate on N.U.
