(End of my saved up chapters, from now on, they'll be higher quality!)

  The heavy metal group bowed their heads in unison.

  Ayane, who had instantly become the star of the square, clutched Taeil’s sleeve with a tearful expression.

  “Oh God, my gosh…”

  “K-Keuh! Sorry… I’ll do better!.”

  “And, don’t ugh!”

  What had happened was simple—it was the cssic tale of Taeil unching an unexpected attack.

  Ayane had been secretly forced to endure the heavy metal concert until the very end.

  Then, after squeezing out every st bit of my vocabury to praise them, she somehow ended up in this position

  “We were touched by your words, Sister!.”

  “It’s nice to be appreciated, but honestly, this is a bit overwhelming and kind of scary! Maybe approach fans a little more… gently?.”

  “I see! That must mean our training is still cking. But fear not! We, the Metalians, will liberate this nation from oppression with the power of heavy metal! When that day comes, Sister, we shall greet you again!.”

  “Waaaaaah!”

  The men's thunderous cries echoed through the square.

  Ayane, now the center of far too much attention, covered her reddened face and shouted,

  “I don’t like this!”

  “hahaha!”

  And with that, Ayane bolted.

  Taeil ughed so hard he clutched his stomach, then made eye contact with the Metalians' vocalist and exchanged a triumphant high-five.

  And so—

  As time passed, the moment to enter the live house drew near.

  “Wow. Shin-chan, are there really 500 people in this line?.”

  “Doesn’t it seem like even more than that?.”

  As always, no matter where you go, there are bound to be people who try to bend the rules.

  Several attempted to sneak in without tickets or used counterfeits, but their efforts crumbled in the face of modern security measures.

  ‘I’ll get through just fine… right?’

  Taeil eyed the ticket in his hand with slight concern.

  Luckily, the two of them managed to enter the live house without any issues.

  “I guess it’s fine if I don’t buy you a drink?.”

  “A drink? Didn’t you already get one from the convenience store before we came?”

  "In most live houses, you have to buy a drink, whether you want to or not."

  This rule exists because some live houses register as restaurants to operate more freely.

  Drink purchases aren’t optional—they're mandatory.

  Some venues, especially those recognized as dedicated music facilities, avoid this requirement. However, judging by the well-stocked drink counter here, that didn’t seem to be the case.

  As Taeil followed the crowd past the entrance, he stepped into a main hall far grander than any live house he was used to.

  “I could tell from the outside, but wouldn’t this be an amazing pce for a solo concert?.”

  “Shin-chan… this pce is even bigger than our school’s AV room!.”

  “Well, yeah, obviously.”

  Ayane, still scanning her surroundings in awe, suddenly turned her curious gaze toward the stage setup—bck equipment, towering speakers, and rows of standing-room sections packed with people.

  “So that’s the standing section you were talking about?.”

  “Looks pretty spacious, huh?”

  Standing seats—

  The closest area to the stage, where you could absorb the artists' energy firsthand and interact with them in real time. It was also the most competitive section when it came to ticketing.

  The only downside? You had to remain standing for the entire show, which could st for hours.

  But for die-hard fans, the thrill of being that close to the action far outweighed the discomfort.

  Now, though, the floor was cluttered with broadcasting equipment and staff, leaving little room to even move.

  “You’re pnning to watch from there, squeezed in with all those people?.”

  Ayane was taken aback.

  “Ayane, maybe standing isn’t the best idea for us today…”

  “Good thing we have seats this time.”

  As she backed away, Taeil gave her a light flick on the forehead.

  “Ow! Hey—violence is bad!”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  Following the softly glowing floor signs—like something out of a movie theater—they made their way to their assigned seats.

  To Taeil’s surprise, they were in the front row.

  ‘I really owe Arthur for this.’

  He felt a surge of gratitude toward his fellow Korean expat in Japan who had so generously given him the ticket.

  Settling into his seat, Taeil gazed at the stage, reminded of the award ceremonies he watched every year in Korea during the holiday season.

  ‘It’s a lot like those events…’

  Just like in those ceremonies, the standing area was lined with tables, where celebrities and industry figures were seated, while the general audience filled the seats further back.

  While Taeil found himself comparing the venue to past memories, Ayane—who had never been in a pce like this before—seemed oddly restless.

