Act 1, Chapter 21.5: A Warm Place

Friday, 3:00 PM. The Sakuragawa Light Music Club’s migration to the new building was a leap into luxury. Ceramic floors gleamed, and concrete walls exuded elite academia, a far cry from the cramped, worn room B-12. 

Excitement radiated from the twelve first-year members, their gig bags bouncing rhythmically as they eagerly trailed the three 2nd-year senpais through the halls, embarking on a pilgrimage from one location to another.

However, a sudden explosion of sound halted them just outside the new LMC room, a frequency like a napalm blast.

The 2nd-year senpais, unfazed, opened the door, revealing a professional-grade space: wide, soundproofed walls, a small stage, and a vibe screaming studio quality.

Hiroki’s jaw dropped—the same Yamaha keyboard and practice amps from B-12 were here, but joined by a gleaming new satin black Tama drum kit—the same model Scott Villeneuve used in Gate’s Minerva Summer Fest six years ago. The beat-up gear had been freshly polished, ready to rock in this modern arena.

Onstage, five third-year students unleashed a blues fusion storm, blending Casiopea’s grooves with John Coltrane’s soulful licks. The saxophonist wailed impossible solos, his power stance commanding the room. The guitarist shredded funky chords on her red Yamaha Pacifica, her energy infectious. The bassist danced across frets on his blue Yamaha bass, slapping with 80s swagger. The keyboardist let her fingers fly over the LMC’s Yamaha keyboard’s synth organ patch, a whirlwind of groove. The drummer shifted time signatures effortlessly, his hard-hitting groove anchoring the chaos on the new Tama kit.

This is straight out of Gran Turismo on steroids! Hiroki muttered in awe. Their synergy put Toriteba, Yakomori, and Suede to shame, with each member's solo seamlessly melding into a unified blaze of talent.

Their set ended with an epic closer: his sax soared, her guitar wailed with harmonic divebombs, his bass slapped a groovy pulse, her synth organ danced, and his drums thundered across snares, toms, and cymbals.

The room erupted in applause as Mika grabbed the mic, her voice booming like a wrestling announcer. “Welcome to our new clubroom!”

The first-years erupted in applause: Toriteba's bubbly cheers, Yakomori's guttural chants, and Suede's respectful applause filled the room. Mika pointed to the five onstage. “Meet Omanjou, our 3rd-year senpais, former LMC members who’ve been touring regionally!”

Omanjou waved, their radiant smiles lighting up the room. Furuya Fujikawa (saxophone), Reina Kuroda (guitar), Haruto Minami (bass), Ayano Tsukamoto (keyboard), and Daiki Yamamoto (drums) exuded charisma. Hiroki stepped forward, confused. “I thought you quit over some issue.”

Furuya laughed, his grin disarming and inviting. “Nah, we've been cool since our first year. Just didn’t want music to mess with our studies.”

Junichi jumped in, pointing at Furuya. “Dude, your sax is unreal! Coltrane fan?”

“Touché!” Furuya shook Junichi’s hand, their shared love for jazz sparking an instant chat.

Sora took the mic, his tone firm. “By the way, these third-years will judge your performances today.”

A heavy silence enveloped the room, anticipation hanging in the air. Omanjou’s skill was intimidating, their experience a towering wall.

The first-years faced a real war, not the playful skirmish of last Saturday’s studio session. Riku raised his hand, hesitant. “Uh, no offense, but we play different styles. Is it cool if we go hardcore metal?”

Reina grinned. “We judge your stage presence, regardless of the genre.”

Haruto flashed a double devil horn salute, surprising for a blues bassist. “I dig metal too, don’t worry.”

Mika pumped her fist, signaling the start of the challenge. "What are you waiting for? Let’s go!”

The first-years clapped, steeling themselves for the upcoming battle. This wasn’t a rehearsal—it was the real deal, a battlefield where mistakes could mean ridicule from Omanjou’s seasoned eyes. Mika pointed at Takane. “Toriteba, please head to the stage.”

Toriteba’s girls groaned, laughing nervously. But they stepped up, unzipping gig bags. Takane clutched her APXT2, her confidence shaky. Hiroki leaned in, whispering, “Takane! Good luck!”

“I will!” She smiled, shaking his hand briefly before ascending the stage, her guitar ready.

The new clubroom’s opening was a bang, and now the first-years faced a war. Omanjou’s presence loomed like generals judging soldiers thrust into battle without a briefing.

Hiroki felt a pang of sadness for the old room B-12, but this new warm place demanded they prove themselves. And this performance would test their mettle.