“Dun dun dun—DUN!!!”

  The classic four notes hit the filthy earth like four sledgehammers, creating a shockwave that rattled the very foundation of the junkyard.

  Beethoven’s grey-white hair exploded outward like a lion’s mane in a hurricane. His hands weren’t playing the piano; they were engaging it in brutal hand-to-hand combat. The battered grand piano groaned under his monstrous strength, strings snapping and wood chips flying, yet in this moment of destruction, every broken component transformed into the perfect percussion instrument.

  The ghost went feral too.

  Guided by Beethoven, the resentment he had suppressed for decades finally found a vent. His spiritual form was no longer transparent; it ignited into a blazing white fire. He had no physical fingers, but every time he hammered a key, visible ripples of psionic energy tore through the air.

  This was a variation of the Symphony of Destiny.

  It was the [Junkyard Rhapsody]—an anthem for the garbage heap, for the forgotten, and for everyone struggling in the mud.

  Rumble—

  The ground began to quake.

  John felt the mountain of trash beneath his feet shifting. The piles of scrap metal, discarded prosthetics, and rusted gears began to flow like liquid mercury under the resonance of the massive sound waves.

  "Grace! Analyze the vibration frequency!" John shouted, forced to cover his ears despite the cotton plugs. The sound was drilling straight into his brainstem.

  "It’s unscientific!" Grace frantically worked the virtual interface on the tablet, the data bar for sound waves turning a violent purple—literally off the charts. "This isn't just sound waves! It's... Molecular Deconstruction Waves! He's using music to forcibly rewrite the molecular structure of this trash! It's Alchemy-tier playing!"

  "What's that mean?" Bone (Agut) squatted down to keep his center of gravity, his skeleton rattling like a bag of dice.

  "It means..." Grace pointed forward. "He's going to shatter this mountain!"

  Before she could finish—

  BOOM!!!

  A deafening explosion.

  The mountain of electronic waste, towering dozens of meters high and blotting out the sky, collapsed in the crescendo of the melody.

  Millions of parts flew into the sky, creating a reverse rain of metal. And amidst that flying debris, the dead iron—activated by the psionic ripples—began to emit a strange, harmonious resonance.

  Clashing gears became drum beats.

  Wind whistling through steel pipes became flutes.

  Currents zapping through circuit boards became violins.

  The entire junkyard transformed into a colossal symphony orchestra made of waste.

  And Beethoven was the conductor standing in the eye of the storm.

  "BWAHAHAHA!"

  Beethoven threw his head back and laughed, his wild arrogance drowning out even the piano. He leaped to his feet. In that moment, he didn't look like a deaf old man; he looked like a God of Thunder clutching lightning bolts.

  "Do you hear that?! That is the sound I wanted!"

  He pointed a finger at the Upper Sector in the distance—that glistening city, still glowing with lights and pumping out cheap, soulless electronic beats.

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  "Even trash can scream louder than your hollow souls!"

  The ghost wept.

  Standing in the rain of metal, he looked at his glowing hands. He no longer felt like a loser. His music was creating a miracle on these ruins.

  Bzzzt—

  Right at the climax, a jarring, high-pitched hum cut through the air.

  A dozen pitch-black "Recon Bee" drones, stamped with the Necromancy Guild insignia, swarmed out of the city’s shadows like flies smelling blood.

  They had been drawn by the anomalous energy fluctuations.

  "Warning! Illegal Psionic Convergence detected!"

  "Warning! Riot in Processing Plant 99! Initiating suppression!"

  Red lights flashed on the drones, and their cold, synthetic voices sounded piercing against the piano music.

  Rat-a-tat-tat!

  Machine guns opened fire. Bullets rained down toward the piano.

  "Look out!" Bone tried to rush forward as a meat shield.

  But John was faster.

  Since his baptism by fire at Black Gold Asset Management and Tang Monk’s mental boot camp, John was no longer the rookie who hid behind others.

  He looked at the machine-flies ruining the perfect performance, and his rage overpowered his fear of bullets.

  "Don't you dare interrupt them!"

  John thrust the Yin-Yang iPad into the air.

  "Grace! Hack their nav systems! Turn them into blind bats!"

  "Roger that, Boss! Watch this!"

