Dumbfounded

"Dear Alicia, he's nothing but a fraud—he's not worth your tears!" Mera Pérez declared with unwavering confidence.

Alicia Banderas had never known such fury. Not even when she had received that call from Vita González the day before had she felt this level of rage. Her eyes, burning with resentment, locked onto Mera Pérez as she all but screamed, hysterical, "You call him a fraud? Do you even know him?"

With a swift, furious motion, she flung the thick stack of sheet music in her hands toward Mera Pérez. The pages scattered across the floor like fallen leaves. Her lips curled in scorn as she spat, "Go ahead—show it to those so-called musicians. See for yourself the 'deception' of the man you so readily condemn!"

Mera Pérez stood frozen, stunned by Alicia's outburst. Had she been wrong?

Doubt gnawed at her confidence as she bent down to gather the scattered sheets. With a hesitant sigh, she handed them over to the musicians.

Alicia's fiery defense of Fanmuir had sparked the curiosity of everyone present. The musicians took the scores from Mera Pérez, their skepticism giving way to intrigue. Though they were merely second-rate players, they had spent decades immersed in music. And now, with just a glance at the pages in their hands, their eyes widened with newfound wonder.

What was this?

As they studied the revisions, fascination turned to awe. Each alteration Fanmuir had made was executed with breathtaking precision—every note, every nuance, a revelation. Unable to resist, they began to play.

One after another, melodies swelled through the air, each phrase imbued with a depth of emotion they had never before encountered. As they played on, amazement took hold. The further they delved into the music, the more they realized the truth: Fanmuir's every modification was flawless, every note pulsed with life.

They were lost in it now, utterly entranced.

For musicians, respect was not given lightly—it was reserved for true masters. And Fanmuir, with his effortless yet profound transformations of these classic pieces, had proven himself worthy of the title.

A master.

The weight of that realization settled over them like a sacred truth. They no longer looked at his work with mere curiosity, but with reverence—like pilgrims gazing upon a relic of divine artistry.

As the orchestra played Fanmuir's arrangement, the truth hit Mera Pérez with devastating clarity.

She had been wrong.

Horribly, shamefully wrong.

She had dismissed a true master of music as a mere charlatan. Had her judgment truly been so blind?

What now?

Mera Pérez felt a chill crawl down her spine as she met Alicia Banderas' gaze—cold, mocking, and filled with despair. A cold sweat broke out over her skin, her face drained of all color.

"I'll bring him back. I'll apologize to him." Mera Pérez lowered her head, her voice barely above a whisper, thick with shame.

A flicker of hope sparked in Alicia Banderas' heart at those words. She clenched her fists, silently steeling herself. No, I'll go myself. If I beg him in person, he'll forgive me.

She rose to her feet, her eyes filled with unwavering determination.

"I'll go with you," Mera Pérez offered hastily, sensing Alicia's resolve.

"There's no need. I'll do this alone." Alicia's reply was cool and final. Without another glance, she turned and ran after Fanmuir.

Fanmuir had barely stepped out of the rehearsal hall before his anger began to fade. He wasn't one to dwell on petty grievances, but he refused to let anyone trample on his dignity so openly. Leaving had been his only choice.

Alicia, seated in her car, had barely driven a short distance when she caught sight of his retreating figure. Her heart leapt with uncontrollable joy. "Stop the car!" she ordered hurriedly.

The moment her feet hit the pavement, uncertainty crept in. She followed him from a short distance, hesitating, opening her mouth to call out—then closing it again.

How could she?

He was a master, a musician of unparalleled talent. A chance encounter had led him to help her out of kindness, yet he had been met with baseless humiliation. How could she expect him to forgive her so easily? How could she ask for his help again?

Fanmuir, walking ahead, didn't need to turn around to sense her presence or her turmoil.

He knew exactly who Alicia Banderas was—her prestige, her status. Her fame had been drilled into him just yesterday by his friends. And yet, here she was now, trailing behind him like a child who had made a terrible mistake.

