The orchestra hall is located on the first underground floor of the dungeon. It's the first time I've gone down alone and my tails seem quieter than usual. They float without ringing any bells.
There is no electric-magic light but there are some unconsumable lamps on the walls. The same goes for chandeliers. As well as the street lamps of the Ocean.
This is because they work with the magic of the host.
[Will-o'-the-wisp] makes the room light up blue.
Wisps are faint, more like glows than true lights. The room is large and mostly dark.
Walking down the steps to the stage, I feel my body tiring more than normal. The head is heavy.
Weird.
Ci-cin.
I didn't use much magic today. A few [Dungeon paths], [Will-o'-the-wisp] twice, and one [Judgment].
The last one is a [skill] of [Empress] and consumes neither [ap], nor [hp], or [ip].
[Dungeon path] consumes only one [ap] per floor if moving between floors. However, going to and returning from home consumes nothing.
Hmm, for now I only went to the desert, to the abyss, and here. But always intermediating from home. So, it can't be [Dungeon path].
Only [Will-o'-the-wisp] remains. But it's strange, it didn't tire me in the abyss before. And yes, the street lamps are more numerous than the lamps in this room.
Let's check.
“Open.”
The grimoire appears and opens to a blank page.
The ink begins to trace a series of lines and the novelty becomes clear.
[Will-o'-the-wisp] is no longer at [1] but at [2].
“Oh, I’ll investigate Will-o'-the-wisp.”
Ink grants my wish.
[Will-o'-the-wisp] [mastery: 2]
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[element: Magic] [target: 1 or more]
[ap: 1*sec.] [damage: 100*sec.]
[mastery: 1] generates one or more cold magical flames within one mile of the caster. The caster may not see the target (or targets), as long as it knows where it is located.
By using magic on over a thousand targets in the space of an hour, the caster is now able to channel the flame more quickly.
[mastery: 2] makes [Will-o'-the-wisp] faster by switching between [*hour] and [*sec.] measures.
I close the book and stop channeling the spell.
The lights go out.
[Cosmic regeneration] kicks in and I recover all my max values. It takes a few moments and I feel good.
It's a shame that the ability doesn't work while I'm using magic.
In any case, I decide to turn on the lamps gradually, turning them off as I pass.
I reach the stage and turn on the lights at the edge. It's dark, but I glimpse the dark armchairs and the curtain. The flames reflect on the dusty wooden planks.
Ci-cin.
«Crick-crick-crick.»
Insects eat the boards constantly. They are termites, sometimes also cockroaches and worms. There is no shortage of insects, the Underwasteland is full of them.
They also arrive from the membrane, dead from the most various causes, but they have no status. Nor should they be judged.
They fall and dig into the desert, descending the dungeon on their own. It doesn't matter what insects they are; I couldn't even name them all.
They dig.
In the sand. In the rock.
They dig by scratching and chewing.
The dungeon repairs itself. It is not perishable. However, it is not an instantaneous process. Intricate systems of tunnels or colonies of dead insect swarms may be formed.
They swarm to find the way.
They go to the Ocean. Like my father and my ancestors.
Ci-cin.
But it doesn't matter. Their digging doesn't disturb me and, in fact, is sometimes heartening. Inside the dungeon, I am not alone, ever.
What I like about this room is one thing.
I drop to my knees. The boards creak and my tails sway.
I turn off the lights and take a moment to rest.
With ears pricked, I listen to the sounds of the darkness and wait for [Cosmic regeneration] to run its course.
I need all the energy to perform the piece correctly.
Relaxed, I stand up. [Will-o'-the-wisp] turns on the spotlight above the stage and illuminates a grand piano. My father said it was for a concert and he taught me that concerts are done for the public.
In that case, he was talking about humans, but there are no humans here.
But I still have an audience: insects.
Ci-cin.
I sit on the studded leather stool and lift the lid. Dust and ash flutter and the keys are so dusty that they barely reflect the blue light.
“A~.”
I play an A and try to understand if it is in tune with my singing.
It's not that it's useful. The piano is always in its best condition, like everything else. Even if I forget it, it will return to its original tuning within a few hours.
I put my foot on the pedal, cool as always, and start playing.
My father was really good. In ten thousand years he has managed to master countless instruments.
I'm not that versatile, not yet.
But I like the piano and I let the notes flow.
Without odors, without heat, the Underwasteland however has excellent acoustics and, I am sure, the insects in the room can hear.
My fingers run and run smoothly, even my tails become quiet at this moment.
Tiredness sets in, just as the song is about to end, so my [ap] won't hold [Will-o'-the-wisp] for long.
But I want to finish.
I'm tired.
I'll catch up later.
It's just that…
…I am sleepy.