The Greatest Showman - Chapter 923
The roar erupted like rolling thunder, shaking the streets, the buildings, the very world itself. A tremor ran through the air, an overwhelming force of sound and energy that left everything quaking in its wake.
Renly's steps faltered. He turned toward the sound, his gaze locking onto the sight before him. And then—he froze. Stunned. Shocked. Overwhelmed. The visual and auditory impact struck him like a punch to the chest, stealing his breath, momentarily stilling even his very soul.
Amid the surging crowd, a towering banner stood high, catching every eye. White fabric, blue letters, simple yet profound:
"We are Don Quixote!"
It was just a sentence. A plain, unembellished declaration. Yet, it filled Renly's chest, unexpected and unguarded, hitting him like a sudden downpour of stardust. Before his mind could react, before reason could take hold, warmth welled in his eyes.
But that was only the beginning.
In the next breath, the crowd erupted into motion. White placards were raised, A2-sized boards held high by hundreds of hands. The colors undulated, a wave in the ocean of people. More and more joined in, a hundred, five hundred, a thousand—until Highland North Street was awash with the movement, a river of devotion flowing endlessly.
A celebration. A festival. A revelation.
This was not mere admiration; this was something grander, something deeper—fierce, wild, and unyielding. The makeshift signs were nothing more than cardboard, the messages handwritten and unpolished. Yet together, they formed an unstoppable force, a tsunami of passion and belief crashing down upon the world.
"Master: I heard you."
"Master: I heard you."
"Master: I heard you."
Every single sign bore the same message, different handwriting, different colors, different styles, yet identical in meaning. And behind them, faces—earnest, unwavering, glowing with determination. Their words shimmered in the night, carving a path forward, illuminating a dream, guiding a soul toward freedom.
Keep going.
Renly's fingers curled into a fist, tightening with silent force. The weight of two lifetimes, the rigid expectations of aristocracy, all of it—shattered in this moment. He was not alone.
His voice, his struggle, his pain, his defiance—they heard it all. Just like the album Don Quixote, these people had listened, had felt, had understood. They were here, standing with him, echoing his voice back to him, amplifying it into something greater than himself.
He was not alone.
If Heather were here, she wouldn't have cried. No—she would have cheered, arms raised high, voice ringing out with the crowd. She would have laughed, bright and fearless, before diving headfirst into the sea of people, shouting at the top of her lungs:
"Renly, I hear you!"
A melody drifted through his mind, soft yet powerful:
If they say, who cares if another light goes out?
If it's twinkling, twinkling under the stars?
Who cares when someone's time runs out?
If we're just drops in the ocean, let's hurry up, hurry up...
Who cares if another light goes out?
I do.
The song wove itself through his thoughts, the river of humanity before him shimmering like a constellation brought to life. Among them, he saw her—Heather, laughing, dancing, radiant beneath the stars.
A single light extinguished. Would anyone care? A fleeting life, lost in the vastness of existence—would it matter?
But he cared.
That fragile light had once illuminated his world, had guided him through the darkness. That warmth had become an unshakable belief within him.
"Yes, I care."
The music surged, a crescendo in his chest, burning with an untamed energy. And this time, he did not falter. His vision blurred with unshed tears, but they did not fall. His lips curled into a smile—bright, unrestrained, dazzling. For the first time, truly and freely, he smiled.
His fist tightened once more. He could feel it—the light still there, still burning, still his.
Bradley Adams stood amid the storm, deafened by silence.
Around him, the world roared. Cheers thundered, signs waved, voices surged. Yet in his ears, there was only quiet. A hush that numbed him, that held him captive in the face of something indescribable.
Even the seasoned reporters, those who had seen it all, stood frozen. The chaos, the frenzy, the magnitude of the moment—it rendered them speechless.
Bradley's eyes found him—Renly, standing still, composed amid the tempest. A three-piece black suit, white shirt, nothing extravagant, nothing ostentatious. Yet, in its perfect fit, its tailored elegance, there was something undeniable.
Refinement. Poise. Power.
From the sleek cut of the suit to the navy plaid socks peeking beneath the hem, from the silver chain of a pocket watch to the crest-engraved cufflinks—every detail whispered aristocracy, but it was not nobility of blood that made Renly stand apart.
It was presence. A quiet, commanding presence that made the ordinary extraordinary.
And then, those eyes—
In the gleam of unshed tears, in the brilliance of an unguarded smile, was something that caught Bradley's breath. Something raw. Something eternal.
Here stood a man who had weathered storms, who had been broken and reforged, who had walked through fire and emerged radiant. The world had tried to crush him, but instead, it had polished him to brilliance.
A diamond formed under pressure.
Instinctively, Bradley pressed the shutter, capturing the moment in time.
And for the first time that evening, the Oscars were forgotten. The grandest ceremony in Hollywood, the event of the year—it had become an afterthought.
Because Renly had stolen the night.
Even on the red carpet, as Brad and Angelina gave their interviews, the cameras drifted, the hosts faltered. The real story was not on the carpet.
It was here.
Renly took a step—not toward the stage, not toward the grandeur of the Academy, but toward his people. He moved through the sea of devotion, the waves parting for him, a quiet laughter escaping his lips.
And then, he raised a hand in greeting, voice warm with sincerity:
"Hey, I heard it too."