Chapter 184: Performance

**Chapter 184: The Performance**

Percy sat quietly in the rocky brook. The banquet had long since ended, and the elves had all departed. Distant treehouses flickered with scattered lights, leaving the valley silent and empty.

Dew had soaked the hem of his robe, chilling his skin. It wasn’t until the morning star appeared in the distant sky that Percy lowered his hands and picked up the lyre from the ground.

The strings, woven from mulberry silk, had grown soft and damp from the mist, making the sound muffled and unfit for music.

He cradled the lyre in his arms and rose to return to his dwelling. As he stood before the mirror and reached up to remove his crown, he froze.

At the edge of the crown, a single leaf was tucked—a Mother Tree leaf.

This leaf was unlike any other in the forest. Its veins pulsed with a faint golden light, as though liquid gold coursed through them. The edges were adorned with intricate patterns. In all the forest, only the Mother Tree bore leaves like this.

But the Mother Tree? It never shed its leaves, nor did it ever wither. How had this one come to rest atop his crown?

Percy studied it for a long time before noticing a strange tingling on his chest and shoulder blades. When he reached to touch them, he found two more fallen leaves.

This could only be divine will.

Eluvier hadn’t come to the Festival, yet had bestowed three leaves from the sacred tree.

…What did it mean?

Across two lifetimes, this was the first time Percy had ever received the gaze of the divine. And the only variable… Percy’s gaze drifted downward, settling on his attire—this scandalously revealing outfit that bared his chest and back.

Was the deity displeased, reprimanding him for his lack of propriety? Or… was there perhaps the slightest hint of favor?

By then, the rising sun had painted the horizon red, and the sounds of elves stirring began to drift in from outside. The elven race was not one to indulge in sleep; they were accustomed to waking with the dawn. Even after the previous night’s Festival, once the sun rose, they resumed their activities.

Kemi knocked again on the Elven King’s door.

Percy carefully placed the three leaves between the pages of a book, then locked it away in the bookshelf.

Kemi, the captain of the elven guard, was responsible for part of the Festival preparations, but his greater duty lay in patrol and defense. When he saw Percy, he looked concerned. “My King, have you not slept all night?”

Percy shook his head. “I’m fine. After last night’s Festival, has there been any unrest among the people?”

Kemi shrugged. “Same old gossip, you know how it is. Lord Eluvier has refused to appear for so long that there’s already plenty of murmurs. And with the deity absent from last night’s banquet, the elders are saying all sorts of things—some even want to hold a vote to remove you.”

Percy asked, “What about the Withering creeping inward?”

When Eluvier still presided over the land, the pine mountains had been safe from the Withering’s corruption. But now, with the deity in seclusion, the vegetation at the outskirts had begun to wither, and creatures large and small had migrated inward. It’s still under control, but…

In Percy’s past life, by the time he was exiled, the Withering’s spread had grown severe. He had tried to mitigate it, but with little success.

Kemi sighed. “We’ve posted elves in shifts to chant purification spells, but the border still advanced another twenty centimeters yesterday. Beyond that, both the dwarves and the dragons have sent word—their territories are also suffering from the Withering’s encroachment. Right now, the pine mountains are still a sanctuary, but beyond them, it’s total chaos.”

He added wearily, “Nothing grows in the soil anymore. More people starve than there are grains on the stalks. Purification charms cost a fortune now. The human kingdoms have begged us for aid, asking us to send elves to purify their lands—but we’re barely holding on ourselves. If Lord Eluvier still refuses to descend, things will collapse. Ah, and—My King, what of the divine oracle the day after tomorrow?”

By elven tradition, after the Festival, Elu would summon the Elven King beneath the Mother Tree to relay the year’s decrees—everything from forecasts of storms and cold snaps to measures against pests and wildfires. For a thousand years, the elves had lived under the god’s meticulous protection, never once left without the god’s word.

But as things stood now, it seemed unlikely the deity would summon the Elven King or deliver any oracle at all.

Kemi muttered, "The elders in the council will surely come up with all sorts of nonsense again. Your Majesty, you must keep an eye on them—they’re all itching to exile you. Honestly, you’ve done far better than several of your predecessors."

Percy smiled faintly. "Perhaps that’s for the best."

Kemi blinked. "What?"

Percy said calmly, "Exile."

He was not favored by the deity—that was an indisputable truth. The Withering threatened Pine Mountain—plain fact. The elves needed Elu’s protection—simple reality.

If his departure could bring the deity’s return, then all the better.

In his past life, Percy had fought tooth and nail, yet the outcome had been no different. This time, if there was no need, he wouldn’t suffer needlessly.

Even as he thought this, his gaze drifted unconsciously toward the bookshelf, where three leaves of the Mother Tree lay quietly pressed between the pages. Percy drifted into reverie, his grip on the book tightening unconsciously.

After a long silence, he let out a bitter laugh and lowered his eyelids.

