As the melody's words scrolled before them, both Nahida and the Greater Lord Rukkhadevata fell silent. Their eyes softened; their expressions grew complex.
"Grand Sage Idris," Rukkhadevata asked gently, "this song… did you write it for us?"
"Of course," Idris replied without hesitation. "Who else would it be for?"
Nahida blinked in surprise. "I didn't expect you to compose something so beautiful. Honestly, I thought even if you ever wrote a song, it would be full of lines mocking us—or worse, swearing."
Idris gave her a sidelong glance, then answered calmly.
"This song reflects what the God of Wisdom should have been—gentle, kind, warm. A god of hearts, not politics. But… too much gentleness can't rule a nation."
He sighed, his tone threaded with a quiet melancholy.
"What remains of such gods are not empires, but songs. Songs sung by those who still remember them."
Both goddesses felt the weight of his words.
To Idris, they realized, this melody was both tribute and eulogy—a love letter to ideals that could never survive reality.
And yet, behind his dispassion, they also saw admiration.
If this was what he imagined the perfect god to be, then they would strive to become it.
They would learn from him, stand beside him, and grow until they could embody that ideal—warm and radiant, like the song itself.
On the stage, the Aranara had finished their performance.
Dozens of tiny green figures floated down like petals, eyes shining as they turned expectantly toward Idris's group.
Even Lumine and Paimon had noticed. The Traveler smiled. "Looks like it's your turn."
Paimon giggled. "Hehe, if we get to hear the Grand Sage sing in person, this trip will definitely be worth it! I wonder what kind of song he'll perform?"
"Then let's find out," Lumine said, amusement glinting in her eyes.
Idris glanced at his companions. "Ready?"
Nahida beamed. "Of course! I've always wanted to try singing beside you."
"Then let's begin," he said, stepping onto the stage.
The forest grew quiet. Only the rhythm of the heart remained.
He began first. His voice was low, magnetic, steady as the hum of life itself:
My broken wooden chest, filled with withered blooms,
I cannot put away the light and soil, or my newborn dreams.
If I could take flight, to somewhere high above,
I'd cast a net of dreams, and catch echoes of love.
Paimon gasped softly. "His voice—it's actually good! Like… really good!"
Lumine placed a finger on her lips. "Shh. Good listeners don't interrupt."
Paimon puffed up her cheeks but obediently fell silent.
Then Nahida's voice joined in—soft and pure, like dew falling through leaves:
Can you hear it too, you lonely child?
Don't be afraid—the night won't last forever.
I'll pluck the flower from the cliff for you,
Each petal that falls will take away one sorrow.
Idris followed, his tone deep and grounding hers:
The grass and gravel have no mouths—so they never lie.
They let the wind remind me: there's a light upon my shoulder.
Together, they sang:
Is it you, who lights the moonlit road home and wakes the flowers?
Is it you, who plays the ancient chords and drives the nightmares away?
Is it you, who weaves the falling rain into a blue roof of dreams?
Promise me, when we're grown, our next meeting will be even brighter.
The first chorus ended, but the forest remained hushed, as if holding its breath.
Every Aranara's eyes glowed like fireflies. The song's rhythm resonated with their hearts—it was their song too, one that carried the same warmth and playfulness they used to share their magic.
When the melody began again, they started to hum along.
Nahida took the lead this time:
A thousand nightmares for a thousand thieves,
Will that be enough to steal away your pain?
The moment we met, time reversed its sandglass,
No vows of forever—only the promise of now.
Her cheeks flushed as she sang. The lyrics touched too close to home.
She remembered entering Idris's dreams, bringing him warmth for long nights on end—comfort he never asked for but she couldn't stop giving.
Have I stolen his sadness yet? she wondered. If not… I'll keep trying.
Idris's voice joined hers again, steady and wistful:
They say we forget our fairy tales when we grow,
Forget our dreams when we wake.
But when the rain stops in the afternoon light,
I'll wish to see you again.
This time, the Aranara all sang together:
Is it you, who lights the moonlit road home and wakes the flowers?
Is it you, who plays the ancient chords and drives the nightmares away?
Is it you, who weaves the rain into a blue roof above our heads?
Promise me, when we're grown, our next adventure will begin again!
Their voices layered and swelled until the whole dream-forest shimmered with light.
Their chorus wasn't just music—it was a bond, a covenant of faith and joy.
And in that moment, the Aranara truly accepted Idris—not as a distant scholar or ruler, but as their sage.
Then came the finale—Rukkhadevata's verse.
Her voice carried the weight of centuries, graceful and eternal:
Who crosses a sea of blossoms, who walks toward me through the dusk?
Who still remembers the wish I never fulfilled?
Is it you, wearing a crown of flowers, bearing the purest branch?
As she sang, her gaze drifted toward Idris.
That "purest branch" was once meant to be Nahida—the child of her dreams.
But fate had chosen differently. The one who carried her will forward, who fulfilled the wish she'd left behind… was this unlikely Grand Sage.
And somehow, she felt no regret. Only quiet gratitude.
Then, all three voices intertwined for the last time:
Was it you, who tore the rainbow's veil to light the flower in my box?
Was it you, who vanished softly into spring's far horizon?
But I remember—every part of you—I will not forget, I will not forget.
Is it you, who lights the moonlit road home and wakes the flowers?
Is it you, who plays the ancient chords and drives the nightmares away?
The final note lingered like starlight before fading into silence.
Paimon was the first to clap, bouncing in the air. "That was amazing! So, so beautiful!"
Then, blinking curiously, she asked, "Wait, but if your music player had two hundred songs, why wasn't this one in it? Did you just write it?"
Lumine rolled her eyes. "Because he knew how powerful it was. Singing it now and singing it two months ago wouldn't have had the same effect."
Indeed—it wasn't just a song. It was a spell woven in harmony.
All around them, Aranara gathered close, chattering excitedly:
"Lord Nara Sage! Lord of Trees! Lord of Grass! That was wonderful!"
"Five hundred years, and still we can sing together again!"
"Grand Sage Idris understands us better than anyone!"
Idris merely waved them off. "It was nothing. Just an improvised tune for the occasion."
The elder Ararakala shook his head, voice trembling with joy.
"You're too modest. The power in this song is unlike any we've heard before. We hope we may hear it again—from you, and from both our goddesses."
"Perhaps," Idris said, smiling faintly. "If fate allows."
And as he spoke, the familiar voice of his system echoed through his mind:
[Congratulations, Host. You have brought the Aranara under your command, changing their fate and allegiance.]
[Reward granted: Formation Technique — The Zhuxian Sword Array!]
[Requirements: 999 single-handed swords of at least two-star quality or above; mastery of sword intent and the Heart of Arrays.]
[When fully assembled, this formation can slay even gods. In the hands of a master, it can pierce the heavens.]
[Notice: This is your final major reward in Sumeru. The nation's fate has been rewritten by your presence. For further grand rewards, seek new storylines beyond these borders.]
Idris's eyes glimmered, a faint smile curving his lips.
"A song for hearts," he murmured. "And a sword for the heavens… Not a bad day."
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