  "Shin-chan, are live houses usually this big?."

  "I told you, this one’s special. Normally, a live house can fit around 200 people."

  For an indie band, filling a 200-person venue was no small feat and if they did, it meant they were already well-known in the scene.

  Ayane’s gaze swept over the rapidly filling audience.

  "So, how famous are the bands that py in pces like this?."

  "Well, if you want to perform somewhere like this, you probably need to chart on Oricon or Apple iTunes first."

  The industry is ruthless.

  People don’t judge bands or their music for what they are. It all comes down to numbers—performance, sales, rankings. Even if a song is good, if it doesn't hit the expected level, bels won’t even accept the demo tape.

  At the end of the day, it's all about money.

  The industry needs to profit, too.

  At the same time, there’s a twisted kind of consideration behind it.

  Unsold tickets don’t just disappear—the band is responsible for covering them.

  Most indie bands are already struggling with financial and time constraints.

  If they can’t sell enough tickets, the burden could crush them. Even if they avoid bankruptcy, the strain could fracture retionships between members.

  The universal truth is money has a way of breaking people apart.

  More than anything, live houses are where a band can truly measure their recognition.

  Even if a band seems popur on social media, it doesn’t always transte into real-life fans. To draw a crowd, they have to prove themselves on stage.

  For a band used to pying 200-person venues, performing in a pce like this would be overwhelming.

  Typical live house stages are so cramped that even a single band or idol group can make them feel packed. But this venue? It was on a whole other level.

  A protruding stage.

  Unlike the usual setups, this stage was surrounded by audience seating on three sides—built for true artist-fan interaction.

  "It's kind of a shame," Taeil murmured. "If this had been a regur live performance, we’d be down there, right in the front.”

  "Ayane prefers sitting here.”

  "Maybe at first. I used to be the same—standing back, watching from the corner."

  But you can’t fully experience a live show if you hold back. Even if it's not as wild as a club, you have to let yourself go, at least a little.

  "Ayane doesn’t get it," she muttered. "The idea of having fun surrounded by strangers…"

  Even though she had become much brighter, socializing and interacting still took a toll on her.

  Her expression tensed in quiet discomfort.

  "You don’t have to force yourself," Taeil said gently.

  He reached over and csped Ayane’s hand and shortly, her trembling stopped.

  "I think it would be nice if Ayane took an interest in this world, but I don’t want you to feel forced to follow me into it."

  All Taeil could do was offer an opportunity.

  The rest was up to Ayane.

  He knew it was a little cowardly—forming this semi-dependent retionship and then acting like he wasn’t pulling her into it. But still, he couldn't shake the vision of Ayane’s shining figure beyond the stage lights.

  Taeil had to admit it

  Bringing Ayane into this world had been purely selfish.

  That’s how much he never wanted to let go of a fully realized Burning Bze—the brilliant, complete version of her that belonged up there.

  And for that to happen, more than anything, she had to immerse herself in music.

  In fact, BARD had power.

  The power to captivate hearts.

  The power to make people dream.

  "You just need to focus on the stage.”

  "Just look at the stars shining up there."

  And then—something inside you will change.

  Taeil swallowed those words, pushing his emotions deep down.

  "Huh..."

  Beside him, Ayane stared at the stage, visibly tense.

  A moment ter, the auditorium lights dimmed.

  The buzzing crowd hushed almost instantly as the broadcast staff signaled for quiet.

  Not even a well-trained army could fall silent this fast.

  Ayane swallowed dryly.

  Her throat felt parched.

  Even though she was thirsty, she couldn’t bring herself to drink the water bottles Taeil had bought earlier.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  The grip on Taeil’s hand suddenly tightened.

  Footsteps echoed unusually loud.

  As expected, Izumi stepped onto the stage, dressed comfortably in a loose-fitting shirt and jeans.

  She tapped the microphone stand a few times, testing the sound before blowing into it lightly.

  "Okay."

  Adjusting the mic volume, she cleared her throat.

  "Ah. Can you hear me?."

  "Yes!"

  "I missed you, Izumi!"

  "BARD! BARD! BARD!"

  "You’re so pretty, sis!"

  Izumi smiled at the wave of voices calling out to her.