A gentle warmth spread through his chest.

It hadn't been her who spoke out of turn—it was her manager. That thought softened him.

He came to a halt.

Alicia, caught off guard by his sudden stop, nearly stumbled. Panic flashed across her face.

Fanmuir turned, his expression unreadable for a moment—then, with a soft chuckle, he said, "There's no need to follow me. I'll go back with you."

His voice was warm, gentle.

Alicia stared at him, stunned. Then, unable to stop the flood of relief washing over her, she felt her throat tighten.

Alicia Banderas froze. Her wide, luminous eyes locked onto Fanmuir, staring at him as if in a daze, her vision blurring with unshed tears.

"Don't cry," Fanmuir said softly, his voice tinged with both warmth and warning. "If you cry, I won't go back with you."

Watching her tears tremble at the edge of her lashes, he felt a dull ache in his chest. Had he been too harsh back in the rehearsal hall?

"I'm crying because I'm happy!" Alicia burst into a radiant smile, brushing away her tears in an instant. Then, like a jubilant child, she skipped toward Fanmuir's side.

The celestial songstress, the untouchable idol whom so many revered, was now leaning against him like a trusting little bird, her entire being glowing with uncontainable joy.

As they stepped back into the rehearsal hall together, the gathered musicians—those second-rate players who had once regarded Fanmuir with indifference—now turned to him with eyes full of awe, as if welcoming a deity into a sacred temple.

Once Alicia had left earlier, they had taken the time to study the scores Fanmuir had revised. What they heard had stunned them to the core.

To refine a classic was no small feat. Even the subtlest change—adjusting a single note, shifting a single phrase—had elevated the already timeless pieces into something even more breathtaking. It was unfathomable.

The music itself had confirmed what they all now knew in their hearts: Fanmuir was a true master.

Standing among them, Mera Pérez felt her face burn with shame. Just moments ago, she had humiliated this man without a second thought. Now, faced with his undeniable brilliance, she was consumed with regret.

Taking an uneasy step forward, she lowered her head and murmured, her voice laced with remorse, "Mr. Fanmuir, I was terribly presumptuous just now. Please forgive me."

Fanmuir, of course, bore no grudge against a mere girl—especially since he had already chosen to return. With a gentle smile, he nodded and said simply, "No worries."

Fanmuir continued his discussion with Alicia Banderas, meticulously refining the remaining concert pieces. Around them, the second-rate musicians sat in utter silence, not daring to make the slightest disturbance. Fanmuir's skill was simply too astounding—no one was willing to squander such a rare opportunity to learn from a true master, so they all remained, watching and listening intently.

Mera Pérez, eager to redeem herself, flitted about like a diligent servant—pouring tea, fetching water, attending to every possible need with tireless enthusiasm.

Once the revisions were complete, Alicia Banderas began singing from the newly polished score. Her voice, as golden and pure as a nightingale's, wove through the rehearsal hall with breathtaking beauty. The melody was exquisite, the crescendos and decrescendos soaring with grand emotion, each note imbued with an almost sacred resonance. The audience sat enraptured, utterly spellbound by the splendor of her voice.

"Focus on breath control—maintain fluidity. Adjust your dynamics—balance the rise and fall. Be precise in articulation—control the strength and delicacy of each note. Master the rhythm—let it ebb and flow naturally. Refine your timbre—capture both its depth and brilliance. Ensure the smoothness of vocal lines—blend the legato and the staccato seamlessly. Pay attention to nuance—express the phrasing exactly as marked on the score."

Fanmuir's string of exacting critiques sent another wave of silent devastation through the onlookers. My God!

That voice—that flawless technique! And he still isn't satisfied?

The musicians were filled with nothing but admiration for Fanmuir, yet his relentless demands sparked an almost universal grievance. Their gazes turned toward Alicia Banderas, brimming with sympathy.