  Grace instantly turned into a stream of data and dove into the network.

  A split second later, the drones’ movements jerked and stiffened. Their precise aim went haywire, bullets spraying wildly into the trash.

  "Bone! Swat them out of the sky!"

  "You got it! I love this part!"

  Bone grabbed a massive, rusted exhaust pipe like a baseball bat. He wound up and swung at the erratic drones.

  WHAM!

  "Home run!"

  A drone exploded into a fireball and crashed.

  But there were too many.

  One drone breached the defensive line, diving straight for Beethoven and the ghost, who were still lost in their performance. Its underbelly opened, and a micro-missile locked onto the target.

  "Bad move!"

  John’s pupils constricted.

  There was no time.

  He didn't hesitate. He didn't think about his hemophobia. He didn't think about dying.

  He pulled the scalpel from his belt—the one he’d carried since dropping out, the one he’d never really used.

  He charged.

  Just as the missile was about to launch, John leaped into the air.

  He traced an arc that wasn't graceful, maybe even clumsy, but filled with desperate force.

  "GET... DOWN!"

  He jammed the scalpel viciously into the drone's camera lens and twisted.

  Zzzzt!

  Sparks flew.

  The drone spun out of control and slammed into the ground, exploding right next to the piano.

  The shockwave blasted John backward, slamming him hard into a pile of trash.

  "Cough... cough..." John scrambled up. He was covered in soot and dirt, his hands were shaking, but he was grinning.

  He looked at the piano.

  The music hadn't stopped.

  Beethoven hadn't even turned his head. He was still immersed in the world that belonged only to him and the ghost.

  Because he knew someone had his back.

  "That's right..." John wiped a trace of blood from the corner of his mouth, his eyes steadier than they had ever been.

  This was growth.

  It wasn't about learning some earth-shattering spell. It was learning that when it’s time to stand up, even if all you have is a tiny knife, you charge.

  Finally.

  The last note fell.

  DONG—

  In the lingering resonance, the ghost’s body began to turn transparent, dissolving into particles of light.

  He had no regrets left. His obsession had utterly dissipated in this earth-shaking duet.

  Beethoven stopped his hands.

  He stood up, looked at the fading ghost, and gave a curt nod.

  "Good tune."

  It was the highest praise possible.

  With the ghost super-elevated, the rift in the sky began to heal, and Beethoven’s figure started to fade.

  But before he vanished, the furious maestro turned his head and glanced at the battered young man.

  "Kid."

  Beethoven pointed to his own ears, then pointed to John’s heart.

  "Don't listen with your ears. Listen with your heart."

  "The world is noisy, but as long as your heart doesn't skip a beat, Fate can't choke you out."

  With that, he transformed into a gale wind and vanished into the horizon.

  The garbage mountain returned to silence.

  All that remained were the smoking wreckage of drones and a piano that had completely fallen apart.

  Meanwhile.

  New Babylon, Upper Sector. A holographic office suspended in the clouds.

  Moriarty sat in his Victorian high-back chair, a cup of red tea in his hand.

  On the screen in front of him, the footage played on a loop: John Doe gripping a scalpel, leaping into the air, and taking down the drone.

  It was the final feed transmitted before the drone crashed.

  Moriarty watched the young man—his eyes fierce, his movements raw but hesitating for nothing—and the corner of his mouth curled into an elegant, dangerous arc.

  He set down his teacup and typed a new line into the electronic file labeled [John Doe Observation Log]:

  [Observation Log 007:]

  [Subject has overcome primary physiological fear (Hemophobic reaction diminished).]

  [Displaying leadership qualities (Effective team command).]

  [Most importantly... he is beginning to understand the courage to 'draw a sword even when weak.']

  Moriarty pushed up his glasses, a cold glint flashing across the lenses.

  "Very good, John."

  "You're finally not a child crying for mommy anymore."

  "In that case, I suppose I can... increase the difficulty level."

  He tapped a finger, raising the risk assessment rating for the 13th District from [Low Risk] to [Medium Threat].

  This wasn't just an acknowledgment.

  It was a declaration of war.

  [System Status]:

  Physical Realm (Royal Road): Connection Unstable / Paused.

  Spirit Realm (Patreon): 20+ Chapters Online / Stable.

  [Link]