Curtain Call II — The Author of the Sin-Song

A grand carriage, out of place, stood before a mansion near the boundary between the Imperial District and the commoners’ quarter.

This area was home to impoverished lower nobles and merchants who had risen through trade; no household here could afford a carriage such as the one now parked.

From a modest-sized house, a well-dressed man emerged, face flushed with anger, roughly shoving his servants aside. Without pause, he climbed into the carriage and departed.

The servants sighed, brushing off the dust from the ground where they had fallen.

"Master, are you certain you sent him away? It's been ages since we had such a distinguished guest. A request from the royal family—wasn't that an honor?"

From the depths of the mansion’s entrance, an old man with long braided hair approached, shaking his head.

"Marco, just which side are you on?"

I cannot bring myself to compose an opera praising the former emperor.

You of all people should understand that…”

“But isn’t it a waste? This is your chance to make your name resound! And more than that—doesn’t it feed us? Doesn’t it provide for us? You know, don’t you, that your meals are worse than those at the orphanage? You’ve never even noticed, have you? I’m still growing! I’m seventeen—this is my prime!”

Marco was a seventeen-year-old boy raised in the orphanage.

He was the only pupil to have studied under his master since the age of seven.

Yet, though his master was the head of this household, one of the most renowned composers, directors, and artists in the imperial capital, his livelihood was meager—most of his earnings went to the orphanage and the church.

His profession, by all accounts, was unremarkable.

“If you truly hate living here so much, then leave and make your own way. I do not force my teachings on those who resist.”

A faintly cruel smile curled at the corner of his master’s mouth as he spoke.

There is no one in the capital who would teach art to a rootless fool like me—only a teacher such as yourself, truly.

You speak with such knowing intent, the name ‘Alex of Mourning’ brings tears to my eyes. If anyone should be weeping, it is I.”

Marco puffs his cheeks slightly.

Yet this time, the master speaks with solemn seriousness.

“Marco, you are still young. As you say, art is still a matter for the nobility to judge.

It is a time when those with comfortable lives occupy the seats of judgment… So you, too, must grow a little more mature.

As you say, many will judge you by your birth…

But I cannot protect you from all of that.”

Marco bites his lip at those words and the master’s demeanor.

The master once suffered a rare illness in youth—loss of sacred power.

Now, it is said to be a mere phantom, a malady that no longer appears.

And the effects of it had surged upon him in old age, all at once.

Compared to others of his generation, his life seems to have been cut short with greater severity.

Of course, I suppose there was some neglect as an artist, but in recent months he has often lain upon his bed.

“Do not wear such a face, Marco. I have lived fully, and I believe I have seen more beauty than most, through these eyes.

I have met gifted youth, found friends who admired me, and encountered patrons who praised my work.

How mysterious the bonds between people are… surely, every connection is sustained by someone.”

His eyes had ceased showing nightmares long ago.

Now, only occasional dreams of the past linger.

Yet even those dreams, to him, carry only a deepening sorrow for what has been lost.

And most of those who now surround him are those whose lives have been touched by his gaze.

The grief and anguish are familiar to his disciple.

"Yes..."

The master smiles gently at the young man, slightly pouting as he looks down.

He knows the boy worries for him, cherishes him in his own way.

He knows the boy believes that with a greater task ahead, his strength will return and he will strive harder.

He knows the boy, though raised in privilege, is remarkably pure and honest.

Yet, of all things, he knows most acutely that he cannot stem the flow of life's water leaking from within himself.

For Alex, the only regrets are that he cannot face his awakened sister and apologize directly, and that he leaves behind one disciple.

"I think... I may retire after finishing this piece I am writing."

"Wha—?"

Marco’s face is painted with shock and despair.

Gently patting the boy’s head to reassure him, Alex speaks again.

It will be all right. It will take time, and more than anything, you are already a full person.

You will manage, even without me.

If I may be so bold, it would be better if you learned a little more how to rely on others.

No one can live alone.

It takes courage to show weakness, not just to pretend strength.

Marco, you have the kind of influence and talent that makes such courage possible.

Alex knows.

He knows that Alex desires fame.

But not for himself.

For the ones who raised him after his parents died in the accident, for the family who grew beside him.

That is why Alex chose him as his only disciple.

He remembers that day, so long ago, when the boy—still young, still an orphan—had thrown himself at Alex during a visit to the orphanage, pleading.

“I was moved as if no art could surpass Luciana’s! So please, take me as your student!”

Let me live as a servant and go without food—just teach me everything you know!

Since I saw that play, I’ve been thinking about theater too! Please, read this—‼︎

It feels as though I received it just yesterday, overwhelmed by the earnestness in his young, unguarded eyes.

Nearly ten years have passed since then.

Others with greater talent came seeking Alex as their master, yet none possessed a spirit so radiant as his.

“Or do you mean to say I lack the vision to recognize a great genius such as myself?”

Marco could not help but grimace and laugh aloud.

“Do you really say such things yourself…? But live long, and teach me more and more… I may be a proper artist, but as a person, I am barely half a man—‼︎”

Alex laughed in turn at the jest.

“Foolish disciple—still half a man, even as an artist.”

“Eh—didn’t you just say I was a full man?”

“Until you can speak with more sense, you remain half a man, foolish disciple.”

The playful banter between master and disciple melted gently into the cold wind nearing winter.

Months after that exchange, the will was opened.

—Will—

I, Alex Baronne d’Emmental, nobleman, record my final wishes here.

First, I wish my eyes be returned to the Great Saintess Spica Luciana after my death.

Even if this cannot be fulfilled, I pray fervently that I may become her light.

Second, I take as my adopted son Marco Lekche, and entrust him with the management of all my remaining estate.

During the validity of my intellectual property rights, half of the profits shall be donated to the church and orphanages, to aid those born into hardship.

The remaining two-thirds I wish to be used as a fund for nurturing future artists.

And the final one-third I leave to the steward who shall manage it.

If I could have my son inherit the bond I held most dear in life, that would be the greatest joy.

I transfer all rights, including the public unveiling of my final work, to my son.

Alex Baronne Emmental

Years later, a small institution resembling a schoolhouse dedicated to the arts was established under the name of the artist Alex.

It opened its doors to countless people, without distinction of commoner, poor, or wealthy, and would later become one of the continent’s foremost academies.

Among those who signed the founding charter were members of the imperial family, border barons, commanders of the elite guard, the nation’s chief mage, and cardinals—illustrious names indeed.

“Simply the bond between people.”

Marco, the first headmaster and an artist himself, once spoke of his guiding principle.

He had sent many works of art into the world.

Yet his reputation was held higher not as an artist, but as an educator.

Perhaps his greatest masterpiece is the one who has flown from his academy.

The source of his will and resolve lies with his adoptive father, Alex.

He is said to have favored simplicity and frugality in emulation of his adoptive father.

His adoptive father’s final work remains sung today as a symbol of this academy.

Cherish those dear to you.

Cherish the bonds you share with others.

Create ties that never break.

There are mistakes, and there are partings.

Even these are part of human connection.

Reflect upon yourself.

As long as you remain yourself, your actions will move someone.

The song that sings thus is called “The Song of Sin.”

A name ill-suited to its gentle, sorrowful melody, yet no one dares point it out.

Someone still sings the song of his life today.

~curtain call II The Author of “The Song of Sin” End~

Thank you for reading.

As noted in my activity report, it appears this work may be published in book form!

We will contact you promptly with further details once they are confirmed.

We are sustained by the "fate" shared with each of you who reads our work.

Once more, with heartfelt gratitude—thank you.

Sato Mashiro