But to their astonishment, Alicia showed no sign of dismay. Instead, she accepted Fanmuir's guidance with nothing short of elation—as though every word of critique were a rare and precious treasure, rather than a rebuke.

She had always been acutely aware of both her strengths and weaknesses. Now, as Fanmuir laid bare the very flaws she had spent years struggling to perfect, she felt a surge of reverence so profound that it bordered on devotion.

Then came Fanmuir's next round of guidance—insight so precise that it unraveled the very questions that had plagued Alicia Banderas for years. In a matter of moments, her vocal technique and artistic expression transcended their previous limits, reaching yet another level of refinement.

As the final note of her song faded into the stillness, the audience remained dazed, lost in the lingering echoes of its beauty.

A masterpiece of composition. A maestro's vocal coaching. A meeting of minds, each elevating the other. The synergy was nothing short of divine craftsmanship.

And Fanmuir—just how old was he, again?

With the score and vocal technique now perfected, the next step was, naturally, the accompaniment.

And once again, Fanmuir shattered every preconception.

As he took his place at the instruments, demonstrating each accompaniment part with effortless brilliance, he left the audience in a state of profound reverence. With each note, his mastery became undeniable—he had long since surpassed the realm of mere virtuosity and ascended into something almost godlike.

How is this possible?

Every instrument—piano, guitar, bass, percussion—he played them all with a skill that defied logic, exceeding even the highest standards of mastery.

Even Alicia Banderas, who had already witnessed his genius firsthand, was shaken to her core.

If his gift for composition and vocal guidance could be explained by sheer musical genius—after all, he was already a renowned viola master—then how could one possibly account for this?

Alicia had long understood the immense dedication required to master a single instrument. No one, no matter how talented, could achieve such mastery without countless years of relentless practice.

And yet here stood Fanmuir, a mere youth who appeared no older than twenty, wielding every instrument with an effortless brilliance that defied all reason.

Alicia Banderas no longer merely admired him.

She was utterly conquered.

Mera Pérez was utterly shaken. Could such a musical genius truly exist in this world?

At last, she understood why Alicia Banderas treated Fanmuir with the reverence one would show a mentor. My God—he wasn't merely gifted. He was born for this. A natural musician. A natural virtuoso.

With Fanmuir's guidance and accompaniment, perfection had been achieved in less than half a day. By the time he was ready to leave, the second-rate musicians who had been lingering at the rehearsal hall could no longer contain themselves. One after another, they pleaded—some even begged—for his instruction.

Fanmuir had always been one to go with the flow, and their earnest desperation amused him. Alicia Banderas, moved by sympathy, also added her voice to their requests. Left with no choice, Fanmuir relented.

As he watched the unbridled joy light up their faces, he let out a quiet sigh of resignation. There goes another half-day of freedom. If this keeps up, I'm bound to get called out for skipping class.

The musicians before him were no amateurs—they had each devoted years to honing their craft. Their technical proficiency was not the issue. The real problem lay in their interpretation of music, their grasp of nuance, and their control over the finer details of performance.

But none of this posed a challenge to Fanmuir.

The moment they played, he pinpointed their strengths and weaknesses with piercing accuracy. His insights were not only sharp but astonishingly creative—his suggested corrections so ingenious they bordered on the miraculous.

And so, within the span of mere hours, the musicians found themselves utterly humbled.

One by one, they bowed before him in absolute admiration. No longer did they dare to see him as merely a prodigy—they addressed him with the utmost respect, referring to him as "Mr. Fanmuir," their deference evident in every word and gesture.

Alicia remained at his side the entire time, watching as he navigated the vast ocean of music with effortless mastery. Every note, every explanation, was delivered with a natural ease, as if he were merely unveiling the fundamental truths of music itself.

Her luminous eyes never ceased to gleam with wonder, brimming with an admiration that deepened with every passing moment.