A demo only lasts about two minutes—very brief—but after playing this piece, it felt as if he had spent years.

Holding his very first guitar, having just played the first bass line he ever wrote for Henry Clark's song, Edith Parker finally walked up to him.

If you don’t hit the bullseye, does it still count as reaching your goal?

Edith Parker wasn’t sure, but he liked leaving the choice to the other person.

“Thanks for your amp, it worked pretty well.” He unplugged it, slung his guitar on his back, picked up his hat from the floor, and glanced at Henry Clark sitting on the sofa with his head down. His hair fell over the sides of his face, hiding all his emotions, unnaturally quiet.

Edith Parker didn’t say goodbye, just opened the door and left.

Going downstairs, his heart was still pounding heavily. He took a deep breath and dialed William Harris, but only got a busy signal.

The rain outside hadn’t let up. He put on his hat, planning to ride his bike to the rehearsal room just like he did on the way there.

Suddenly, he heard a voice, but not from the phone.

“Hey, bassist.”

Following the sound, Edith Parker looked up into the rain, water running freely down his face, blurring his vision. Memories unfolded in a daze. Henry Clark had opened the window, overlapping with how he looked six years ago.

Leaning halfway out, he tilted his head and tossed down an umbrella.

“Don’t let your guitar get soaked.”

Chapter 7: A Pleasant Surprise

At 10 p.m., William Harris was sitting on the subway to the rehearsal room.

There were only three days left until the preliminary round.

Just thinking about it made his heart race close to 300 bpm.

It had rained heavily last night, and Edith Parker arrived at the rehearsal room very late. He was unusually silent—tuning, practicing, rehearsing. William Harris didn’t ask; he had a gut feeling that Edith Parker had probably gone to see Henry Clark again.

Only when he met him did Edith Parker act so out of character.

So, after rehearsal, he couldn’t help but ask.

“He didn’t say he’d come.” That was all Edith Parker replied.

“Then should we find someone else?” William Harris muttered under his breath, “You know what Henry Clark is like—unless you put a knife to his throat, if he doesn’t want to do it, he won’t agree. He might even smile and slit his own throat!”

Edith Parker didn’t respond, just lowered his head and quietly stared at the folded umbrella in his hands, a little lost in thought.

After a long while, he finally spoke: “Let’s recruit another guitarist.”

“What?” He wondered if he’d misheard.

Could they really accept another guitarist?

“Haven’t you been working on this all along?” Edith Parker looked at him, smiling. William Harris widened his eyes, surprised that he’d seen through it—he’d originally wanted to keep it a secret.

But it had always been this way; he could never hide anything from Edith Parker.

“So… we’re really not looking for Henry Clark anymore?”

Edith Parker put down the umbrella, picked up a dart from the table, and casually tossed it at the target hanging on the wall. It hit the bullseye, making the target spin half a turn.

“I never said that.”

William Harris couldn’t figure out what this attitude meant. He’d clearly been rejected, but he was so calm, as if the guy had already agreed.

But ever since they were kids, everything Edith Parker planned was always spot on, and whatever he wanted to do, he usually succeeded.

He wondered if Henry Clark would be the exception.

Even though his attitude was unclear, at least he was willing to try out other people, which was already a huge concession. William Harris felt relieved.

As long as they could find someone decent, they wouldn’t miss the preliminary round.

Besides, compared to other positions, there were more guitarists, and they were relatively easier to recruit.

But today, William Harris had to deny his own naive thoughts from yesterday.

Normal guitarists are really, really, not that many.

Just thinking about being stood up made him furious. Even on the subway, he couldn’t help but send Edith Parker a long voice message to vent.

“I’ve never seen anyone so shameless. Haven’t even met them yet, and they’re already haggling over terms and prize splits. Asked them to send a guitar solo video and they dragged it out forever—two idiots. I just blocked them and told them to get lost, don’t come to the rehearsal room, I’m so done.”

“You have no idea, that guy who bragged about his songwriting skills even asked for a photo of us, said he wanted to see our faces. I replied with a string of question marks—what kind of request is that? Turns out the jerk said he doesn’t want to be in a band with pretty boys, says everyone’s a fake music fan now, all those girls just care about looks. Hilarious. I don’t want to be in a band with ugly people either! What’s it to him what we look like? You’d think we were just there to deliver takeout or move drum kits! None of his business!”

After sending a few voice messages, William Harris let out a long sigh, tugged at the edge of his knit hat, and soon received a voice message from Edith Parker. When he played it, his tone was casual, even laughing.

“Just say, we’re the Golden Horn King and the Silver Horn King.”

So you’re just waiting for someone to collect us in a gourd, huh?

With everything on fire, he still had the mood to joke. William Harris didn’t know what to think.

This guy really had never lost his cool, not even for a day, since they were kids.

Another voice message came in.

“I just checked your post—there’s a new reply, but it’s not from a guitarist.”

The background was noisy, with horns blaring.