The grandest concert of the evening was held as scheduled, but this was not without Shiller's silent contributions.
Spending half the afternoon, Shiller had nearly sorted out the relationships between the various factions that were running amok in Gotham.
Bruce was misled by him to confront the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the FBI sought to tackle Oliver and the KGB, the magician had problems with the mercenary and the killer, the mercenary and the killer harbored a deep hatred for the FBI, Deathstroke's primary target shifted from Spider-Man to Batman, and Batman, true to his original intentions, wanted to launch a major strike against the FBI.
So they chased one after another, but due to interference from others, no one could catch up, and in the process of settling scores, they involved a large area, resulting in more vendettas and falling into a vicious cycle.
In such a situation, any radical measures taken could easily backfire, because no matter which side you hit, they'd think you were sent by the opposition, then they would seek revenge with even more vigor.
Shiller's solution was simple and efficient—sending all students in Gotham on vacation early.
Gotham University's policy for vacations during the music festival was to have holidays only when there were major event performances, and at other times, leaving campus was not allowed for safety considerations.
Since the concert was held in the evening, they were only allowed to leave campus then, but Shiller let them out in the afternoon.
The reason this method was efficient was that these were thousands of teenagers letting loose at the same time with excitement, turning Gotham into a place that even demons would flee upon seeing.
In a beachside bar, Lucifer leaned on the counter, looking at the dismal sales and sighed helplessly.
His phone rang at this moment, and when he picked up, he was surprised to hear Shiller's voice on the other end, though not arrogant.
"Why do you have time to call me?" Lucifer asked, "Those three unfortunate souls have started giving economic lectures in Hell, leaving a way for the demons of the cosmos to live, no?"
"Whatever they want to do is their business, but I'm calling to remind you of something, you better close your bar now, stop receiving any guests, no matter what, don't let them in."
"Why?" Lucifer asked, somewhat puzzled.
"Because there's a huge wave of guests heading toward the beach."
"Isn't that better?" Lucifer said happily, "Business has been bad these past few days, and I've been worrying."
"But they are very crazy."
"Crazier than you?" Lucifer snorted coldly and said, "Didn't you say as long as it makes money, you'd do any business?"
What Lucifer didn't expect was for the call to be abruptly disconnected, as if Shiller didn't want to say another word to him.
Lucifer felt a bit moody but also developed a contrary mindset, thinking, I won't close up, I want to see just how crazy it can get.
Soon the bar was filled with guests, and Lucifer could tell from their behavior that they were most likely students.
He felt he got on well with young people, so he warmly welcomed the guests. At first, all was well, with guests on the sofas quietly drinking and those on the dance floor moving their hips, dancing to the music.
But soon, things started to take a wrong turn.
Men and women on the sofas were getting closer the more they drank. While hugging and cuddling in a bar was normal, some looked like they wanted to engage in zero-distance communication.
Lucifer wasn't exactly a saint who felt the need to manage these affairs, until he saw someone pull out a bag of powder from their pocket.
Although cannabis was illegal, Lucifer wasn't a human, let alone a human policeman, so he really didn't need to care—until he was slung an arm around and coaxed into taking a hit.
Lucifer wasn't a coward, but if God happened to be watching him at that moment, him taking that hit would mean everyone in the bar would be struck by God's wrath.
After declining the invitation, Lucifer decided to check out the dance floor. As soon as he reached the edge, his eyes dazzled by the lights, a girl clung to him. Lucifer turned to look and saw she was naked.
Lucifer wasn't so conservative; after all, he changed girlfriends more frequently than bars, but the problem was that the girl was covered in goth tattoos, with glazed eyes and a clouded mind from being high.
What really made Lucifer consider leaving was the nearly covered track marks on her arms. Lucifer had never personally tested whether angels could contract AIDS, and he didn't plan to find out the hard way.
Moving a bit towards the center, things became somewhat more normal, but as soon as Lucifer reached the densely packed area, he felt his buttocks touched. He turned around to see a muscular black man looking at him with a smile.
Lucifer glared at him but thought better of making a fuss, considering the bar had welcomed so many guests for the first time in a while, and took two more steps— only to be hugged by a drunken guest.
Lucifer dodged in an instant; he swore he hadn't laid a hand on the drunkard—a man who clearly had drunk too much to stand steadily. Yet the moment the man fell and hit his head on the ground, Lucifer felt as though he were standing right at the center of the World Boxing Championship stage.
