Funeral

"Okay, Caloen, I'll go with you." Hiran agreed almost immediately, clearly placing great trust in Fan Ning.

"Uh, you two..." Qiong turned to Fan Ning, then back to Hiran, strands of black hair fluttering beside her cheeks. "Caloen, are you serious? I feel like things would be at least somewhat safer on my end."

"Huh? Hahaha..." Cecil stared at Fan Ning in disbelief. "Fan Ning, did writing one piece recently go to your head? You'd better have some self-awareness. Just honestly focus on your musicology research and work toward graduating smoothly. That's what you ought to be doing."

Cecil turned to Hiran again. "Cousin, I'm telling you seriously one last time: you're in danger. And this kid is useless. He can't fight the mysterious forces lurking in the dark. There's only one outcome—you won't even know how you died."

Fan Ning acted as though he hadn't heard Cecil and continued instructing Hiran: "The same goes during the day lately. Don't stay alone in overly secluded places. I'll take you to and from school."

"Okay." Hiran answered obediently.

Cecil suddenly laughed.

"Fan Ning, this time and the last time, you both thought that way of speaking could anger me. To be honest, you have affected me somewhat, but none of it is anything major."

He slowly paced back and forth. "You may think you understand exactly what I want deep down. Just the sort of thoughts adults have, right? But in truth, your understanding of me is extremely limited. You'll never understand what I truly pursue."

"More words are pointless. I won't interfere in this matter again. May the professor rest in peace."

He bent down to offer the flowers, and his bow was beyond reproach.

A flash of astonishment crossed Fan Ning's eyes.

Not only is this guy inexplicable today, he's not playing by the usual script either?

To be honest, Fan Ning had always viewed his previous attitude toward Cecil as an otherworldly transmigrator showing off while crushing a minor villain.

But now, seeing him act like this, Fan Ning's vigilance rose several levels instead.

Still, his tone remained calm, and his gaze was utterly sincere. "Group Leader Cecil, thank you again for coming today."

Cecil gave a faint smile, then composed his expression, bowed toward the coffin, and took a seat toward the back.

After sweeping his peripheral vision over the figures onstage, he pulled a fountain pen from his pocket, wrote a passage on a notepad, and handed it to the formally dressed middle-aged man beside him.

"Deliver this to Julius, the concertmaster of the university symphony orchestra. And tell her that I'll no longer interfere with their choice to use the first plan."

"Lord Cecil? You—" The middle-aged man sounded startled.

"Go on." Cecil gently raised a hand to cut him off. "I want too many things. It's impossible for everything to turn out perfectly."

Afterward, he pressed both thumbs together, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes.

"This is a crucial period in my composition. As long as I succeed with the premiere of my symphony, I'll certainly be able to break through that barrier and become the youngest Knower in the history of the Lineage."

"Fan Ning, I hope you understand. You may oppose me over some matters, but for others, whatever you do, don't stand in my way."

At the edge of the holy rites platform, Qiong spoke angrily. "Caloen, tell me—Cecil is obviously deliberately causing trouble and harboring ill intentions. Why are you thanking him?"

"One thing is one thing, and another is another. I judge matters, not people." Fan Ning explained calmly, "I would sincerely thank anyone who came to Teacher Anton's funeral."

"As for Hiran's situation... Qiong, I'm confident I can protect her. If the two of you stay together, you may both be in danger. Thank you for your good intentions. I'll have to trouble you with gathering information. Things are rather unusual lately, so you need to watch your own safety too. Be cautious in everything you do."

Looking at Fan Ning's slender figure and composed expression, Hiran felt considerably more at ease.

Qiong stared at Fan Ning with her dark eyes for a long while before finally nodding seriously as well.

Then she wound a finger around a strand of her hair, her eyes glimmering and shifting.

Professor Anton Conall's funeral officially began at seven in the morning.

As the bells rang, everyone stood solemnly. A priest from the Church of the Sacred Sun ascended the ceremonial platform and read the eulogy, commemorating Professor Anton Conall's life and summarizing his major achievements in musicology and composition.

The eulogy was long and detailed—this was one of the ways people in this world treated death. Most people lived no more than forty or fifty years, and the unfortunate died even younger. Every life was unique, and during the final farewell, anyone who cared even a little about the deceased was willing to spend more time listening to everything connected with them.

This world even had a profession called a "chronicler," whose job was to help illiterate poor people and even vagrants organize the events of their lives and write funeral eulogies.

