The lights were blinding.
The cameras flashed like lightning, the crowd screamed his name, and the giant screen behind him read:
**"Debut Stage — Lian: Echoes of the Sky."**
Months of training.
Years of dreaming.
And now, he was here — standing on the same kind of stage he'd once watched Rian rule.
The intro started — soft piano, a faint echo of wind. The melody he'd rebuilt from Rian's flash drive played through the speakers.
Every note felt like memory.
Every lyric tasted like goodbye.
But as he sang, something changed.
Halfway through the second verse, the nerves faded. The lights, the cameras, even the audience — they blurred away until there was only him and the song. The one Rian had left behind.
His voice cracked once — not from weakness, but from too much truth.
When the final note ended, the silence that followed felt sacred.
Then, the arena erupted.
Fans cheered. Lights exploded. The host ran up with a mic, voice shaking with excitement.
"That was incredible! Lian, how does it feel to finally debut?"
He smiled — small, genuine. "Like I finally found my voice again."
What he didn't say was: *Because it used to belong to someone else.*
---
That night, the video hit ten million views in twelve hours.
"Echoes of the Sky" charted across platforms.
Lian's name flooded social media — the "new era of artistry," the "rookie of the year."
But in his small dorm room, it didn't feel real.
He sat by the window, earbuds in, replaying the live recording.
There, faintly between the notes — if you listened close enough — was the original harmony Rian had written.
He smiled through tears. "You'd probably say I messed up the bridge again," he whispered.
Then his phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
> *Not bad for a rookie.*
Lian froze.
The air left his lungs.
He typed quickly.
> *Rian?*
A pause. Then:
> *You made the song yours. Proud of you.*
His fingers trembled.
> *Where are you?*
No reply.
Just a second message:
> *Look up the midnight release by "Vale." Tomorrow.*
Then the chat went silent.
---
The next night, Lian waited.
11:58 PM.
He refreshed the streaming app again and again, until—
**"Vale — Starlight Requiem (feat. Nova)."**
His heart stopped.
He hit play.
The song began with a deep synth line, cold and haunting — pure Rian.
But the vocals weren't his. It was a duet. A new singer — someone soft, ethereal, Omega-coded. Their voices blended perfectly, weaving emotion and ache into every lyric.
Still, buried beneath the mix, Lian recognized it — the same production tone, the same reverb Rian always used for his harmonies.
It was him.
Rian was back.
And this time, he wasn't just making music. He was *making a statement.*
---
Two days later, rumors started again.
> "Who is Nova?"
> "Vale's mysterious new collaborator?"
> "Hidden messages in 'Starlight Requiem' lyrics?"
The company called Lian into a meeting.
"We want you to record a new single," the manager said. "We need to keep up momentum. This Vale comeback is pulling too much attention."
Lian frowned. "Why do we care what another label releases?"
"Because he used to be *ours,*" the manager snapped. "And the fans are connecting dots. We need to own the narrative."
Own the narrative.
That's all it ever was to them.
But to Lian, it was more.
It was a voice calling to him through the static.
---
That night, he sneaked out again.
Hoodie up, mask on, slipping through side streets until he reached the small, dim-lit café where underground artists performed.
And there — under blue light, guitar in hand — was Rian.
He looked different now.
Free.
The crowd wasn't big — maybe fifty people — but every single one was listening, swaying quietly.
When Rian looked up, his eyes found Lian instantly, like he'd known he'd come.
He didn't stop singing.
But his voice softened, every lyric suddenly heavier, gentler — like the song had shifted just for him.
> *We built a dream in borrowed rooms,*
> *Sang under skies that never bloomed.*
> *If this is goodbye, then let it be bright—*
> *I'll meet you again, under different light.*
Lian's chest ached.
He didn't clap.
He didn't move.
He just listened.
When the song ended, Rian set his guitar down, nodded to the crowd, and walked straight toward him.
"Thought you'd show up," he said quietly.
"You could've told me," Lian whispered.
"I did. I just didn't say *where.*"
Lian laughed — watery, breathless. "You really don't make things easy."
Rian's mouth curved. "Neither do you."
They stood there, the noise of the world muffled around them.
For a long time, neither spoke.
Then Rian reached out — not to touch, just close enough that Lian could feel the warmth of his hand.
"I'm building something new," Rian said softly. "My own label. Real artists. No cages. I want you in it."
Lian's breath caught. "You're serious?"
"I don't joke about music."
"But I just debuted—"
"Then make them see you can choose who you sing for."
Lian looked at him — really looked — and saw everything he'd been missing since that rooftop: conviction, warmth, quiet fire.
The kind that didn't fade when the lights went out.
---
By the time dawn touched the city, they were still sitting outside that café, talking about chords, lyrics, futures.
And somewhere between laughter and silence, the world felt right again — messy, uncertain, but real.
For the first time, Lian didn't feel like a trainee or a project.
He felt like an artist.
He felt seen.
And Rian, watching him under the soft pink sunrise, smiled like he already knew this was just the beginning of their second song.
---
**End of Chapter 11 — The Song We Both Forgot**
*To be continued…*
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