All around him, everyone cleared space with a burst of speed faster than thunder, their screams, shouts, cheers, and some incessantly howling for him to throw another punch—a beautiful left hook, followed by a suplex!
Caught in the midst of this chaos, Lucifer was somewhat at a loss. It was then that a hot beauty leaned in to wrap her arms around him, kissing him on the lips, and said, "Old rules, the winner takes home the party queen. Come on, handsome, show me what you've got."
Lucifer wanted to say, "My skills are tremendous," but as a bar owner, no matter what, he couldn't just start throwing punches at his guests in the bar, could he?
He could certainly win if he fought, but beating up a bunch of human youngsters would be disgraceful, even in victory. If Michael heard of it, Lucifer would be the butt of his jokes for at least 2000 years.
Lucifer sighed, waved his hand dismissively, and walked away. Everyone around him let out disappointed groans. Just when he thought it was all over, the drunkard staggered to his feet, actually believing Lucifer had hit him, seized a bottle from the side and threw it at Lucifer.
Of course, the bottle couldn't possibly hit its mark. It smashed against the corner of the wall where, by some twisted stroke of fate, someone high on drugs was trying to light a cigarette, igniting half the bar with the flick of a Bic.
Lucifer's bar was fireproof, but it was protected against magic energy, designed to prevent demonic flames from igniting within. However, having rarely done human business, it wasn't safeguarded against physical fire-starting.
Lucifer attempted to put out the fire with a wave of his hand, but in the next second, he was staggered by the women who had thrown themselves at him. The others were acting as if they were at some kind of party, piling on one after the other.
Crushed under the weight, Lucifer roared, "My bar!!!"
Such sights were unfolding all over the city; you name it, battle-hardened mercenary killers, skilled and seasoned agents, mages with remarkable abilities, all of them were being chased by these crazy teenagers.
Killing wasn't impossible, nor was subduing them difficult, but as soon as you stopped, intending to take action, you'd inevitably be surrounded, and your predicament would be no different from being encircled by zombies.
The youths of Gotham were even more formidable, partly because those present might actually have less criminal experience than them, and partly because they had been restrained in schools for too long, each dying to let loose with a grand display, and suddenly, it seemed like there were Jokers everywhere, and even the kings of wish granter fountains would avoid them.
But regardless, the troublemakers from outside Gotham had calmed down, leaving behind only the locals. The chaos caused by outsiders was merely dangerous, but the antics of the locals were one of Gotham's tourist attractions, and thus, the situation was eventually handled successfully.
When the evening concert began, all the heavyweight guests were present, including Shiller—and the one who had arrived was Arrogant. This was probably the only concert he intended to attend in full.
In each song that rose from the ruins, the significance of the drum beats transcended rhythm, resembling a morning bell tolling as the misty sun rises from the rubble, while the connotations of the melodies extended beyond music, akin to cheering, shouting, or even the first cry that the long evolutionary process couldn't eradicate.
The most romantic part about humans chasing a sun they can never catch is their footprints.
This concert was the first footprint left by a city still learning to walk, with a long way to go from the sun, and a long road underfoot. But what truly inspired our ancestors to learn to run was the wonderful feeling the first time their soles touched firm earth.
Standing among the crowd, Shiller took some time to adjust to the noise that permeated the Tower of Thought, a din he had never experienced before.
The term "adjust" should not even appear in the life of someone with autism. They cannot break any existing routine; even if their body lands firmly, their spirit will fly further away.
Something has to pull their spirit back, to stop them from being birds chasing the sun, to make them stand upright and walk, possessing not just the sky but also the earth, sharing the path with their own kind.
Then on this island, far from all continents, the convergence of gravel, spring water, and forests, and the dark mountains standing in the distance, began to thrive with fresh life brought by the wind-carried soil, water droplets, and seeds.
And then he, like any other person, could devoutly appreciate the grandeur of nature's creation; humbly content with all that he possessed.
"I didn't think this would work," said Arrogant.
"You mean we took another step towards ordinary people?" Greed leaned on the railing and said.
"I meant that you managed to pull off this concert successfully," Arrogant continued. "I thought I'd come back to ruins."
"It wasn't that bad," Greed replied.
The morning after the concert ended, Arrogant discovered Greed was right.
The good news: Gotham didn't become ruins.
The bad news: The Metropolis Stock Exchange dumped 15.2 million shares that day, with stocks plummeting more than 25%.
Fall of 1996, Black Wednesday arrived, and another Great Depression began in America.
(Volume Three: Chasing the Sun, The End)