The Evil Scientist is Too Competent

Chapter 62

After the performance ended, we were invited by Milk-a to her private waiting room. Sharp gazes from those around us pierced through the air.

It seemed as if they harbored resentment over the words I had spoken at the end of the stage. Those malicious stares had caused Vira to look around cautiously, on high alert.

“?You are here.”

After a brief moment, we arrived at the waiting room and found ourselves face to face with Milk-a, who had just finished her performance. She was still in her stage attire, glistening with sweat, giving me the impression that this moment wouldn’t last much longer.

Indeed, Milk-a quickly got to the point.

“Are you from the evil organization?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“I don’t remember there being any women among you…”

Milk-a looked at Vira as if puzzled. Although all the warriors from the evil organization wore combat suits that obscured their bodies and faces, the fabric wasn’t thick enough to completely conceal gender.

Feeling embarrassed at her observation, I chuckled softly and revealed our identities.

“Actually, we aren’t the ones who incapacitated you back there. We received the tickets.”

“Ah… I see. What a shame. Then, what is your purpose?”

“We’re executives of the evil organization.”

“Executives…? Huh? You mean… executives?”

Upon hearing that, Milk-a gulped. Normally, when one mentions executives of an evil organization, it conjures images of S-rank villains like Galm, who would obliterate heroes and buildings alike.

Other executives were villains with at least an A-rank threat level. So, given that she was face-to-face with such villains, her feelings of fear were entirely understandable.

“Is it really okay for the executives to show their faces like this…?”

“It’s alright. If you simply check the evil organization’s website, you’ll find the list of executives.”

“…What does that even mean?”

I relayed the information with a straight face, but for some reason, Milk-a exhaled a sigh of relief, as if the tension had finally lifted.

With her composure regained, she cautiously looked at me and asked.

“Thank you for coming to see the performance, Executive.”

“I enjoyed it too. It was a great show.”

“Although it was nothing special,” she replied with a wry smile, looking up at me proudly despite having just made that remark.

Yet, my evaluation remained unchanged.

“Yes. It was a good performance, but it wasn’t special.”

“…Can I hear a bit more about that?”

“You already know why I think it’s not special.”

Milk-a’s performance had been a moving masterpiece. Very few people her age could evoke such emotion with their playing, and even when broadening the age range, she could easily be classified as a prodigy.

According to the pamphlet, she was a genius from the Pokato family, known for producing renowned musicians for generations. The genetic talents and vision handed down through her family would undoubtedly shape her into a world-class master.

However.

“Please do something you want to try. Freely.”

“…Something I want to do? But I don’t have any talent.”

“I said to do it freely; don’t just try it once and give up.”

Seeing Milk-a immediately object to my suggestion, I let out a slight laugh. This is why geniuses are problematic. They have so little experience with failure that even a single setback leaves them trembling in fear as if they’ve been burned.

No matter how talented one may be, it’s unreasonable to expect success in all areas. To give up on everything because of one failure?

“The world is vast, and you’re still young, Milk-a.”

It truly is a shame when young people abandon their dreams over something so trivial as lacking talent.

* * *

“Milk-a? Have you changed?”

“…Yes, Mother.”

“Alright, then let’s head back.”

Left alone in the waiting room, Milk-a took a ride with her mother, who had come to fetch her, leaving the Art Center behind.

As I stood there, staring blankly at the retreating background, her mother cautiously began to speak.

“You worked hard during the performance today. Don’t let those strange words from the audience bother you. You are someone special.”

“…I’m not bothered.”

“Of course, you wouldn’t be. Who are you? A prodigy of the Pokato family, right?”

Milk-a let her mother’s praise wash over her, losing herself in thoughts about the words she had heard from the executive of the evil organization.

“Nothing special…”

Those words pierced her to the bone.

Nothing special.

She resonated so deeply with that sentiment.

“Of course, I am the heir of the Pokato family.”

Long ago, a family founded by an artist with devilish talent.

All heirs of that family had succeeded one after another, becoming masters shaping their eras. A family renowned for producing maestros that others dream of over a lifetime.

However, apart from the invitations, not a single individual had emerged who could leave a mark on history.

And that was true for Milk-a too.

“Genius talent, the support of a historically significant family, blood, and sweat…”

What came from all these would not be the birth of a new history but merely an extension of the achievements made by the previous generation.

There was nothing new at all. Even if people hailed her as one of the world’s top geniuses or a confirmed artist, it made no difference.

Her future was painfully predictable.

“Just a repeat of the ancestors who have come before me.”

