Volume 1, Chapter 3: The Battle Of Frequency

The air in Room B-12 was thick with nervous energy as the twenty-seven first-years sat cross-legged on the floor, their chatter a low hum. Hiroki leaned against the wall, his fingers still tingling to eagerly wield the axe. Aoi sat beside him, her eyepatch slightly askew, twirling her pencil like a wand. The auditions had begun, and the small room felt like a stage of its own, each performance a glimpse into the hopefuls’ dreams.

Sora and Mika stood by the whiteboard, calling up students one by one. “Show us what you’ve got,” Sora said, his tone half-encouraging, half-challenging. Ren jotted down notes on her phone, her hood casting a shadow over her face.

First up were the guitarists. A tall punkish boy strummed the LMC’s battered Yamaha acoustic with aggressive downstrokes, belting out a heavy metal Metallica's Master of Puppets cover. His energy was infectious, but his chords faltered in the bridge.

A cheeky twin-tailed girl followed, her fingers dancing through a synthesized melody of an anime opening song with unmatched precision. Earning applause for effort, she then shaped her finger into an L, facing the audience with a bratty grin. Hiroki watched, his own nerves tightening. I can’t mess this up.

The bassists came next, most playing it safe with simple grooves. But there's one preppy, punkish kid plodding an aggressive downpicking to Sora's Ibanez bass, his face clenched with focus, in a power stance, and harshly banging his head like a metal bassist. Covering the brutal grit of Disturbed's Stricken.

“Bass is the safest choice. But that one preppy punk? He goes metal as hell!” Hiroki whispered to Aoi with a faint devil horn salute, her visible eye scanning the room like a hawk.

Then came the keyboardists, and the mood shifted. A modest girl with twin braided brown hair stepped up, announcing Chopin’s Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2. Her fingers danced over Ren’s keyboard, the classical melody filling the room with elegance. Halfway through, she threw in a jazzy flourish, bending the notes to fit the LMC’s rock vibe. The room fell silent, entranced. Hiroki’s chest tightened, a pang of nostalgia hitting him—Kaito used to play this classical piece on his phone whenever he was hollow inside. When she finished, the students clapped in unison, and even Sora gave a rare nod of approval applause.

“That… was beautiful,” Hiroki murmured, his voice barely audible.

Aoi glanced at him, her chuunibyou flair softened with a melancholy. “It stirred the abyss within you, didn’t it?”

He only answered with a subtle nod; the memory of Kaito’s gentle strumming lingered.

The drummers brought the energy back. A preppy blonde boy with a red bandana launched into Avenged Sevenfold’s Almost Easy, his sticks a blur on Mika’s Tama kit. He banged his head and twisted his face in a snarl, channeling the song’s fury. The double-kick pedal thundered, nearly toppling the small drum set. Mika even squeaked in plea, “Please, don’t break my drum!” witnessing the preppy blonde boy’s fury.

The room erupted in cheers, and he raised double devil horns, grinning wildly. Mika could only chuckle in desperation, applauding his energy but still worried about her beloved small Tama’s kit.

“Kid’s got spirit,” Sora muttered, scribbling on his clipboard.

Then came the wildcard: the saxophone kid. Shy and scrawny, he shuffled to the front, clutching his instrument. With a deep breath, he nodded to Ren, who activated a backing bluesy drum track from her keyboard. The bluesy lick that followed was sharp and confident, nothing like his timid demeanor.

He swayed, his saxophone wailing like a seasoned pro, weaving rock and jazz into a sound that felt right at home in the LMC. Halfway through, he pointed at Ren, who fired back with a gritty organ solo, their impromptu duel electrifying the room. He ended with a high-pitched flourish, striking a rock-star pose. The students roared with thunderous applause, and even Hiroki couldn’t help but clap.

“Saxophone, huh?” he muttered. “Should be in orchestra club, but he rocks!"

Aoi smirked and nodded. “The Divine Eye approves of his audacity.”

The vocalists followed, a mixed bag. Some struggled with pitch; others nailed falsettos but lacked presence. Most stuck to singing alone, safe in their single skill. Hiroki and Aoi, though, were the outliers—both had chosen to sing and play guitar, a daunting double act.

Sora’s voice cut through the noise. “Now, introducing… Hiroki Yamada on vocal and guitar! Playing Radiohead’s Street Spirit (Fade Out)!”

