Works Selection Competition

Fan Ning lowered his head and looked at the palm-sized folded letter inside the envelope.

Even unfolded, it was only a small sheet, written in pale purple aniline ink.

There probably was not much in his teacher's final letter.

The first thing he looked at was the date at the very bottom.

November 8, Year 912 of the New Calendar.

Yesterday had been the 22nd, and today was the 23rd. It had been written two weeks ago.

To my dear student, Caloen Van Ning:

I had been meaning to write this letter for some time, and today I finally made up my mind.

My condition is truly very poor. To be frank, I could die at any moment; I simply do not know exactly when. So there are a few minor matters I must explain in advance.

As for the symphony we have been writing, you gave me much advice and Inspiration, and I thank you greatly. It absolutely contains revolutionary elements. After I die, continue writing it yourself. If you can complete it, you may enter it in the Works Selection Competition as your "First Symphony," then premiere it at the graduation concert. There is no need to number it Fifth, nor any need to state that it is related to me.

If you can achieve success with its premiere, perhaps you may glimpse some revelation that I never obtained.

Compared with those nobles, you came into contact with the piano far too late. Though you are talented in my view, your fundamentals are truly worrying. Please visit Lord Viadlin at No. 43, Katzton Street in the East District. I have already contacted him, but he will be away for some time soon, so it would be more reliable to go in December.

You must take this matter seriously! Otherwise, whether you wish to become a composer, conductor, pianist, or merely a music scholar at a school in the future, it will become an obstacle in your artistic career.

My manuscripts and all related materials are in my notebook. I will entrust Hiran Konar with delivering them to you.

May music and sunlight accompany you throughout your life.

Your sincere teacher: Anton Conall

"May music and sunlight accompany you throughout your life..." Fan Ning felt his nose sting when he read that.

It was the first time he felt that his memories and those of the original owner were inseparable.

He read it over several more times.

It was really just encouragement to finish the First Symphony before graduation, saying that something might be revealed after its premiere, and then casually introducing him to a piano teacher.

"I'll do as you said, Teacher..." Fan Ning silently repeated as he reread the letter.

Did this connect once again to the Works Selection Competition for the school's graduation concert, as well as the contents of those transmigration text messages?

It seemed he absolutely had to attend the group meeting that afternoon.

Fan Ning tucked the letter back into its envelope, slipped it into his pocket, then opened the thick, oversized notebook.

On the pale gray engraved writing paper of the first page, several large words had been written as a simple cover:

"Symphony No. __ in D Major," with a blank space in the middle.

More than two-thirds of the pages after that were handwritten full scores. Fan Ning did not look at them now and skipped straight past them.

Further on were...

A diary? Teacher Anton's diary?

The dates were intermittent, but all from the past few months:

August 11. Today I bought a rather interesting antique at Prudence Auction House. Some of the chord sequences recorded on these scrolls are astonishingly beautiful, while others are unfathomably mysterious. Heh, no one even raised the price. I got it for only five pounds. Those stupid nobles and capitalists, the only artworks they see are sculptures and famous paintings. Where did that brat Spinn Cecil get the recommendation?

August 12. Good things come in pairs. The school's old library still occasionally has surprises. Today I found a book called Music Flow, Texture, and Dreams, published in 892—not so long ago. I just never expected there to still be someone in this day and age so proficient in Noahic. I spent the entire day translating and only finished a little over one page, but I simply did not want to stop.

August 20. So tired,

I don't want to teach them tomorrow. August 28. Why is this damned weather still so hot? I think I should do my translation work soaking in a swimming pool. Great Sun God Undying Fire, could you rest for a while?

August 29. Today's rehearsal nearly froze me to death. Ufransel's weather is seriously brain-dead! I'm going back to take a proper hot bath.

September 1. My Fourth Symphony in E Minor premiered. I conducted it myself, and it was even less popular than the previous one. Maybe my composing is really getting worse and worse. Sigh, I do not care about the critics' mockery, but so many audience members leaving halfway through made me want to cry. I let down the musicians who rehearsed so hard. That fellow Caloin Van Ning sat in the front row—why was he crying his eyes out by the end as well? Was he sad for me because my popularity was so low?

September 12. If only I had an airship.

September 15. Both my translation work and research into the musical scale have made breakthrough progress. Music Flow, Texture, and Dreams records many methods of seeking musical Inspiration in dreams. I have ample confidence in the next symphony I am composing.

September 18. So after mastering the Dream Control Method, one becomes a Knower?

September 19. Professor Zimmerman of the Holy Kingdom of Janus Conservatory wrote to me, saying he had learned of the premiere of my Fourth Symphony in E Minor and had also bought the score I published. He raised many professional points in the letter. Although he expressed approval in the end, I was truly ashamed beyond measure. Those points were so pertinent, yet so obvious—I should have discovered them myself long ago! If I could have revised it in advance, even partially, would the result of the premiere have been different? I must write him a proper reply to thank him.

September 20. That idiot Zimmerman! His musical ideas are as rotten as the aged clumps of shit floating on the Pushoer River! I do not think my Fourth Symphony in E Minor has anything that needs revising. Even if you cannot understand it, my era will come eventually.

September 25. It was Hiran Konar's birthday. We held a party at home with five or six students. That brat Caloin Van Ning played the piano rather well today, but the moment he was praised, he hit wrong notes. His fundamentals are truly nerve-racking.

September 28. I had that dream about doors again. All kinds of colors—dark red, pale white, black and gold. All kinds of scenes—the door of a wooden cabin, the gate of an amusement park, the door of a pet cage. When I woke up, I felt someone whispering behind my bedroom door.

