Chapter 9: Religious Academy’s Older Brother x Brother-Complex Younger Brother (5) You’re…

If an ordinary child with no exposure to music were standing here, they might have truly believed Vichis Prin’s nonsense, thinking Musa Kushner had demonstrated his “unparalleled talent.”

As for older brother Moran, although he sang exceptionally well, unfortunately he didn’t meet Mr. Weixisi’s criteria – just like those before him who sang beautifully but were rejected, it was a regrettable pity.

But this song was taught to Verlaine by Rimbaud, and Rimbaud himself was well-versed in music theory, so he understood the latter’s actual situation all too clearly.

Verlaine, with his excellent memory but never having heard songs before, was like someone who had never seen the correct answer. Having only heard theoretical descriptions and Rimbaud’s a cappella demonstration, he tried his best to achieve perfection.

Two weeks of training was still too short, especially since they had classes during the day and might be pulled into small prayer ceremonies or mutual aid meetings in the evening, or directly assigned miscellaneous tasks, leaving only brief time for practice before bed.

During this period, Rimbaud had also gotten to know several students, gathering more information from them.

Compared to the highly vigilant administrators who repeatedly tested them, most students were much simpler-minded and wouldn’t be alert to ordinary conversations.

Moreover, Rimbaud had a sufficiently handsome face.

Just seeing the elegant black-haired youth smiling, looking over with those beautiful, translucent honey-colored eyes, and softly saying “Is that so?” was enough to make most people dizzy-headed, racking their brains to come up with more topics to continue chatting with him.

Some were mere rumors, some were delightful gossip, and some were pure fabrications… but one piece of information particularly concerned Rimbaud.

After each Sacred Ceremony concluded, some people would leave the academy for various reasons.

Therefore, the suspicious nature of this ceremony had already earned several question marks from Rimbaud.

Now, Verlaine passing the Choir selection while he failed made Rimbaud directly focus on Vichis Prin.

At the very least, the other party must be a key link in those multiple procedures.

The selection ended quickly. After Vichis Prin left, everyone gradually left the rear hall while quietly discussing among themselves.

Verlaine looked at the contemplative Rimbaud, his typically cold expression tinged with hesitation.

He seemed to be struggling to find words to comfort Rimbaud, but couldn’t form a complete sentence even after a long while.

Just like Verlaine’s blank slate in music, he had never experienced anything similar before, leaving him with nothing but awkwardness that couldn’t even mimic others – this was clearly visible from his light hazel eyes and eventually noticed by Rimbaud.

Did he think Rimbaud’s contemplation was sadness over failing the selection?

This made Rimbaud chuckle involuntarily, a barely noticeable hint of laughter leaking into his words.

“I’m fine,”

He spoke like an older brother simply proud of his younger brother’s success, reaching up to stroke the soft golden hair as they walked outward.

“Congratulations on passing the selection, Musa.”

“…Mm.”

Verlaine responded, yet his mind involuntarily drifted to those two glasses of clinking wine Rimbaud had been toasting his successful passing of the DGSS assessment.

When the clear ruby liquid first touched his tongue, Verlaine perceived an intense pungency, sharp acidity, and an almost unbearable bitterness reminiscent of almonds.

Had he encountered wine alone, he might have dismissed it as undrinkable some toxic substance to be avoided at all costs.

It reminded him of that bottle he’d found on the desk the morning after he awoke, when Rimbaud said he had to go out for a while and told him to wait alone at the inn.

The dark, mellow liquid rested in a cool glass bottle. Holding it up to the window light, he could just make out shimmering specks and rising bubbles, like…

Like what?

Verlaine hadn’t seen much of the world. He couldn’t conjure any pleasant associations only the scene of Pan, sliced in half, slowly collapsing backward, the delayed spray of fluid from the wound matching the color of what he now held.

Almost… exactly like the shade in this bottle.

An unbearable revulsion surged within him. Frowning in disgust, he moved to put it back

[What are you looking at?]

Rimbaud had returned just then.

[…Nothing.]

Back then, he wasn’t skilled at conversation Rimbaud was, in fact, the first person to truly talk with him let alone articulate the turmoil in his heart with words.

So Verlaine simply placed the murky bottle back on the table.

Perhaps that gesture led Rimbaud to mistake his curiosity like an infant in the oral stage, instinctively bringing objects to its mouth to explore the world.

[That wine came complimentary from the inn far too cheap, and the taste is crude.]

Rimbaud remarked.

His voice, no longer muffled by nutrient solutions or glass panels, was crisp and clear, each syllable distinct.

[Once you pass the assessment, I’ll buy a fine bottle of wine to celebrate with you.]

And Rimbaud kept his word.

So Verlaine obediently swallowed that blood-like wine, like a prisoner willingly bowing to the executioner.

Just as now, hearing Rimbaud utter that word again even knowing he was only playing the role of his elder brother Moran Verlaine couldn’t suppress the memory of that wine’s taste.

After the pine-like bitterness and throat-stinging astringency faded, what lingered in his breath was a longer, richer sensation a novel and intense sweetness of grapes.

That was Rimbaud’s reward to him.

And this time, though it was merely a pat on the head, Verlaine’s lashes lowered, and he reflexively swallowed as if tasting again that faint, ripe-berry sweetness upon his tongue.

…………

After the selection, Verlaine gained an additional weekly rehearsal with the Choir.

Returning from his first session, he mentioned that Vichis Prin seemed to be preparing a newly arranged Hymn for the upcoming Sacred Ceremony, requiring them to master it within the next half month.

As a result, Verlaine now had an extra mandatory music lesson every evening.

