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Chapter 170 – The Performance Ends, and the Ripples Begin
🕑 Added 2025-09-21 15:00:16 +0000 UTCWhen Aoki’s final note faded, the venue fell silent for a heartbeat.
Then—applause erupted like a sudden wave.
If Takashi Imai’s performance earlier had left the audience hesitating over their choice, then Kessoku Band’s I Once Thought About Ending It All had completely erased all doubt.
Every judge, every spectator, was thinking the same thing:
If KL Studio didn’t choose this song for their animated short, the producer must have something wrong with their ears.
Down in the audience, murmurs began to rise.
Niijima Yusuke looked thrilled as Kessoku Band stepped down from the stage, heading back toward the wings.
As for Takashi Imai—whose tears during the performance hadn’t gone unnoticed—he hesitated.
He wanted to meet Aoki and the others.
But with his eyes still red, and the sting of having just been defeated so decisively… he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it.
Still, he wasn’t idle.
Over the past few days, Imai had been keeping an eye on online discussions.
He hadn’t cared much about the arguments—whether people doubted him or sang his praises.
In music, talent and skill aren’t always easy to rank.
He’d heard Kessoku Band’s songs before, and even for him, some of them were untouchable masterpieces he could never hope to create.
But that didn’t mean he lacked confidence.
For this competition, he’d crafted a song perfectly suited to KL Studio’s project—lyrical, slow-paced, and rich with emotion.
From the start, he had aimed straight for victory.
That was why, even if he didn’t care much for online debates, he’d quietly appreciated the messages of support from his fans.
But today…
That quiet confidence had been crushed—utterly and without mercy.
Imai could take a loss.
Aoki probably didn’t care about the competition, didn’t even see him as a rival—but Imai had compared himself to Aoki in his heart.
And now, in an official competition, he’d been beaten so badly it felt like a landslide.
He had no choice but to acknowledge it—Kessoku Band, and Aoki in particular, had earned his complete respect.
So, instead of going backstage to greet them, he stepped outside to the venue’s front entrance.
Taking a deep breath, he pulled out his phone and opened Twitter.
He hesitated for a few seconds, thinking carefully, then began typing—a message that was part concession, part olive branch.
It took him about five minutes to finish.
At the same time…
It was the morning of the 14th, the final evaluation for KL Studio’s project.
Regular fans couldn’t watch the selection process live.
But because the topic had been blowing up online, countless people were eagerly waiting for any scrap of news.
And since it was a Sunday, plenty of bored fans were already camped out on Twitter, ready to pounce on the results the moment they dropped.
Except… before the official account posted anything, around 11 a.m., Takashi Imai’s personal account suddenly put out a tweet.
And when it went live, it left a lot of people stunned—especially those who’d doubted Kessoku Band, who’d assumed they couldn’t possibly create a masterpiece, and who had put all their faith in Imai.
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[Takashi Imai]:
My part in the competition is over. I was going to leave right away, but in the end, I stayed to listen to Kessoku Band’s performance.
I was proud of my song this time. But after hearing the piece Suki-san wrote, I was reminded—once again—that there’s always someone out there who’s better.
Only when you create from a place of true resonance and deep experience can you write the perfect song to match the theme. I’ve always believed that.
I don’t know what Suki-san has gone through to create music like this, but I can say with certainty that both the song and its creator carry that resonance in every note.
This is a piece that can truly move people.
I lost, without a doubt. Next time, I’ll work even harder.
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There was still a long way to go before the results were officially announced.
Under normal circumstances, Imai had no reason to post something like this so early—not when the rankings and final selection hadn’t been made public.
Which left only one conclusion—Kessoku Band’s performance had been that good.
Good enough to strip away any thoughts of rivalry.
Most people hadn’t expected that.
Within minutes, his tweet was flooded with comments—mostly from curious listeners demanding to know what the song sounded like.
A smaller number, however, expressed skepticism, posting replies questioning his words.
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“This whole project isn’t just for show, is it? The theme’s supposed to be ‘A song that makes people want to keep living and feel the beauty of life.’ What would some 18-year-old kid know about that?”