October 12. My success rate at entering Clear Dreams is getting higher and higher. The feeling of knowing that one is dreaming is truly wonderful! My control over dreams is also growing stronger. I can even create people and plots as I please. The experience is as intoxicating as being a creator.

October 13. To be honest, I often feel that the Mystic Chords in The Remnant of the Musical Scale are somewhat terrifying. They always appear in my dreams alongside terrible things.

October 14. I tried writing a short prelude using Mystic Chord material. Its color and sonic effects were so enchanting.

October 16. Perhaps I should not enter Clear Dreams so frequently. They have indeed brought unprecedented experiences and musical Inspiration, but lately I keep suffering from sleep paralysis, and my heart feels heavily burdened as well.

October 17. I burned the score for that prelude. It should never have existed.

October 19. These past few days, we have been rehearsing the Eighth Symphony by the great master Gilels.

October 20. Is this principal horn player an idiot?

October 30. I have no more chances. I am already old. My body has long been surrendering to death piece by piece—sometimes my hair falls out, sometimes my teeth loosen, sometimes I tire easily. I saw my portrait from seven years ago, when I was thirty-five, and I was completely different from how I am now in my forties. If I were twenty-five, I would surely become a Knower. Now? I have already died many times over. (*Note 1)

November 7. Hadn't I already stopped testing dreams and recognizing dreams? Why am I still █████? (Illegible)

November 9. Hahahaha, so this is what becoming a Knower feels like. Beneath the world's surface, there are such lights, shadows, and colors!

November 10. The painting on the living room wall seems to be blinking.

November 14. Today, I was thoroughly awake for once.

November 15. How did they get out?

The handwriting had already become extremely messy here.

November 19. I lost my temper at Hiran over a trivial matter. I truly should not have.

November ██. The existence of Knowers must be false. If it is true, then dreams may not necessarily be false? The logic should be quite clear.

The final page of the diary.

██ Month ██ Day: I regret it. I should not have ██??, nor should I have peered into ███???

Do not record your own dreams!

And do not try to test or control dreams!

They will come out on their own!!!!

The two hurriedly parted ways. One rushed to the group meeting, while the other assisted with the school's funeral preparations.

As Fan Ning walked through campus, his mind remained fixed on the final page of the diary.

At the moment, he only felt that the whole matter was truly mysterious and horrifying, even somewhat absurd.

As far as he knew, the source of it all was The Remnant of the Musical Scale Professor Anton Conall had acquired, along with the mysterious book Music Flow, Texture, and Dreams.

Following some method uncovered through his research, the professor had experienced miraculous Clear Dreams and begun exploring their connection to becoming a "Knower."

"Could it be that reproducing music from my previous life, the feeling of my mind becoming stronger, and that mysterious subtitle progress... might all ultimately point to this extraordinary path?"

Ahead of the winding cobblestone path was an open corridor outside the auditorium, its double doors decorated with golden leaf patterns standing half open.

"I didn't expect the registration line to be this long already."

Fan Ning looked toward the stage.

Today was registration for the preliminary round of the Works Selection Competition. Two lines stood before the long table, and people stepped forward one after another to collect envelopes containing the test questions while staff recorded their names.

But at this moment, the difference between the two lines was far too obvious. One had formed into a long queue, while the other only had around a dozen people.

That was because there were two categories of entries, corresponding to test envelopes of different colors—

White envelopes: small solo or chamber works. The preliminary test was "timed composition." Once registered, applicants could go back after the meeting and return at the same time tomorrow to submit their work.

Black envelopes: large works requiring a symphony orchestra. The preliminary test was "improvisation." In a moment, they would have to perform before everyone and endure the scrutiny of the professor judges.

At Saint Leniya University's graduation concert each year, everyone desperately hoped their work would be selected, or that they could earn an opportunity to perform onstage.

It affected their chances of staying at the university after graduation, and it would greatly boost their future artistic careers.

At an Imperial Public School, it could mean a lifelong respectable career and guaranteed income, becoming a respected member of one's family, consolidating or rising in social class, or taking the first step toward becoming a renowned artist...

However, the threshold for composing large symphonic works was extremely high. It was not on the same level as small works. Aside from a few outstanding third- and fourth-year students in composition and conducting, everyone else might have the ambition but lacked the ability to participate.

Not to mention anything else, the preliminary improvisation test alone was enough to discourage people.

They would be given a musical idea on the spot and required to develop it. Most people could not force out even eight measures, and going onstage meant being publicly executed.

That was what caused such a severe imbalance between the two lines.

Fan Ning walked toward the shorter line and looked at the stack of black envelopes six or seven meters away.

"Caloen, you... aren't you standing in the wrong place?" Several musicology students leaned out from the long line opposite him, looking puzzled.

More and more people gathered around to watch Fan Ning queue, talking among themselves.

"Am I seeing this right? Caloin Van Ning, he... is he in composition or conducting?"

"Musicology, I think."

"Are you kidding? What's a musicology student joining in for? Writing a little piece should be enough for him."

"Just wait until he can't get off the stage after the improvisation."

"Haha, does he think he's heaven's chosen one? Only one large symphonic work gets to be performed each year. A concert only lasts so long."

"Maybe he learned some advanced compositional techniques from Professor Anton Conall?"

"Professor Conall? His works were decent when he was young. Have you heard anyone listening to his later works?"

"I heard Professor Conall killed himself last night."

Cecil, the group leader who had just refused his request for leave, also turned around from the front of the line.

"Curator Fan Ning, what grand work are you planning to write?"

He watched with great interest, a trace of imperceptible contempt in his eyes.

*Note 1: Adapted from Montaigne's Essays