Chapter Text
The last thing Wumuti remembered was the heat of the stage lamps pressing down like midsummer hands. The roar of the crowd—thousands of voices rising in a single wave—had engulfed the band as they launched into their final encore. “Midnight Radio,” their biggest hit, a shimmering anthem of longing and resilience. Hyun’s fingers danced across the guitar strings, a blur of intent, while Haru hammered out the rhythm on the drums with a force that shook the very floorboards. Rui’s voice, that velvet thunder, rose above the din, wrapping around every soul in the stadium.
Then—light. Not stage light, not the warm amber of home, but something vast and white, like the inside of a dream.
And silence.
Not the absence of noise, but the fullness of it—the quiet that fills a world holding its breath.
When Wumuti opened his eyes, the crowd was gone.
So was the city.
So was everything.
He lay on soft ground, covered in moss so thick it felt like a mattress woven by elves. Above him, the sky wasn’t blue, nor gray, nor any color he could name. It pulsed gently, a slow kaleidoscope of shifting pastels—lavender melting into buttery gold, then fading into seafoam green. Trees towered around him, their trunks spiraled like corkscrews and their leaves glowing faintly, as though lit from within. The air smelled of honey and pine, with a hint of something floral and unfamiliar, like crushed stardust.
“Hello?” Wumuti croaked, pushing himself up. His guitar lay beside him, still slung over his shoulder as if he’d been asleep mid-concert. The strap was intact. The strings, unbroken. He plucked one note—A—and the sound seemed to linger longer than it should, shimmering in the air like a hummingbird’s wing.
From his left came a groan.
“Ugh… did we… did we finally drink ourselves into another dimension?”
That was Rui, sprawled beneath a weeping willow with silver bark. He sat up slowly, brushing strands of violet moss from his sleeveless jacket. His dreadlocks were wild, as though wind had swept through them in his sleep. He blinked at the sky. “Okay. Either I’m tripping harder than I ever have, or I need a serious vacation.”
“Rui!” Wumuti scrambled over. “Are you all right?”
“Define ‘all right,’” Rui muttered, rubbing his temples. “I feel like I was thrown into a kaleidoscope and spun for three hours. But hey, at least the hangover’s not kicking in yet.”
Then another sound—a metallic clink. Haru sat up, blinking behind his drumsticks, which he still clutched in white-knuckled fists. He looked around, disoriented.
“This isn’t the green room,” he said flatly.
“Nope,” Wumuti agreed.
Haru stood, scanning the forest. “And unless someone redecorated with bioluminescent ferns, this isn’t anywhere on Earth.”
Nearby, a bush rustled. Hyun emerged, brushing glittering pollen from his leather jacket. His eyes—usually sharp as flint—were wide with wonder. “Guys… the world changed.”
They gathered in a loose circle, the four of them—Wumuti with his bass, Rui with his voice still hoarse from last night’s performance, Haru with the steady heartbeat of the drums, and Hyun, the quiet flame of melody. Xlov. Once just a band from Seoul with a cult following and a penchant for genre-bending folk-rock, now… something else.
“Do you remember anything?” Rui asked. “After the last note?”
Wumuti shook his head. “Just light. Then sleep.”
“I was reaching for the high note in the bridge,” Rui said, “and then—nothing. Like someone pressed pause.”
Hyun ran a hand through his hair. “The sound… it changed. At the end. It wasn’t just music. It felt… alive.”
Haru exhaled sharply. “You’re saying our final chord opened a portal?”
“It’s insane,” Wumuti admitted, “but look around. This isn’t Earth. The trees breathe. The air sings. We’re not just lost. We’ve been… invited.”
“Or kidnapped,” Haru grumbled.
A bird—or something resembling one—flew overhead. Its wings were translucent, like stained glass, and as it passed, it left behind a trail of soft chimes. Rui watched it vanish into the treetops. “I don’t know about kidnapped,” he said slowly. “This place feels… kind. Like it’s been waiting.”
They decided to walk.
The forest welcomed them. Paths appeared where there had been none, winding through groves of whispering trees. Flowers bloomed at their passing, curling open like shy children peeking from behind a door. Once, Wumuti reached down to touch a bloom shaped like a tiny bell. It chimed, and a ripple of light spread through the nearby plants, as if announcing their arrival.
“Music,” Hyun murmured. “Everything here responds to music.”
They walked for what felt like hours, though the sky never darkened. Time itself seemed luxuriant, flowing like honey. Eventually, they reached a clearing where a river of liquid light flowed—silver and shimmering, casting reflections that didn’t quite match their faces. In the reflections, Wumuti saw himself younger, with a crown of vines. Rui was robed in feathers. Hyun, eyes glowing. Haru—his drumsticks now long, gnarled staves.
The river sang.
Not in words, but in tone—a melody without lyrics, yet full of meaning. Haru sat by the bank and dipped his fingers in. The water hummed, and a single, pure note rang out. He pulled his hand back, startled.
“That’s… my tuning note,” he said, awed. “Exactly.”
They followed the river.