Chapter 9: Ghost of the Gig

Golden hour spills across the train windows as Dence rides toward Hamamatsu City.
That morning, an early call from the bar staff reached Dence. Sam's words had come to life. Now, it was his choice to follow through—his mission had been set. He'd been invited to perform at a small, intimate venue called Moonbar, where warm lights bathed the room and only the quietest of listeners gathered.

The rhythmic clatter of the train tracks hums beneath him. He sits by the window, black guitar hard case at his side, watching the countryside blur into streaks of orange and gold. He rests his chin on his knuckles, thoughtful. Fingers absentmindedly tap a beat on his thigh. Then something in the light — or maybe in the silence — stirs a memory. The reflection in the train window shifts. For a moment, it’s not his face staring back, but the ancient stone of Yoshida Castle, moonlit and quiet.

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[A Flashback Begins]

Sam had warned Dence: a ghost awaits at this come-back gig—but it’s not a threat. The spirit guards an ancient katana from Ere’s realm, and the gig will test whether Dence is worthy to meet him or not.

Sam hands Dence two identical black calling cards, each etched with the sharp silver symbol: "#". They glow faintly in his hand, pulsing like a second heartbeat.

Sam (without looking Dence in the eyes):
"Most people only get one... but you... you'll need two."
Dence (frowns, sensing something unspoken):
"Why?" 
She (pauses and smile):
"One is for the moment your soul reaches before your mind does. The other... is a gift ― not for you, but for the one whose journey depends on it."

Dence was quite confused.

Sam (added):
"Don't get confused! Just remember, if you have two black calling cards, you need one for the realm, one for reality."

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[The Flashback Fades]

As a familiar chime echoes through the train:

「間もなく浜松！浜松です！」
(“We’re arriving shortly at Hamamatsu! Hamamatsu!”)

The moment grounds Dence back into the present. He blinks, shifts in his seat. Outside, the station is a blur of movement — thick crowds, neon signs, hurried footsteps. As he steps out, a sudden jolt hits him.
"Battery!"

The 9V battery for his guitar pickup — he forgot to check! Frantically, he pats his pockets, trying to move through the ocean of people. But every step is a battle — shoulder bumps, bags brushing, someone stepping on his shoe. He nearly trips as he checks the back pocket of his jeans… and then — gleam. A small, glorious silver rectangle glints in the setting sun.

"Yes!" he exclaims, lifting it above his head like he just scored the winning goal in a World Cup final. But fate had other plans. A passerby’s shoulder hits him from the side. The battery flies from his hand — spinning, bouncing, clattering… then a perfect shot — straight into a narrow drainage hole on the station walkway. He hears the faint plink-plonk echo down the pipe… then silence.

Dence stands frozen. A deep sigh. He grabs his guitar case tighter.
"Guess I’m buying a new one."

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This is a come back gig for Dence. And this is the first time he brings out his old black guitar—the one he once abandoned. It now bears new strings and glows faintly. The white aragonite stones embedded in its bridge pins shimmer with quiet power.

He dashes to an electronics store. At the register, instead of cash, he accidentally pulls out one black calling card. The “#” glows, revealing a visual message:

"The four other performers on your gig are chosen too—each on their own secret mission. But no one is to speak of it."

As the first black calling card (reality card) continuously activates, the symbol "#" gleams for a final time before casting a soft, silver-blue glow around him. The card vibrates faintly in his hand, and then―

A vision unfolds.
Dence finds himself in an unfamiliar space:
A dimly lit room, circular in shape, with shadows standing at four corners. Each figure holds an instrument ― not just tools of music, but conduits of energy, emotion, and memory. None speak. But their presence commands silence.
The shadows slowly lit their heads. Only for a moment ― Dence sees faces. One wears sunglasses. One is a black trench coat. One carries a saxophone broken in half. One holds a crimson red electric guitar. The card pulses again. More words are etched in faint glowing letters across its surface:
"You are not alone. But no name shall be spoken. No mission shall be shared. Each note must be played in silence, until the world is ready to listen."

Then―
The vision dissolves. The symbol "#" on the card fades into black.

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KA-CHING!

The drawer shoots open. The cashier ― a middle-aged man with glasses and a subtle head nod to the rhythm of background jazz ― picks up the battery with two fingers, places it in a small paper bag.

Cashier:
「ありがとうございました！"」
("Thank you very much!")

He drops a couple of coins into Dence's hand ― they clink sharply, echoing like the final beat of a lo-fi track. Dence pockets them, holds the bag like it's a sacred relic.

Dence (under his breath):
"Alright... let's roll!"
He turns toward the station exit, eyes set on Moonbar.