“I’m starting to think this is just a publicity stunt—something cooked up to boost Kessoku Band’s popularity.
I used to look forward to KL Corp’s events every few years, but now… looks like the money people have gotten their hands on it.”
“What kind of song could impress Imai Takashi so much? Even if it was rigged, this is over the top.”
“What life experience could he possibly have? And what’s with that ‘I don’t know what he’s been through’ line—he’s eighteen!”
“Imai Takashi, how much did they pay you?”
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Comments like these started making some fans—who had just begun feeling excited about Kessoku Band’s new song—hesitate.
Imai Takashi saw those messages too.
But he didn’t bother replying.
People who can post something like that have already made up their minds.
No amount of explaining would change their opinion.
Better to wait for KL Corp’s animation to come out, let everyone hear the song for themselves… and then they’d know just how good it really was.
———————————————————————
Elsewhere, Amano Ryuu had just woken up when he stumbled upon Takashi’s tweet.
He also spotted the skeptical comments underneath.
That snapped him wide awake.
He read the post over and over, making sure he hadn’t misunderstood.
Then a grin split his face. He leapt out of bed, grabbed a screenshot, and dropped it straight into the “Kessoku Band Fan Club” group chat.
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[Song That Saved My Life]: Guess I didn’t trust Kessoku Band—or Suki-san—enough! This is huge! I can’t wait to hear a song that even Imai Takashi calls ‘deeply moving’!
———————————————————————
He typed fast, fired it off, and within seconds someone replied. The chat was buzzing—plenty of people online this morning.
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[Don’t Like Chocolate]: Uh… did you even read the skeptical comments under his post? I’ve got my doubts too. I think this KL Corp project is just a publicity stunt. No way it’s really that good…
———————————————————————
The disbelief practically oozed off the screen.
Ryuu’s mood soured instantly.
These random netizens might not know the truth, but as a fan who’d followed Suki from day one, he sure did.
Fingers flying, he fired back:
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[Song That Saved My Life]: Are you even a real fan?
[Song That Saved My Life]: Suki-san has never taken a single ad deal, never done anything for the big money crowd. He’s only ever held one live concert.
[Song That Saved My Life]: If you actually did your homework, you’d know every single one of his songs is still under his own copyright—he’s never sold any of them.
[Song That Saved My Life]: And on top of that, he basically ended the career of the rising Ges band—completely crushed them.
[Song That Saved My Life]: And you think he’s in bed with the industry suits?
———————————————————————
Solid points, delivered without outright hostility. Ryuu figured that should clear things up.
But after a long pause, Don’t Like Chocolate finally replied:
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[Don’t Like Chocolate]: Crazy fanboy. Can’t stand you.
———————————————————————
Ryuu’s temper flared instantly.
He was about to go full keyboard-warrior mode when a notification popped up:
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[Group member ‘Don’t Like Chocolate’ was removed by ‘Nescafé Is No Match for Laoshan Cola.’]
———————————————————————
Ryuu blinked. Then slowly took his hands off the keyboard.
“…Huh.”
“Heh. Guess I can respect this group admin—for one minute.”
———————————————————————
Meanwhile, Aoki had no idea any of this was happening online.
Still carrying the lingering emotions from the performance, he followed the Kessoku Band girls down from the stage.
Backstage, staff whispered congratulations.
Niijima Yusuke came rushing in, practically glowing with excitement, showering praise on Aoki and the band.
Off to the side, though, Yamada Ryou’s face remained neutral.
From the way this song had been written—
From Kei’s state right after finishing the performance—
Ryou could tell. Kei was carrying something from his past.
Something big.
And whatever it was, it wasn’t the glossy, picture-perfect story everyone thought.
She suddenly realized—
For all the time they’d spent together, for how close they’d become— She still knew nothing about Suki’s past.
Her thoughts drifted—until Kei’s voice snapped her back.
“Looks like the performance went well… Once the rankings are announced this afternoon, how about we find a place to celebrate tonight?”
