The Greatest Showman #1443 - Live Ammunition

"Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang..."

The dense and rapid drumbeats filled the air, showcasing Buddy Ritchie's incredible rhythm control and power. It was a continuous series of beats, yet each one was distinct, jumping and connecting with precision.

Like a summer rainstorm that abruptly arrives and quietly fades, the raindrops hit the sand, each creating its own pit in the ground. In the vast field of vision, all the pits are noticeable, yet each one stands out with clarity, forming an intricate pattern. It was magnificent in its grandeur and overwhelming in its intensity—like a musical storm that washed over you, forcing you to look up in awe. Even those who aren't familiar with drumming could sense the power in the rhythm.

And now, Andrew had to finish this "Whiplash" performance.

Renly was so absorbed in the music that he didn't notice the visitors who came to observe the class. Or perhaps, even if he did, he chose to ignore them. He had to stay focused on the performance, with no energy or time for socializing.

The "bang, bang, bang" of the drums slowed down, not because Buddy Ritchie had slowed, but because Renly's mind had entered an entirely different space. He could now perceive the musical patterns clearly, as if the tempo had been slowed two or three times. Each beat struck deeper, reverberating like a "dong, dong, dong," pounding on the chest.

Something shifted within him.

Before the inspiration slipped away, Renly sat up, moved to the back of the drum kit, and opened the "Whiplash" score. He reviewed it carefully, analyzed each beat in his mind, and grabbed his drumsticks. Taking a deep breath, he relaxed as much as possible.

And then, he started from the very beginning.

Not the complicated seventeenth section, but the very first measure.

The opening beats were simple, not too complex or difficult. The performance flowed smoothly. But after finishing the eighth bar, he paused, replayed it in his mind, and analyzed it again—

Was his rhythm exact? Was every sixteenth note aligned with the beat? Was the stroke clean, or was there any drag in the motion?

Fletcher's past lessons had taught him to reexamine himself at every step. Only by mastering the basics could he improve. Some may neglect the fundamentals, but for Renly, this was where he had to focus now.

After a moment of thought, he began again. His wrist and finger control became more delicate, but the force felt uneven. The sound of each beat shifted, as if the notes were irregular pearls falling on a jade plate. If all the beads were the same size, the sound would be smooth and even. But the variation in size introduced an unpredictable cadence.

Sometimes, this cadence was useful—creating harmony. Other times, it was a hindrance, like now.

For the second time, he paused again.

And then a third. Unexpectedly, the simple opening had become complicated.

"What the hell is he doing?" Damien muttered, watching from a distance. He was confused.

Damien was generally a calm, composed young man. His experience was evident in his shooting style, even in his second work, "Boom Drummer." He understood how to organize and control a scene. But now, as an unexpected problem arose, he found himself feeling impatient.

They were on a tight schedule at Juilliard, with every minute and second precious. Time was running out. To complete the shoot within the allotted time, they needed to pick up the pace. And yet, Damien couldn't help but feel anxious.

He knew what Renly was doing—he just didn't understand why. The difficult parts of the scene were ahead, not here. Renly was spending time rehearsing a section that wasn't the hard part.

"He's figuring out the character," Paul offered, reading the situation.

Damien nodded, but his impatience lingered. "I know, he's adjusting, trying to find Andrew's mindset. But the tough part is ahead. This section isn't the issue. He should be focusing on the later, more difficult segments."

Damien knew the whole story, every scene, and the structure. He understood Renly's actions, but couldn't grasp their necessity.

Because he was a director, not an actor.

Rooney, who didn't have the full context, observed Renly's actions and recalled a previous moment. "Earlier, did he… hit a setback? Is he struggling with confidence? Maybe that's why he's pushing himself so hard, seeking perfection."

"I can see Renly constantly revising his play, each time with slight differences," she continued.

Ryan, who had been a bit removed from the discussion, interjected, "Are you sure? Is it different every time?"

The tension broke as Rooney rolled her eyes, "Well, if you're not sure, maybe you should interrupt Renly's performance and ask him yourself?"

Ryan quickly surrendered and fell silent.

Rooney turned her attention back to Damien. "Renly doesn't waste time. Everything he does has meaning, even if the audience doesn't see it. For the character, it's crucial to the larger context. If we can, we should observe more closely—there might be something we're missing."

Damien paused, considering her words.

He knew that Renly's every move would make sense when viewed in the context of the whole story: Andrew was striving for perfection—not just in the difficult moments, but in every note. Each beat had to be flawless, impeccable, in order to silence Fletcher's criticism and prove to himself that he could achieve true mastery.

The drumbeats of "bang, bang, bang" continued. Damien, instead of growing frustrated, instructed everyone on set to remain quiet. He directed the cameraman to begin filming, capturing every moment. Whether they used the footage in post-production was a question for later.

After some time, Renly seemed to find his rhythm. A small change appeared on his face—though there was no smile, his eyes showed a growing confidence. He began to push toward the difficult sections.

Section seventeen.

Section eighteen.

Again and again, he struck the drums, repeating the section over a hundred times. Tirelessly, he searched for the spaces between the sixteenth notes, constantly refining the tempo. Without the pressure of Fletcher looming over him, Renly's mind was clear. He focused, listened, and sculpted the rhythm with precision, like chiseling away at a block of stone.

Time passed unnoticed.

The practice room door was packed with people, yet the whole floor was silent, as though even breathing had stopped. All eyes were on Renly.

Thirty minutes had passed, yet Renly showed no signs of fatigue. His shirt, his hair, and the drums were soaked in sweat, but the determination in his eyes was unwavering.

No one seemed bored.

The onlookers were mesmerized, watching him play the same piece over and over, perfecting every detail. Even the cameraman had adjusted, setting up multiple cameras to document the process.

Suddenly, without warning, Renly raised his right hand and slapped his own face. A sharp "crack" echoed through the room.