Tantrum's Defiant Cry
The opening came to an end. Tantrum. Izumi's signature soft voice blended with scratches, spewing out raw emotion in the song. With a track record of effortlessly nailing high pitches and frustrating countless challengers, she savored the catharsis while surveying the crowd.
[It's been a while, everyone.]
The fans erupted in cheers at Izumi's greeting. Their roars filled her vision completely, impossible to block even by stretching out her arms, shaking the very floor. What passionate, overflowing energy they had. And that made her all the more grateful.
[Feels good.]
Closing her eyes, she basked in the air's vibrations carried on the fans' breaths, letting a familiar freshness seep into her lungs.
[It's like coming home.]
Calming her pounding heart, she quietly opened her eyes. Her exceptional eyesight and memory picked out familiar faces not just in the nearby standing sections, but even in the distant seats. They were all the lutes—the fans—who had supported and cheered BARD all the way here.
These grateful people who came to see us...
Concerts were a double-edged sword. Artists often burned out right after, or conversely, became addicted. Izumi fell into the latter category. To her, concerts were a drug like no other, delivering unmatched stimulation. She was thoroughly hooked on the adrenaline surging through every performance, beyond escape now. The other members were the same. Like salmon returning upstream. The concert hall was the hometown they would always come back to.
[I love you all.]
Her confession drew a roar from ten thousand throats, filling the arena. An overwhelming emotion, too vast for words, washed over her. To be loved this fervently by strangers whose names she didn't even know—what a blessing. Every time she took the stage, she felt it. She waited until the cheers subsided, her lips naturally curling into a grin. She spotted people in the second-floor seats, dozens of meters away, waving placards and banners. Others wore turquoise headbands symbolizing BARD, shaking glow sticks.
Yahiro's face turned serious. "Ah, here they come again. Izumi's personal guard."
"Pfft." Izumi pulled the mic away from her mouth and giggled. Her laughing face appeared perfectly on the giant screens.
[Hehe. Looks like everyone's far from prim and proper.]
Izumi waved to the fans holding placards. Waaaaah! Welcomed by their star, the fans shook their signs wildly in response. A wry smile escaped her, but no one in the audience seemed truly upset. Everyone knew how much they adored her.
[Truth is, we were all pretty worried when the album dropped.]
From the first samples, the producer, engineers, and even label colleagues had voiced concerns. Even the die-hard lutes felt the same.
[The tracks on this mini-album are really different from our usual style.]
Izumi had shouldered a massive risk with this album. Sure, there was public support arguing BARD couldn't stick to the same lane forever, and praise for the fresh take on BARD. But as full versions dropped one by one, opinions soured.
[Still, we needed to break free from mannerisms.]
Trends shifted faster than public perception. BARD had been trend-oblivious but lucky, riding the wave just as emotional bands resurfaced. In tough times, people longed for glorious pasts. That sparked the retro boom. And BARD perfectly matched the public's nostalgic craving for that retro vibe and memories. In hard times, a generation sought solace in song. BARD had always comforted the masses with tunes about youth, love, hope, and the preciousness of everyday life—sung with raw emotion. Sure, some were drawn purely to Izumi's looks and vocals, but most fell for the genre they sang. Naturally, repeating similar repertoires led to cries of self-plagiarism.
We needed change.
Reuniting with Tae-il had given her the perfect motivation. To climb higher. BARD couldn't remain just another band. Mini-album number four, I'm Here, was the turning point. A tantrum and rebellion screaming to the public, "We can pull this off too!" It melted in every style and genre the members had secretly yearned to explore. Tonight's setlist leaned heavily on past hits and these new tracks for a reason.
[As the leader, I told the members I'd shoulder it alone, but honestly? I was terrified.]
She felt the members' gazes. Getting called out for pretending to be composed made her cheeks burn. But that's what leading meant.
[I talked a big game about responsibility without knowing the first thing. Must've looked ridiculous.]
Beside her, Yahiro and the bandmates shook their heads, crossing their arms in an X to fend off the backlash. Laughter boomed from the crowd. Every time Izumi spoke, the members tensed, fearing blame, but oblivious Izumi was dead serious. She'd boasted leader-like, yet had no clue how to deliver. All she could do was one thing.
[Work harder than ever.]
Even when others handled parts, she demanded perfection beyond necessity. During recording, she pushed retakes until the engineer begged to go home. If effort alone guaranteed results, this album would've shattered BARD's sales records.
[I'm a pro, right?]