  Her sky-blue eyes scanned the crowd, locking onto each face, one by one.

  And among them—she saw Taeil.

  Izumi’s eyes widened, just slightly.

  It was a subtle shift, one that only the members of BARD, who had spent nearly a decade together, would recognize.

  To the untrained eye, it might have gone unnoticed.

  "You really came."

  For a moment, it felt as if the spotlight shone only on the two of them.

  Reality faded.

  The years between them blurred.

  Like time travelers, they were pulled back—five years into the past.

  A dark park.

  The rhythmic hum of crickets.

  A band busking along a quiet walkway.

  Izumi’s lips curled into a faint smile.

  Five years had passed. Much of the youthful softness had faded from his face, but that look—his unmistakable appearance—remained unchanged.

  She remembered that night well.

  Their first time busking as adults.

  An empty audience.

  No one paying attention—except for him.

  A boy, lingering on the outskirts.

  When the performance ended, he approached.

  "That was amazing. Keep going."

  "Than-.....”

  Before she could react, he shoved a 2,000 yen note into Izumi’s hands and bolted.

  The remaining members had just stood there, staring at the bill in stunned silence.

  Yahiro burst out ughing, "Why 2,000 yen of all things?."

  He ughed so hard he nearly cried.

  Akito, usually unfazed, had looked up at the sky as if questioning the meaning of life.

  NA.IN, as always, had remained expressionless, lost in thought.

  And Izumi—

  Izumi had found something in that moment.

  Hope.

  It had been the first night she’d ever gotten truly drunk with the band.

  Memories collided—past and present intertwining.

  Their first busking.

  Her first solo concert.

  Which one was more meaningful? She couldn’t say.

  But tonight, the very first memory that surfaced in her mind was that moment from five years ago.

  The raw, unfiltered emotions the band had never shared before—even back in their school days.

  The honesty that had pushed them this far.

  Even now, Izumi still kept that 2,000 yen bill.

  "This is the first time we’re meeting on stage, isn’t it?"

  The corner of her mouth twitched upward.

  Lifting the microphone, she let her gaze sweep over the crowd once more.

  "Thank you for gathering here today."

  Her voice was warm, her expression brighter than ever.

  And beneath the stage lights, Izumi smiled—grateful, radiant, and alive.

  Her eyes sparkled like stars.

  A particurly intense gaze lingered at the very front of the audience—focused, unwavering. But no one noticed.

  "It's been a while since I've been here," she began, her voice warm with nostalgia. "And it reminds me of my first solo concert. Some of you even came dressed exactly the same as back then. I guess we had the same idea."

  A ripple of ughter passed through the crowd.

  In the midst of it, someone scratched their head sheepishly, as if caught red-handed.

  "Do you remember?."

  As she spoke, the screen behind the stage flickered to life.

  A grainy, low-resolution video began to py—a relic from years ago, filmed with unsteady hands.

  The footage shook dizzyingly, the audio raw and unpolished. And yet, even through the distortion, Izumi’s voice was clear, bright, undeniable.

  The clothes she wore then were the same as tonight.

  "I guess I was feeling a little bolder back then," she said, sticking out her tongue pyfully.

  Then, her tone softened.

  "Honestly, it was my first solo concert. I wasn’t even sure if I could call it a ‘concert.’ The live house handled the ticket sales, so I had no idea how many would actually sell until the day of the show."

  She paused, her fingers grazing the microphone.

  "What if the venue was half-empty? What if no one came? Maybe I should’ve booked a smaller pce…"

  The thoughts had gnawed at her, turning her excitement into anxiety.

  "I was so nervous, I started thinking I'd have to beg my family, or even my friends just to fill the seats."

  Izumi turned her head slightly, toward the band members at the side of the stage.

  Yahiro, ever the joker, waved a hand dismissively as if telling her not to look his way.

  A soft chuckle escaped her lips.

  "But in the end, I had nothing to worry about. That night, more than a thousand people showed up. Not just a full house—a packed house."

  The crowd erupted in cheers.

  "That night, we all went out drinking to celebrate… and every single one of us passed out."

  Laughter rang through the venue.

  Izumi let the energy settle before continuing.