The time had come. Fan Ning straightened his attire, ascended the holy rites platform, and sat before the nine-foot black Boesius Piano on one side. He removed his white gloves and placed them on the piano.

At this final moment, what should I play for my teacher?

As the priest read the eulogy, Fan Ning lowered his head, closed his eyes, pressed down on the pedal, and laid both hands on the keys.

Feeling the cool, delicate texture beneath his fingertips, Fan Ning gently pressed the first chord.

The heavy, solemn, mournful tread of a funeral procession rang through the church alongside the priest's eulogy.

He was playing Chopin's "Piano Sonata No. 2 in B-flat Minor" (Op. 35), third movement.

In his previous life, not many people may have known the full title, but the third movement was highly famous. It was a funeral march.

Whenever Fan Ning had felt dispirited or missed loved ones who had passed away in his previous life, he would often play it alone, silently, over and over.

He had even thought that years later, before his own death, he would leave instructions in his will to have the piece played or performed at his funeral.

As he played, he truly felt sorrowful.

He had no family by his side in this world. If only Teacher Anton were still here.

After the strange, grief-stricken, ashen steps of the funeral march, the middle section of the piece shifted into a warm melody akin to a nocturne—a tender remembrance of the deceased's life, like a wistful glance back amid hurried, fleeting footsteps.

It carried a fragile beauty and a melancholy warmth.

Fan Ning recalled Teacher Anton's life:

He recalled his achievements in the study of ancient music;

He recalled the efforts he had made to establish Harmony and Counterpoint as independent disciplines;

He recalled the twelve piano sonatas, ten string quartets, three piano concertos, one Violin Concerto, four symphonies, one grand church mass, more than thirty art songs, and the vast number of other chamber and vocal works he had composed throughout his life.

Fan Ning also recalled what he knew of Teacher Anton's rough youth and the loneliness of his middle age, when only his youngest daughter remained at his side;

He recalled his short stature, old-fashioned clothes, and devout faith;

He recalled his strange personality—dull yet sensitive, insecure yet confident, troubled yet carefree;

He recalled the success of the early part of his composing career, and the cold reception and lack of understanding he faced later on;

He recalled the sublime, majestic sounds he had heard in Anton's final two symphonies, grand as the turning of celestial bodies.

At last, he recalled the blessing at the end of the farewell letter: "May you be accompanied by music and sunlight throughout this life."

Fan Ning's eyes remained tightly closed, his fingers never stopping. At last, two clear tears slipped through the corners of his eyes.

The warm, reminiscing middle section ended, and the solemn, sorrowful funeral march returned.

Some of the mourners below began to sob softly, and their numbers steadily grew.

Hiran should be crying by now. Qiong will take care of her.

The wondrous sensation from his last improvisation appeared once more. A strange, threadlike connection formed between him and every listener. Inspiration gathered around him and resonance spread outward. He felt his spirit grow stronger and more independent, but until he advanced to become a Knower, this improvement remained constrained by a bottleneck.

The music gradually weakened and ended precisely together with the priest's eulogy, while the final echoes of the chord lingered for a long time.

The hall fell utterly silent. Fan Ning took out a handkerchief and wiped his face.

A vast number of resonating, vibrating threads of Inspiration sent numbers drifting in from all directions before his eyes, continuing to flow into the pale-gold display until they finally settled at [390/100].

It was impossible to imagine what strength such accumulation could transform into after he advanced to become a Knower, but Fan Ning's mood was heavy.

He slowly rose and saw Qiong holding Hiran, around thirty teachers standing solemnly, most of the students from the musicology department, a small number of students from other departments, and some unfamiliar faces—roughly one or two hundred people in total.

Carrying sincere gratitude, he bowed deeply to those below the platform.

The funeral procession slowly drove out through the west gate of Saint Leniya University.

After traveling a short distance, the coffin was transported to Lufenus Garden, deep within Oak Street. It was a small cemetery belonging to the Church of the Sacred Sun.

Everyone stood solemnly before the brand-new gravestone.

The snow had stopped. Fan Ning gazed at the black-and-white photograph of Professor Anton Conall before him: a middle-aged man in his forties or fifties, with thinning hair, wide-set eyes, a large nose, and deep wrinkles. He smiled at the camera with a stern, somewhat stiff air.

The two stonemasons responsible for the engraving held their tools and asked Hiran with their eyes about the epitaph.

Hiran looked toward Fan Ning.

Fan Ning answered without hesitation:

"His era will come at last."