The world was harsh—effort didn't always pay off. Pros faced even crueler standards. They proved themselves through results. Even the "experimental mini-album" shield meant little for singers trying bold moves. So, at launch, after exhausting every option, Izumi prayed. For BARD to win the public's hearts.
[We got lucky.]
Despite worries, the album exceeded expectations. The tie-in drama was a hit. Critics were mixed but mostly positive. Sales were solid. It dented BARD's streak of record-breaking sales, but far from a flop. Finally, Izumi gained confidence in other genres.
[I was relieved. So glad people liked it.]
I can do this. The lutes accepted the new concept without resistance. I have the qualifications to fulfill that boy's wish.
The opening had gone over well too—fans cheered the acoustic re-arrangement of Tantrum, defying fears.
[Hehe.]
Tears glistened in Izumi's eyes. Just the opening, and emotions already surged. Fans raised their arms, swaying to the beat—that familiar live gesture urging her on. Play the next one quick. Entertain us.
[Thank you.]
Izumi wiped her tears. In the corner of her right eye, colorful hair and eyes caught her attention. She recalled the seats from the tickets she'd gifted Tae-il. Her gaze drifted there involuntarily, glimpsing the boy. There it was—that unwavering faith, just like before.
"Pfft."
Suppressing a bursting smile, she cleared her throat. Condition's peak. Vocals solid, no issues with projection... Self-check complete, she glanced at her trusty comrades flanking her—the most reliable warriors here. Akitora was already twirling sticks in the air, signaling readiness. Everyone's the same. Yahiro and NA.IN were no different. Yahiro waved to the crowd and flashed grins, diving into fan service. NA.IN, acoustic on its stand and electric slung over his shoulder, was goofing off with his fingers.
Like the highlight from the start.
She strode to center stage, to the standing mic.
It's fine. I remember every move.
All choreography was perfected in rehearsals.
Treat every concert like it's the last.
Full throttle.
[Jumping right into the next one?]
Izumi flashed a sparkling, genuine smile at the eager lutes—not the fake one for TV, but real warmth for those who'd gathered because they loved her.
[Sneer.]
But the song wouldn't allow it. As Izumi's eyes shifted on the screens, the bright lights deepened to saturated purple.
[No one treats you with sincerity.]
It's all fake. Your life is riddled with pretense.
Immersing in the persona as she sang. The cynical narrator mocked others, viewing the world pessimistically. The world remembers only winners. Your efforts mean nothing. Results are everything. No one acknowledges your struggles. Stay invisible, just another cog—live quietly at your level.
Her voice gained mocking power, sneering at the audience. Incredible. The self-deprecating barrage could sour moods, yet...
It doesn't bother me.
Even as contemptuous eyes pierced her, the song oddly felt like Izumi observing herself. I couldn't pull that off. Singing it with real feeling would hurt listeners.
Iris marveled at what she couldn't do. Her grip tightened on the fence. Izumi's vocal force pressed physically on her body, overwhelming. Especially as emotions peaked—pronunciation and delivery usually warped, but Izumi's only sharpened, defying norms. Human limits seemed meaningless before her. Mocking others while enduring mockery, yet conveying intent crystal-clear. The session's low, deliberate heavy melody amplified her emotions. It felt like Izumi was truly raging; Iris feared getting swept in the sticky waves.
Focus.
Iris shook her head, reclaiming her slipping concentration. She was a lute too. Immersing in BARD's concert was fine—no one would fault enjoyment.
But...
Like Izumi's confession, Iris wanted gains from this show. The song mocked effort, yet Izumi had risen through it. Not just admiration or mimicry.
I can do it too.
She ignited the duty burning in her chest—the mission to meet expectations. It fueled her will, maxing concentration. She started with basics: Izumi's gaze control, breathing, natural gestures drawing cheers. Veteran charisma leading solo. She cataloged it all. The session too.
Something's different.
Having every BARD live BD at home, Iris spotted it. Izumi approached NA.IN and Yahiro on her sides, playfully shoving or tugging collars. Back to the crowd, she passed Akitora with a disdainful glance. Every moment hit the screens. As if on purpose, Izumi used the full stage—striding end to end, "talking" via song, interacting mid-session. Even in non-solo parts. When members had free hands, she'd tease, drawing them out bit by bit. Not just that—on the thrust stage, she synced dances with backup dancers appearing from nowhere. This genre-shifting debut concert differed wildly from the BARD she knew. No solo-Izumi focus; it painted a holistic picture. Everything connected organically. It didn't feel like a band show.
A musical...?
Yeah. No sets, but the song structure and staging echoed the musical she'd seen with Rena.