  "And now, here we are. Four years since our debut, and today, 500 of you are here with us. Some of you are new. Some of you have been here since the very beginning. But seeing you all now, I know—we didn’t take the wrong path. We’ve made it this far because of you."

  Her voice carried a sincerity that reached deep into the hearts of those listening.

  Some fans wiped away tears, overcome with emotion.

  A shared history.

  A community bound by the same memories.

  In this moment, they weren’t just an audience. They were one.

  Taeil, who had been just an elementary school student when it all began, had missed that historic first concert. But even so, he could feel it—the weight of everything BARD and their fans had built together.

  Beside him, Ayane, who had no such connection, watched in quiet bewilderment.

  Seeing strangers cry—some even sobbing—over a band’s words was unfamiliar, almost surreal to her.

  She didn’t understand.

  Not yet.

  ‘Should I cry? Is now the time to cry?.’

  Ayane’s heart pounded.

  She wasn’t crying.

  But with everyone around her sobbing, she felt self-conscious, as if she were the odd one out.

  Then, she took a gnce at Taeil.

  He looked calm and composed.

  ‘Oh… so it’s okay not to cry?.’

  Relief washed over her.

  ‘Thank god.’

  And yet… somewhere deep inside, a small part of her felt disappointed.

  If Taeil had cried, she would have had a reason to comfort him.

  But the moment passed quickly.

  "I really… I really miss you."

  Izumi’s voice echoed through the venue.

  Tonight’s concert wasn’t just a performance—it was a documentary.

  A glimpse into BARD’s beginnings.

  Most of what was being filmed now would be edited down, reduced to fleeting moments on a screen. Even the broadcasting company hadn’t been particurly enthusiastic about this project.

  But Izumi insisted.

  She needed to share this moment with the fans.

  And the rest of the band had agreed.

  "I think today will be a truly, truly unforgettable day."

  As her words faded, a soft melody emerged.

  Yahiro and the guest session musicians picked up their instruments.

  The opening chords of Millennium filled the air.

  BARD’s first single.

  A song that spoke of the divide between two worlds—those left behind at the turn of the century, unable to keep up with the relentless tide of change, and those who surged forward, shaping the future.

  Its intro referenced the 2,000-yen note, a symbol of the millennium itself.

  Izumi’s gaze cut through the stage lights, ignoring the cameras entirely.

  She was looking straight at Taeil.

  Where there was light, there was shadow.

  Culture, too, had its sunlit stage and its hidden corners.

  BARD had once been in the shadows. Watching, longing, admiring those who stood boldly in the light.

  The first verse of Millennium sang of that envy—of being left behind.

  The second verse, of longing—of reaching forward, past the horizon.

  It could have been a song of arrogance.

  But Izumi’s voice, clear and sorrowful, carried it with a raw purity that made it impossible not to listen.

  "I will not lose sight of either despair or hope."

  The lyrics, soft yet piercing, painted a picture of pain, longing, and the silent struggles that many had felt but never spoken aloud.

  It was a song that had put BARD on the map.

  A song that had given voice to those unheard.

  "Wow..."

  Ayane sat up straighter, hands clenching instinctively.

  Something in her stirred.

  She didn’t fully understand it yet.

  But she could feel it.

  "It’s different."

  Ayane couldn’t quite put it into words.

  But the music she had always listened to through her smartphone, her computer, or cheap earphones, this was something else entirely.

  From the very first note Izumi sang, she couldn’t look away.

  That gaze—sharp and unwavering—felt as if it were directed right at her.

  The way Izumi breathed, the way she wove emotion into every sylble.

  Sadness and purity, intertwined.

  Her voice rang out, clear and haunting.

  Taeil chuckled softly beside her.

  He had expected this.

  "Amazing!"

  Ayane had always known BARD’s songs were good.

  She had listened to them on repeat during lunch breaks. After Taeil’s recommendation, she had gone down a rabbit hole, searching for everything about the band on the wiki.

  She had heard their music everywhere—pying in stores, in cafes, in passing cars.

  But this—this was something else.

  It was impossible to expin.

  "Is this what live music feels like?"

  A whole new world had opened before her.

  Her heart pounded.

  In this moment, there was nothing else.

  No crowd. No venue. No distractions.

  Just the four musicians on stage.

  And Izumi.

  It was truly summer.