Chapter 125: Adult Time
Late at night.
The mansion had already fallen silent. Cartethyia and Roccia had long returned to their rooms to rest, leaving only Aeron's room still illuminated by lamplight.
As for the state of the room, it was almost unbearable to look at.
Mountains of paper occupied most of the space, leaving only a narrow path from the door to the bed and desk, with countless crumpled paper balls scattered across the floor.
Only at times like this did Aeron realize just how great an invention digital files truly were.
"This won't do..."
By now, Aeron had lost count of how many drafts he had written, discarded, and then picked back up again because they might still be useful.
Pens, paper, and ink lay scattered chaotically across the desk—tools humanity used to write civilization had now become instruments of his self-interrogation.
Time lost its measure in the night, with only the growing anxiety in his mind becoming clearer and clearer.
Yes, this was what Aeron called "grown-up time."
Staying up all night, again and again, sacrificing sleep to carve out a period truly belonging to himself.
As cruel as it sounded, this was what growth and adulthood were like.
During the day, Aeron would rush around for the Order and other matters. Only at night, when moonlight replaced lamplight, could he find enough space and leisure to ponder the possibility named "Ciaccona Toccata."
"What should an idol... truly be like?"
Aeron muttered to himself, but this time, the one who needed to answer was not someone else—it was Aeron himself.
Was Ciaccona suitable? The answer to that was certain.
Of course she was. Her smile, her singing, the courage she displayed when standing before crowds to speak the truth, and her heart—which, having blossomed from the ruins of her family's tragedy, still believed in poetry and hope—all of it made her born to stand in the light.
...Then what should he do?
Holding onto this question, Aeron shifted his gaze to the terminal on the desk.
Displayed on it were "idol" activities from other regions of Solaris—Huanglong, the New Federation, and some unknown pink-haired girl from Startorch Academy.
Over these past days, Aeron had watched their songs, performances, and the discussions, fan creations, and even arguments among their followers in the channels, over and over again.
What he needed to do was try to find, within these performances, the core that could make people in distant cities cheer.
More importantly, to draw reminders and warnings from them.
In the era of information explosion from Aeron's previous life, the idol industry had already developed a complete set of logic: persona, fan management, monetizing popularity, commercial closed loops.
Idols were no longer just people singing and dancing on stage, but meticulously designed "products," "symbols" that fulfilled the emotional needs of specific groups.
"...But it can't be like this."
Ciaccona was not a commodity, and Aeron would never allow her to become one.
She was a living, breathing girl who could cry and laugh, who suffered from her family's tragedy, and whose eyes would light up at a single word of praise. Her singing carried the weight of truth and was her way of expressing herself.
The radiance she emitted when standing on the ruins of Carnevale, using poetry to cleave through the darkness, was something no "persona" could ever match.
In the years Fenrico led the Order to rule, all cultural and entertainment activities had to serve faith and connecting people's hearts.
Poetry sings praises to the gods, drama enacts holy miracles, and music resounds during worship. Carnevale is the sole exception, and this long-dormant revelry was ultimately ignited by Aeron into the spark that overturned order.
Now, the old gods are dead, a new king has descended, and Ragunna stands at the dawn of rebirth.
Here, Ciaccona's singing will never be mere entertainment.
It must carry hope, yet never preach; it must shine brightly, yet never glare so harshly that people forget the shadows at their feet.
Though at the start of the project, Aeron tried to convince himself that "culture and entertainment must not be entangled with politics," that principle now seems utterly hollow.
Ciaccona's very existence, the story of the Toccata Family, the ties to the truth of the Sentinels... her path, from the very beginning, was destined to intertwine with Ragunna's history and political threads. To sever it completely would be foolish, and impossible.
The question is how to transform this "entanglement" into strength, not shackles.
Not by exploiting wounds, but by showing how flowers can bloom toward the sun from the soil of pain.
Not by evading history, but by turning the weight of history into the reassuring, solid foundation within the song.
"Ciaccona's core is her ability to convey stories and sincerity, her genuine heart... With Roccia's help and Montelli's Echoes technology, perhaps we can achieve better stage effects... No, we can't let complexity allow technology to overshadow the essence; it must still serve 'feeling'..."
Inspiration flashes like sparks, only to be quickly covered by more rigorous thought.
Cross out, write again, cross out again.
Unlike inspiration, which only occasionally grants mercy, anxiety alone clings to you like relentless vines.
The conditions are simple: First, Ciaccona must not suffer or endure hardship; second, Ragunna and the Second Young Lady must absolutely not face criticism.
Though it may seem overly idealistic, for Aeron, these are non-negotiable. He must achieve them—not "try," but "must."
What he aims to create is not a replication of the idol industry from his past life, nor a copy of entertainment models from other regions.
He must find a unique path for Ciaccona, for Ragunna.
A path that allows Ciaccona to sing freely and shine brightly without distorting herself.
A path that lets the people of Ragunna feel joy, hope, and resonance without being fed any dogma.