Kemi gasped, opening his mouth to speak, but Percy already knew what he would say. Not wanting to dwell on it, he cut him off. "Enough. I’m tired and need to prepare for tonight’s divine decree. You can go now."

Once Percy made a decision, he never changed it. Kemi had no choice but to swallow his words. "Then, for tonight’s Festival, which crown and robes should I prepare?"

Percy’s gaze flickered briefly. "Last night’s will do."

Whether good or bad, it was the first time he had received the deity’s attention.

And so, that evening, the Elven King, cradling a silver harp, walked alone to the foot of the Mother Tree.

He gathered his robes gracefully and sat cross-legged on the ground, cradling the harp against his chest. The strings had been replaced that afternoon with the finest silkworm silk, producing a clear, resonant tone. Percy lowered his eyes, fingers brushing over the strings, and began to play.

The notes cascaded like water from the Elven King’s fingertips—a hymn in praise of the divine. This was the very first piece Percy had learned on the harp, and over the years, he had played it hundreds, if not thousands, of times. Every subtle nuance of the strings was etched into his memory, the song now second nature. His fingers moved as if guided by memory itself, playing the piece over and over.

And so, beneath the Mother Tree, the golden-haired elf in pure white robes cradled the harp in his arms, his lowered eyes and deft fingers plucking the strings while his thoughts wandered far away.

He remembered when he had first learned the harp.

Percy was driven, insisting on perfection in everything he did. He might not have been the most naturally gifted, but he had become the finest harpist among the elves. When every note became instinctive, even the elves’ strictest musicians could find no flaw. His teacher had often marveled at his playing, saying it was rich and layered, his technique flawless—as if he were born to perform at the Festival, to offer music to the divine.

Yet, the deity had shown no favor.

The music did not falter despite the player’s melancholy. Every note was precise, filled with devotion and purity. And high above, the moment the first note sounded, Elu paused in his work.

The deity had been researching and refining a spell to purify the Withering.

Purification was effortless for Elu, but at best, he could only protect the heart of Pine Mountain. To safeguard the entire mountain and beyond, he needed a more efficient incantation. Moreover, the elves were few in number, far too few to combat the Withering spreading across the land. The spell had to be universal—something even races with weak spiritual power could learn.

Deities were born with an innate mastery of divine words, as natural to them as breathing. But crafting a spell usable by other races was no easy task.

Elu had spent the entire afternoon experimenting, yet every attempt had failed. Sixty-six perched on his shoulder as the deity rested his chin in his hand, his long silver hair tangled from restless fingers, some strands standing on end, giving him a disheveled look.

After staring at the incantation for a long while, a shadow of frustration crossed his otherwise impassive eyes. Finally, Elu set down the quill—made from a red-billed blue magpie’s tail feather—sharply onto the table and leaned back into his wicker chair.

Just then, the music floated up to him.

This was the time when he was supposed to deliver the divine decree.

But Elu could do nothing. He could only stand and walk to the edge of the canopy.

Through a gossamer veil, he saw the elf playing below.

It was Percy.

When he got a clear look, the deity choked.

Why was Percy dressed like this to play music for him?

66's storyline didn't specify Percy's attire, only describing it with the adjective "elegant and proper." Yet the Elven King still wore yesterday's ceremonial robes—his shoulder blades and back fully exposed. The elegant curve of his delicate shoulder blades flowed seamlessly into the slim lines of his waist. The deity paused subtly, debating whether to drop another leaf.

But what if Percy himself liked dressing this way, wearing it two days in a row?

Elu was a liberal-minded deity. Elves were free to choose their clothing style—he wouldn’t interfere with their normal preferences.

Besides, those three leaves had been taken away and not returned to him.

The divine tree did not shed leaves; each one was part of the deity’s very being. Though they seemed plentiful, like human hair, losing too many would distress Elu.

So, after a subtle pause, the deity did nothing.

Elu sat cross-legged against the magical barrier, resting his forehead in one hand, closing his eyes to enjoy the music.

Percy’s skill was exceptional—the melody was crisp and lovely, reminiscent of a babbling mountain stream or birds flitting through the woods. Elu’s throbbing headache eased slightly. The system 66 nestled against its host and let out a small “Wow”: “Host, your Elven King plays so beautifully.”

A faint smile touched Elu’s lips.

Leaning against the table, he listened with closed eyes for a while before suddenly frowning.

The music had gone on far too long.

According to 66’s novel, this was just one of Percy’s routine ceremonies during his reign—the deity still didn’t appear. He played two pieces as usual, then took his leave.

But now, it was well beyond two pieces.

The deity’s brow furrowed as his gaze fell on the Elven King’s fingertips—now red and swollen, as if a little more playing would break the skin and draw blood.

In the original storyline, only during Percy’s final Festival, when he was in utter despair and about to be exiled from the elven clan, did he play like this for the deity—all through the night, until the strings loosened, the silk tore, and the music bled like a dying lament.

But this time, the melody remained serene and steady, yet the Elven King sat beneath the tree, tirelessly playing piece after piece.

…*Why?*