Dimensional Descent

The music became something beyond just its notes and its resonance. It painted the atmosphere itself, deciding the rhythm of Leonel's heart and plucking the strings of his emotion. It was almost like nothing else mattered but the sounds he was hearing, even what was truly before his eyes no longer mattered.

When the music stopped, Leonel sat in silence for a long while, unmoving. His blood boiled, rushing through his veins like flood dragons. The beating of his heart thrummed like the roar of beasts.

It took him several moments to calm and realize that the music he had just heard sounded nothing like a xylophone. It felt like an entire orchestra was roaring at him.

Strings, brass, wind and wood instruments. It was far fuller than a single instrument could possibly hope to replicate. He couldn't understand how such a thing had been replicated.

When he snapped out of his daze, his brows furrowed as he tried to understand.

"Are you confused?"

"Yes," Leonel replied without hesitation.

In return, he gained a mallet to the forehead. Only when he started rubbing his forehead again, did Montez begin to explain.

"When you create your own instrument, you can make it sound like whatever you want it to sound like. If I want it to sound like a xylophone, I simply strike."

DONG!

Montez struck simply, allowing the metal on mallet sound to resound.

sound like a piano, I just have to change

of illusory silver bronze Earth Force thinned out, becoming

from the hammer of a piano landing, almost

sound like a flute, I simply don't strike

this time, when Montez swung down,

with the hovering illusory Earth Force, causing

Force is only as limited as your imagination. If I want you to hear a hundred different instruments with

guessing the mallet isn't necessary

strongest battle form, bringing out a pen or a mallet isn't possible. Though, I guess if you

said, you'd have to have strong enough attainments, or else you

could already imagine Leonel failing. The sight of his nephew trying to strike the air with

His uncle really was too much like his dad. If he wanted love, it seemed he could only rely on his mother

he finished laughing. Somehow, the air he gave off now was far more profound and far heavier than when he had picked

the stroke of your spear. Your mallet and the music of your heart guides the core

the brush, his gaze becoming sharper and sharper as he lowered it to

single stroke sets a line. A dozen strokes sets a foundation. A hundred strokes sets a tone. A thousand strokes decides the

blades to resonate through the room. A hundred strokes forced these blades to take form, circulating around Montez. A thousand strokes made the blades