Meanwhile, Rimbaud was assigned additional lessons reportedly etiquette classes hastily added to ensure they wouldn’t behave improperly in front of important figures.

Deliberately separated from Verlaine?

Rimbaud inwardly furrowed his brows while maintaining a flawless exterior, executing every requirement so perfectly that the instructor found no fault and grew quite fond of him.

In truth, Rimbaud had hoped to use Verlaine’s lessons as a pretext to approach Vichis Prin for information.

Given Musa Kushner’s temperament, it was absolutely impossible for him to show warmth or familiarity toward anyone other than his brother.

But these extra lessons disrupted his plans.

Still, plans were always subject to unexpected disruptions adaptability was key.

After pondering for a long while, Rimbaud asked Verlaine, “Does he give you numbered sheet music, or does he teach orally?”

Verlaine shook his head. “He teaches orally. He plays… the piano and sings along.”

Before coming to the academy, Verlaine had never seen a piano he’d even learned the word from Rimbaud.

Despite the tight schedule, the instructor opted for the more cumbersome oral method instead of providing sheet music?

After a moment’s thought, Rimbaud decisively gave Verlaine instructions.

“I’ll teach you how to recognize notes. Even if you can only memorize a section each lesson, I need to transcribe his piano accompaniment into sheet music.”

Though Verlaine wasn’t much of a singer yet, his memory was excellent this task wouldn’t be difficult for him.

“…Alright.”

Verlaine replied quietly, his expression blank as he mentally calculated the likelihood of threatening the musician into tearfully surrendering the piano score.

But he could only entertain the thought.

Over the following days, Rimbaud tore several blank pages from his assigned draft notebook and began manually drawing staves to notate the music.

Verlaine diligently memorized a segment each day. Even if he made mistakes, it didn’t matter they could revise it repeatedly later.

As the Sacred Ceremony drew nearer, the sheet music in Rimbaud’s hands gradually took shape.

Or rather, the puzzle pieces were slowly falling into place.

Then came the day of the Sacred Ceremony.

While the lined-up students buzzed with excitement over the luxury car parked outside the gate, Rimbaud, standing further back, had already recognized the arrivals.

Duke Chara Gana Vosk from the Vosk Autonomous Region of Spain, Colonel Ovi Buges, and their sizable entourage made a grand entrance.

Even dressed in casual clothes and wearing cheerful expressions quite different from their usual appearances in the news and introduced by Ponteno under different names, Rimbaud was certain he hadn’t mistaken them.

So that’s how it is, he thought.

No wonder his intelligence division comrades felt some clues didn’t align this explained everything.

Outwardly, of course, Rimbaud followed protocol, bowing with the others to welcome the distinguished guests.

Afterward, he slipped away from the group and headed to a separate location.

Verlaine hadn’t been able to stay with Rimbaud in the welcome lineup. Forced into a uniform choir robe, he was waiting in the transept for his performance.

Half a month had passed, and he didn’t feel his singing had improved much, yet Vichis Prin consistently praised his rapid progress.

Unlike Rimbaud’s few words that could sway his emotions, Verlaine felt no joy from Vichis Prin’s praise instead, every nerve in his body screamed with disgust and rejection.

Even standing alone here filled him with uncontrollable irritation and restlessness.

Amid the crowd, Verlaine’s expression was icy. His gaze immediately fell upon the hulking figure he had once beaten into the hospital now arranging chairs and tables, the man noticed Verlaine looking his way and flinched reflexively, quickly ducking his head and scurrying off.

The subsequent proceedings went smoothly. After completing the series of rituals in the Sacred Ceremony, the attendees were guided to their seats to enjoy the Choir’s performance.

Among all the Choir members with their radiant smiles, Verlaine’s aloofness stood out starkly. Yet his beauty was equally unmatched no one could tear their eyes away from him.

During this, the Duke of Vorsk appeared deeply engrossed, either listening or watching intently, and even turned to exchange a few smiling words with Ponteno.

Thus, when the final part of the ceremony concluded and Verlaine was in the side hall removing his choir robes alongside the other members, he once again heard that unpleasant voice.

“Musa, my child,”

Besan Tobila, whom he hadn’t seen in a long time, called his name with a sickly sweet smile. “Please come with me. Ponteno has something to discuss with you.”

“……”

Suppressing the wave of nausea rising within him, Verlaine followed her down the corridor into an empty classroom but there was no sign of Ponteno.

As Musa stepped inside, glanced around, and fixed his gaze back on her in silent inquiry, Besan Tobila smiled triumphantly.

“I originally intended to properly instruct you last time, but that fire incident interrupted us. Then, I’ve been rather busy lately,”

She sighed, locking the classroom door to ensure the beautiful blond boy couldn’t escape.

“As a result, I haven’t yet completed the task Ponteno entrusted to me.”

“…What do you mean?Musa glanced at the locked door, then back at her his obliviousness filled Besan Tobila with genuine delight.

“It means you need to learn to behave tonight and obey our commands.”

She retrieved the Timer from her blouse pocket the device that compelled obedience still murmuring, “Let’s test it first. I’d hate for anything to go wrong…”

Besan Tobila never got to fulfill her scheme.

Her remaining words were choked off by a scream.

“You… you…”

Clutching her arm in excruciating pain, she trembled, staring in disbelief as the Timer clattered to the floor and was picked up by the blond youth.

His frigid eyes locked onto her, like a lion observing doomed prey.

“Thinking you can command me,”

Verlaine’s voice was as cold as ice, having effortlessly shattered her arm with a single button enhanced by gravity.

“You’re not qualified.”