[If you don't like this me, then crush me.]
As the highlight verse ended, Izumi's aggressive gaze hit Iris. "Eek!" Coincidence, but Iris flinched, turtling her neck. Izumi, confidently scanning the crowd, turned abruptly and strode back to main stage.
[Hate me then. I'm never changing.]
She spat cynical lyrics aggressively. Each step forward sent her loose sky-blue hair waving like waves.
[Curse me, despise me—I don't care.]
Her voice, indifferent to judgment, softened to self-mocking mumbles. The screens faintly captured Izumi's gaze—subtle to all but A-section fans—that lingered in Iris's mind.
[I fear no failure.]
Surrounded by backups, Izumi haughtily turned forward. Her arrogant crimson eyes gleamed coldly.
[Anyway.]
But absurdly, her lips bore a gloomy, self-deprecating smile—opposite her haughty gaze.
The reason was simple.
[Because I'm a failure too.]
Central and side screens boldly stamped "Failure" side by side. Music halted, lights died, plunging the arena into pitch black. When lights reignited...
"Whoa."
Tae-il's gasp reached Iris's ears. On stage stood Izumi, outfit completely changed—not her usual comfy shirt, jeans, and jacket, but a flowing white dress. Even under heavy stage makeup, her blushing face betrayed embarrassment.
It wasn't just her. "The stage..." It brimmed with people. Like an orchestra. Players with instruments surrounded the BARD members. Screens showed an analog clock—second hand ticking backward.
Quietly.
[Did you all have a fulfilling day today?]
Probably. Most humans didn't, but those here surely did.
[Oh? Not really?]
Knowing the answer, Izumi mockingly prodded anyway.
[Why? Days too monotonous?]
Yes! Some fans shouted. Izumi's lips slyly curved up.
[Good. Then, if you could turn back time...]
Tick.
[What choice would you make?]
Tick. The second hand accelerated backward, spinning wildly in circles until it stopped. A sweet violin melody began.
"This intro..."
"It's from that drama opening. The one BARD tied up with."
The drama's success boosted the album, Iris vaguely recalled. Main theme: regression. BARD's title track served as OP and ED.
Plot rough: Boy abused by father from childhood sees adults as flawed. Grows to despise them for not saving him. As an adult, self-loathing makes him prickly—a true "square peg" in Japanese society. One day, cursing the world, he meets a mysterious woman and regresses to childhood. He reclaims what he lost and chose as an adult.
"Ah."
Iris sighed softly. Recalling the outline, she realized the mini-album's concept perfectly mirrored the drama's story.
One by one, instruments joined as memories resurfaced. The melancholic sound grew richer. The melody embodied the boy's lost longings, echoing through the arena. He knew regression's miracle was fleeting bliss. Given a chance to fix mistakes, would people choose differently? Tasting sweet fruit, the boy sneered anyway. He knew himself too well—a repeat offender. Having discarded pieces to survive since youth, his adult psyche was numb, broken. Dreams, chances, memories, reality—options narrowed, stakes rose, yet his deliberations were brief.
[I've been through it once. Discarding's second nature.]
Initial regrets faded to indifference: Should've ditched it sooner. Grief dulled. His vibrant world grayed with adult reality. Even regressing, it stayed drab. His worn heart wouldn't revert. Truly. Back, but that's it. Powerless.
[Because I'm a coward.]
Time rewound, life unchanged. Or... changed. Faded signs gone, familiar yet new sights: concrete jungle. Stifling, no freshness. There, a familiar-strange girl approached. Bandaged, scarred hands gripped his, beaming.
[Fate.]
The one hesitation, the sole thing not discarded when rechance came. Granddaughter of the old candy shop granny. The screen zoomed on her fresh smile toward them. Tae-il's eyes widened. Sky-blue hair. And shockingly, the same white dress as onstage Izumi.
"Hah."
Shin Tae-il let out a dry smile. Ignoring the group's odd looks, his gaze locked on Izumi singing below the screen. The melancholy melody brightened gradually. For the first time, hope pierced the gloomy lyrics. The boy, negative even in regression, couldn't let go—for the first time. The girl. Or, love.
Izumi unleashed endless high notes, acknowledging the boy's stubborn love-driven change.
"You think love can reshape someone's lifelong values?"
"Dunno."
Love blinded, they said. Not wrong. Tae-il glanced at Ayane clutching his hand tightly. But could that blind love truly overturn ingrained values?
Dunno.
Tae-il repeated inwardly like an auto-responder. Love. This fickle emotion, unchecked by reason, bred too many variables.