She loathed that predetermined future. Hence, Milk-a chose to escape from her family to become a hero. She wanted to be a central figure of a new era. She wanted to carve out her own future with her own strength.

…But she failed. She had no talent. She was defeated by a mere villain organization member without any real superpowers.

Thus, she gave up and returned to her family—where she was already struggling to breathe.

“Oh my.”

“…?”

Suddenly, Milk-a snapped back to reality at her mother’s exclamation. Following her gaze, she noticed the executive of the evil organization, the one who had earlier told me she was “nothing special,” standing on the street, fiddling with an instrument.

An electric guitar. A stage-ready version of a traditional acoustic guitar.

So, this so-called executive could play the guitar? Milk-a looked at him with keen interest.

“Seems like he can play after all. But how good can he really be, considering he’s the one who insulted others? Let’s leave.”

“Just a moment.”

Milk-a halted her mother, who was about to leave. Watching her mother’s puzzled expression, Milk-a made an excuse.

“As you said, I’m curious about what someone who insulted me can play. Let’s just listen for a bit.”

“You’ll only end up sullying your ears.”

“I need to hear him so that I can sleep soundly tonight.”

“…Alright, well, there’s no hurry, so let’s listen for a bit.”

The two of them parked by the roadside, rolled down the windows, and waited for the man’s performance. A moment later, the man, having just finished setting up his borrowed guitar, began to play.

The sound was like stones bouncing, lively and infectious. For some reason, I found myself swaying back and forth, caught up in the energetic rhythm.

Her mother seemed displeased, scowling as she muttered.

“Just a noisy performance. There’s no merit in listening any longer.”

Vvvvrrr-

Her mother said this as she rolled up the window and turned on the radio inside the vehicle. Soon, beautiful and elegant classical music filled the air, but…

Inside Milk-a’s heart, it still felt like a rock was rolling around incessantly.

* * *

Not long after leaving the Art Center, we stumbled upon street performers busking. Given that we were in an artistic area filled with those enthusiastic about the arts, a simple busking event had attracted a sizable crowd, all drawn in to watch.

Seeing the relaxed and smiling faces of the audience, I was convinced once again that art arose from such leisure.

“?This is my original composition. Please listen!”

The man busking announced as he began to strum the guitar. With his twelve-fingered hands, I couldn’t help but expect something special, yet disappointingly, the performance didn’t measure up to the number of fingers he had.

While having extra fingers was advantageous for playing, the impression was that he hadn’t practiced enough to fully utilize that advantage.

“Thank you!”

As the man finished his performance and bowed, I began to clap lightly in sync with those around us. Vira, standing beside me, tilted her head in confusion as she whispered in my ear.

“…Wasn’t that unsatisfactory?”

“Then should I boo him for not playing well when it’s free?”

“No, that’s not it but….”

As I tried to leave, backing away from Vira, who looked at me as if I was some lowlife picking up a stray cat, a middle-aged man approached me and suddenly shouted.

“?Hey! I saw you watching, why are you being so picky?”

“Excuse me?”

“I was here before the performance! You said there was nothing special then why would you say he’s not playing well now? Why don’t you try playing instead!?”

Upon hearing the irate shout, I quickly grasped the reason behind his anger. He must have been a fan who’d overheard my comments at the earlier performance.

I shot a glance at Vira, a silent reprimand for causing this fuss, before turning to the middle-aged man.

“Sorry, but I don’t have an instrument.”

“So you mean if you had one, you would play? Hang on a sec.”

The middle-aged man walked over to the recently finished busker and began muttering to him.

After a short conversation and some money exchanged, the man gestured for me to come over.

“?Here, I borrowed it for a moment. Give it a try. Don’t break it now.”

“…You really borrowed it.”

“Why? Scared to play now that you actually have to? Just go apologize to Pokato if you’re afraid.”

That would not be happening.

I accepted the guitar with a reluctant expression. The weight of the guitar felt quite heavy in my hands.

As I plucked the strings, tuning the sound, I realized that this guitar had clearly been well cared for. Perhaps the busker was not as untalented as I had thought; it seemed he treasured his instrument.

‘How long has it been…’

It had been quite some time since I’d held a guitar. I used to play it as a hobby often, but with my studies being so demanding, I hadn’t found the time to indulge in it.

Fortunately, my skills hadn’t dulled.

Actually, my body still remembered the pieces I had learned long ago.

“?Good.”

Piano was an essential skill.

Guitar was a hobby.

Naturally, hobbies are typically superior to mere skills.

“Hey, how’d you ask if I could play well?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Listen well.”

The queen’s melody, which once enveloped the Earth, echoed once more through this world.