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Dim lights flicker above exposed pipes. The air hums with tension and the smell of guitar polish and cold beer. Dence stands near the edge of the backstage curtain, peeking out. Just like what the vision showed him. Four performers ahead of him. ― seasoned, magnetic, untouchable:

PERFORMER 1 - The Soul Siren
A woman in silk kimono, tuning a vintage mic with retro sunglasses. Her voice during rehearsal nearly cracked the bar glasses, singing a Mariah Carey song. She doesn't speak. She breathes music.
PERFORMER 2 - The Balladeer Chef
An old man in a chef's apron ― yes, apron under a black trench coat. Rumor says he cooks by day, sings by night. As he sips tea calmly, his lyrics from Billy Joel songs are said to make grown men cry into sake.
PERFORMER 3 - The Jazz Monk
A bald man with tinted glasses and prayer beads around his wrist. Fingers warming up on an invisible saxophone humming one of the pieces of Kenny G. He nods in slow rhythm like he's meditating with sound.
PERFORMER 4 - The Riff Prophet
Leather jacket. Hair like he fell out of a '90s rock video. His crimson red electric guitar growls even before he plugs it in. Every move screams like the voice of Bon Jovi, "I've done this a thousand times."

Dence gulps. Tightens his grip on his guitar case.

Dence (to himself):
"...Okay, no pressure."

Spotlight hits. Performers 1... 2... 3... and 4, everyone magically performed on stage. Thunderous applause.
Then it’s Dence’s turn.
His first cover song lands flat—no reaction.
Then he sings Night Angel, an original song that NV101.9 once rejected.
This time, the room goes still.
An ethereal image appears. A figure materializes—watching. It’s The Ghost.
At first, Dence freezes. Whispering at the back of his mind... "
The ghost is here. The ghost is watching."

The air feels heavier, like it’s holding its breath. The lights inside Moonbar flicker ever so slightly, and the ghost’s form solidifies—a man in traditional robes, eyes glowing faintly like coals from a long-dead fire. His presence isn't frightening—it’s reverent. Ancient. Like a song played in a forgotten key.

Dence, still on stage, tightens his grip on the guitar. His heart pounds like a snare. His knees almost give, but he holds steady, sensing something sacred is unfolding. The ghost raises one hand, not to attack—but as if to salute.
Their eyes lock.

In that suspended second, Dence understands: this isn't just an audience. This is a witness from another realm. And somehow, Night Angel—a song rejected by the world—has opened a door that even the fiercest performance of covers could not. The ghost nods, solemn and slow. Dence exhales—part disbelief, part release. His soul had been heard. The ghost speaks with his eyes: "Dence is the only one who played original and from the soul."

After the performance, the ghost vanishes without a word. Dence is left uncertain—did he fail the test? Was he unworthy?

Dence receives a modest talent fee from the owner but misses the last train going back to Toyohashi. Another blow of negativity. He beds down at the station. Just before Dence closes his eyes to sleep, a strong wind blows. It sounded a Japanese expression,"Omedetou!" (Congratulations in Japanese)

There, the ghost appears again. Red and white winds spiral in silence. His form flickering like candlelight.

The Ghost (in old Japanese, voice echoing like wind through the hallway of the station):

「遠き嵐の中に、真の音は沈黙に宿る」

[As he speaks, the winds pulse. Smoke rises in graceful swirls, forming glowing English words in the air:]
Smoke Translation (hovering mid-air):
"In the heart of distant storms, the truest sound lives in silence."

[The ghost steps forward, his robes flowing with the wind.]
The Ghost (continuing in Japanese):
「忘れるな…音を忘れた者は、自らを見失う」
Smoke Translation:
"Forget not… those who abandon their sound, lose themselves."

“My name is Amakuni Yasutsuna,” the convo continues with smoke translations.

Dence sits up slowly, eyes wide. The station's fluorescent lights flicker briefly—as if recognizing the presence of something ancient.

Amakuni’s voice is low, but commanding.
“You played not for applause... but for truth. That is the original song I waited to hear.”

Dence (still shaken, stood):
“Why me?”

Amakuni turns, the air around him vibrating faintly.
“Because not all ghosts linger for vengeance. Some linger to pass on legacy.”

He walks toward a maintenance door that silently swings open on its own.

Amakuni (his form glowing faintly):
“Come. Your next note lies beneath the surface.”

Dence follows Amakuni down the narrow, dimly lit stairwell — each step echoing with mystery, old concrete dust, and the low hum of secrets. As he descends, something shiny catches his eye near the edge of the stairs. He squints. There, sitting proudly at the mouth of a rusted downspout pipe, like a tiny silver relic from the heavens…

His battery.

The very one that slipped through the drainage hole earlier. Still intact. Still smug. Almost like it’s saying, “What? You miss me?”

Dence stops. Stares at it. He lets out a long, dramatic sigh. Then cracks a half-smile — equal parts frustration and disbelief.
“Of course. Of course you’re here.”

He chuckles softly, shaking his head. An expression that says: "This life, man… this life."

Just then, a voice echoes from deeper below.
「早くおいで！」
("Hurry up and come!")

Amakuni.

Dence looks down at the battery once more. He tips an imaginary hat toward it.
“Stay outta trouble this time.”

Then turns… and continues down into the shadows.

(To be continued...)
(Next: Strings Into Steel)