A path... that allows him, after all this effort, to feel no regret or disgust.
With scarce information, skewed case studies, and the market and audience's acceptance entirely unknown, Aeron admits that even Leviathan seems less daunting by comparison.
"No good... this concept is still too vague. What if the audience doesn't get it?"
"Here... there's no precedent to reference. What if it falls flat? Would Ciaccona be sad?"
"What kind of Ciaccona does the audience truly want to see? The brave singer who revealed the truth during Carnevale, or the poet-next-door smiling in the sunlight with her lute? Or...?"
Questions arise one after another, with no standard answers.
He can only rely on his understanding of Ciaccona, his judgment of Ragunna's current state, and those fragmented bits of entertainment common sense brought from another world—to piece together, to trial and error.
Time slips away, bit by bit.
The night outside the window shifted from pitch black to deep blue, then revealed a hint of grayish-white.
Consciousness began to blur, the handwriting twisting and doubling before his eyes. His head felt as if filled with lead, each thought bringing a stabbing pain.
If he didn't rest soon, the outcome awaiting him would surely be collapsing at his desk from sudden death.
But it was fine—Aeron wasn't afraid of that. Yet, he didn't have the time to wait for death to arrive either.
So, he stood up, pulled out the sidearm that had accompanied him all this way from his coat.
Loaded a bullet, aimed at his temple, and pulled the trigger.
Bang!
[Cause of Death: Suicide]
[Death Evaluation: C, Routine Duty]
[Reward Distributed: 3-Hour Focus Boost]
[Status Refreshing...]
The darkness faded. Aeron opened his eyes on the study floor. The wound on his head left no trace, and the exhaustion accumulated over dozens of hours vanished completely.
His body returned to its optimal state, his mind clear as if doused in ice water.
But the heavy anxiety in his heart, that urgent sense of "not being ready yet," hadn't diminished in the slightest.
He silently got up, cleaned the bloodied floor briefly, reloaded the bullet, and returned the sidearm to its place.
Then he sat back down at the desk, staring at the still unsatisfactory drafts.
His status had refreshed, but inspiration hadn't, direction hadn't, and that perfect plan capable of meeting everyone's expectations still hadn't appeared.
Anxiety surged back, sharper than before.
"Ah—damn it all!"
His thoughts were blocked, as if he'd walked into a dead end. Aeron irritably ran his hands through his hair and decided to wash his face with cold water in the bathroom to clear his muddled mind.
As he stood up, his steps felt unsteady. Leaning on the desk, his gaze inadvertently swept over the frozen image of "Flying Edelweiss" on the terminal screen.
—If it were her, if it were Rover.
With her drive, her wisdom, her natural ability to bring people together, she could easily coordinate Carlotta, Ciaccona, Roccia... everyone, handling things flawlessly and satisfying everyone.
Not like some fool who, despite having no experience, had pushed himself to go without sleep for over ten days straight, driven only by sheer passion and the thought of "wanting to do it."
This thought surfaced naturally, tinged with a hint of envy and a deeper emotion he didn't want to examine too closely.
Rover was light, hope, the destined "King" to be celebrated. She could accomplish anything.
Aeron took a deep breath, straightening his slightly hunched back from exhaustion.
She was her.
I am me.
Aeron had long since made up his mind.
After the Leviathan matter was resolved, he would no longer have any ties to Rover.
She would have her own bright path, traversing Huanglong, Rinascita, the Roy Ice Plains, the New Federation, and even all of Solaris.
She would stay by everyone's side, moving from the past toward tomorrow together.
And Aeron had long since decided to walk his own narrow path to the very end, never looking back.
Pushing open the door, he walked along the dim corridor toward the bathroom, guided by memory.His mind was still buzzing in a daze—flashing between the fan community, MV production, and the matter of Carlotta's recorded response… and those pair of golden, steadfast eyes.
Walking to the bathroom door, he didn't think much of it, habitually pressing down the handle and pushing inward—
The door wasn't locked.
Or rather, the person inside hadn't expected anyone to come at this hour.
Warm, moist steam mixed with a refreshing, unfamiliar, and faintly elegant fragrance rushed toward him.
Then, his palm pressed firmly against something warm, soft, smooth, slightly moist, and gently curved...
...skin.
Just like that, time stood still.
Aeron froze in place, his unfocused pupils struggling to adjust as his mind desperately denied the reality before him.
In his field of vision was skin so pale it was almost dazzling, with damp, black hair streaked with white clinging to it, still dotted with glistening droplets of water.
Further down were delicate collarbones, and further still...
Completely naked, without a stitch of clothing. The skin, warmed by the hot water, glowed with a healthy, faint pink hue, droplets tracing the graceful curves of the body as they slowly slid downward.
Rover also seemed to have been startled from some state of reverie, wearing an expression of shock and confusion that Aeron, as a player, had never seen before.
The golden eyes that had just occupied his thoughts widened slightly, reflecting Aeron's own figure.
Their gazes met, and the air fell dead silent.