(POV: Professor Murasame / Ren / Ema)
The recital chamber smelled of wax and old wood. Candles flickered across the grand stage as Professor Murasame raised his baton, eyes glinting like shards of obsidian.
"Tonight," he began, voice calm but cutting through the silence like a scalpel, "you will learn the rules that govern Kanezono Academy. Music here is not merely sound—it is a living entity. And you… you are its instruments."
Ren's fingers tightened around his violin. He could feel the crimson aura pulsing faintly around him, responding to the tension in the room.
Murasame circled the stage slowly, each step resonating like a drumbeat. "Every student has a color. Your color reflects your soul's true emotion. It is… inevitable. You cannot change it. You can only learn to master it, or it will master you."
He stopped in front of Ema, her silver hair glinting in candlelight. "And you," he said softly, "play music that holds someone else's soul. Be careful. If you falter, their memory—perhaps their existence—may fade into silence forever."
Ema swallowed, fingers brushing the piano keys instinctively. The scarlet string from Ren's violin had woven itself into her thoughts—she hadn't touched it, yet she felt its pulse.
Ren's POV
Ren's hands shook. He had understood, vaguely, that the academy was unusual, but now it was clear: this was no ordinary school. Every performance was a risk. Every note might claim a fragment of life.
He glanced around. Nagi sat silently, pen hovering over his notebook. Rei's eyes were closed, lips moving as if she were reciting a prayer. Tsubasa flexed his fingers over the cello strings, gold aura flickering faintly. Haru hummed softly, emerald threads shimmering.
Ren whispered under his breath, "This… isn't music anymore. It's survival."
The headmaster's voice cut through the room. "There are three rules. Learn them well."
The First Rule: Every note counts. Every sound you make leaves a trace in the academy's memory. Miss a note, and the academy will remember for you.
The Second Rule: Music binds souls. Your melody can heal—or consume. Every emotion poured into it is a debt. Pay it wisely.
The Third Rule: The Final Performance ends all. One student will compose the last piece. The rest… will vanish into unfinished notes.
Ren felt the crimson aura around him throb like a warning.
So… this is the cost of bringing Airi back, he thought. The final piece… she's tied to it.
Ema's POV
Ema leaned against the piano, watching Ren. She wanted to warn him, but the words refused to form. She was already fading—her existence tethered to the music that wasn't hers, yet entirely hers.
She remembered the first time she had heard Scarlet Strings, before she even knew her own name. The melody had wrapped around her heart, and a voice—soft, faint, accusing—had whispered: "Finish me. Play me. Live me."
Now, she understood that she couldn't escape the song. Every time Ren's violin spoke, her soul shivered. She was both the performer and the melody. And if she faltered… she would disappear.
Murasame stepped back, lowering his baton. The shadows of the candlelight stretched long across the chamber. "Your first trial begins tomorrow. You will compose a small piece that represents your color. Play it in front of me—and the academy will judge. Fail, and you may never recover what is lost in you."
The students exchanged glances.
Ren met Ema's eyes. She nodded faintly, a silent acknowledgment of the danger and the burden they both shared.
We're in this together… he thought.
But one of us won't make it.
As the students left the chamber, the old piano in the corner began to play by itself—soft, sorrowful, carrying fragments of a melody neither living nor dead.
And somewhere beneath the stage, faint crimson threads began to coil around the wooden beams.