A ripple of murmurs spread. Singing and playing at once was a challenge, even for the cockiest freshmen. Hiroki felt eyes on him, his pulse quickening. Aoi poked his side, her voice low. “Good luck, Dark Lord of Tartarus.”

“I won’t miss!” he shot back, flashing a confident smirk.

He stepped to the whiteboard, strapping up the Yamaha acoustic. It felt familiar, like an extension of himself. He re-tuned it to standard, clenched his pick, and tested the strings. Street Spirit was his song, overplayed to death since Kaito taught him its haunting chords. Closing his eyes, he swayed, channeling Thom Yorke’s raw emotion.

“Rows of houses, all bearing down on me…” His voice was soft and aching, each word sinking into the song’s desolate world. “I can feel their blue hands touching me…”

The room faded. In his mind, he heard the screech of tires, the hellish fire, and the hospital lights. The lyrics carried his grief, his fingers steady on the strings. “And faaaaaaade oooooout, agaaaaaain…” His voice rose in the chorus, still soft but piercing, a controlled wail. The guitar never faltered, each arpeggio clean and deliberate.

Aoi watched, her eye narrowed, analyzing every note. The Dark Lord must not falter, her intensity almost palpable, almost pressurizing Hiroki. But Hiroki wasn’t just auditioning—he was pouring out his soul, the pain of Kaito’s loss woven into every line. His voice cracked slightly on “Immerse your soul in love,” a falsetto that trembled with emotion. He ended with a final, delicate strum, his eyes glistening.

The room erupted in claps and whistles. Mika bounced in her seat and dropped her jaw. Sora raised an eyebrow, impressed. Ren’s phone flashed:Out of this world! Hiroki exhaled, his heart pounding. He’d done it—not just for the audition, but for Kaito.

“Perfection!” Aoi smiled at Hiroki with a nod of approval.

“And now, last but not least… Aoi Mizuno on vocal and guitar! Playing Puddle of Mudd’s Blurry!”

Hiroki’s jaw dropped. Blurry? The song’s tricky harmonics and half-step-down tuning were brutal. He leaned toward her. “Hold on. Are you suicidal or what?”

Aoi patted his shoulder, her confidence unshaken. She slipped off her eyepatch and unwrapped her bandaged arm, revealing a small tattoo of a crescent moon on her left wrist. “Do not underestimate me, Dark Lord. The Priestess will prevail.”

Sora handed her the Yamaha, and she deftly detuned it to D# standard, her fingers moving with precision. Standing before the whiteboard, she clasped her hands like a preacher. “This is the Priestess speaking. Let us seek mercy from our lord and savior.”

The room chuckled, but she ignored them, tapping the strings four times. Her fingerstyle nailed the song’s complex harmonic intro, her tiny frame belying the power in her hands. “Everything’s so blurry, and everyone’s so fake…” Her voice was gentle, almost ethereal, a stark contrast to her chuunibyou persona.

Hiroki gaped. How is she doing this? Her fingers danced through the harmonics without missing a beat, even as she sang. She swayed, eyes closed, mimicking Hiroki’s earlier performance but with her own flair. In the chorus—“Can’t you take it all away?”—her voice grew powerful yet soothing, her bar chords ringing out. She smacked the guitar body for percussive beats, a flamenco-inspired touch that stunned the room.

In the solo, she switched to tapping, her fingers a blur like a professional classical guitarist’s. Her vocals stayed steady, soaring above the melody. As the song neared its end, she hit a falsetto, choir-like and haunting, her harmonics never faltering. She finished with a flourish, the final chord echoing.

The room exploded in cheers, louder than before. Mika whooped, Sora dropped his jaw, and Ren’s phone read: Beautiful... Aoi bowed, her chuunibyou mask gone, replaced by raw, unfiltered talent.

As the students settled back onto the floor, Sora stepped forward, joined by Mika and Ren. “Alright, that’s it for auditions. Stay here for a few minutes. We need to discuss who makes the top twelve.”

The trio of senpais slipped out, leaving the room alive with excitement. Aoi slid next to Hiroki, slipping her eyepatch back on with a smirk. “How was it, Dark Lord of Tartarus?”

Hiroki grinned, matching her energy. “Not bad for a chuunibyou with actual talent.”

She laughed, a rare, genuine sound. As the other students swapped stories about their performances, Hiroki felt a spark ignite. He and Aoi had poured their hearts into the music, and whatever the outcome, they’d left a mark. Wished that the Light Music Club would be their second home.