In the recovery hall.
All the races stopped their work, their eyes filled with respect tinged with a hint of fear, as they all watched the young man simultaneously.
Having mingled in the Kingdom of Chaos for so many years, they knew well of the kingdom's openness and the flourishing diversity of races, but they had never before seen a creature of his kind.
Dusk descended, painting the ghastly walls with the grandeur of a stage's curtain,
and standing in the center of the stage,
was An Su Moningsta.
He lifted his left hand slightly, like a proud conductor, drawing out rhythms and keeping the beat, his bluish-green eyes overlooking everything,
as if he was not standing in the dirty and cramped recovery hall, but in the music palace of the chaotic capital, playing a melody solely his own, his voice light as he began, the epitome of high art.
Oddly enough, the young man exuded a sort of divine radiance.
He had entered a critical rhythm.
