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🕑 Added 2025-06-19 16:33:40 +0000 UTCChapter 1521: The Great Transformation
Boom boom, boom boom, boom boom.
The light, upbeat drumbeat hooked your ears instantly. No melody, just pure rhythm—but it made the crowd feel their heartbeats loud and clear.
Before they knew it, they were bouncing along.
Then, the guitarist and violinist locked eyes. One after the other, they joined the drummer, their strings weaving and clashing, the melody pouring out like a flood.
This was unmistakably “Wake Me Up” by Thirty-First of August—but not the usual slow build from the intro to the verse. They skipped straight to the explosive second chorus, no lyrics, no vocals needed. Just feel the rhythm with your whole body.
Something woke up inside—those dormant memories in their blood came alive. One by one, people couldn’t help but start jumping.
At first, they were a little stiff, but the carnival vibe quickly stripped away their guards and baggage. They threw themselves into it, letting the melody and beat hit them full force.
Thump! Thump! Thump!
The echo of their hearts slamming against their chests drove the crowd wild.
By the time Blair, Gloria, and the others noticed what was happening, the scene had already erupted into a full-blown carnival rhythm. The African drummer led the charge, stepping out front and guiding the band forward like street performers. The soaring, infectious melody spread like wildfire, pulling more and more people in.
They exchanged looks—Blair glancing at Gloria, Gloria glancing back, everyone staring at each other.
They had no clue what was going on, but…
This was a good thing, right?
You could see it plain as day: Rockefeller Center was boiling over. The flood of people pouring in like a tidal wave kept packing every corner—
Thirty thousand? Fifty thousand?
Eyes couldn’t tell, but the feeling said way more. This was at least a hundred-thousand-person bash. Rockefeller Center was stuffed to the brim, shoulder-to-shoulder, the air heating up as the dense crowd swelled. The band’s performance lit the fuse on that heatwave with ease.
At this point, no one had time to think or analyze. They just dove into the madness, turning the premiere into a real-deal carnival.
From “Wake Me Up” to “Roar Hey” to “Viva la Vida,” the setlist jumped from Thirty-First of August to Queen to The Beatles. A singer-less concert unfolded at Radio City Music Hall, the energy stacking higher and higher. Before their brains could catch up, the party was in full swing.
Fox TV was ready for it, sending up a helicopter for a live aerial feed. The broadcast beamed the insanity across North America—
And beyond, to the whole world.
The four streets radiating from Rockefeller Center were packed, gridlocked, like New Year’s Eve in New York all over again.
NYPD estimated at least seventy thousand people onsite—no official count yet, but the real number was likely higher. This was turning into a Manhattan-wide carnival.
And the wildest part? Anson hadn’t even shown up yet. None of the Spider-Man 2 crew had stepped out. The premiere hadn’t even officially kicked off.
“Inspiration.” That’s the only word bouncing around Nicholas’s head.
Caught up in the surging, roaring crowd, Nicholas felt a pang of shame for underestimating Anson again. Because Anson hadn’t let anyone down.
Running out of steam?
Ha, as if!
When people expected a 120% effort, Anson casually dropped a 200% masterpiece, pulling off another surprise.
A street party infused with the soul of Thirty-First of August, woven into tonight’s campus festival.
No rallying cries, no slogans, not even Anson’s presence required. It all stripped back to the raw, the real—music as the bridge, letting the crowd tap into their instincts, connect with each other, and let go completely. They partied like tomorrow didn’t exist.
At the Grammys earlier this year, Thirty-First of August had pulled off an insane performance. Later, in an interview, Anson explained the opening line, “Don’t play pretend”:
Drop the baggage, drop the restraint, shed the masks and armor. Feel the music with your heart, listen to the voice deep in your soul, and seize every second of life.
Back then, millions watching on TV wished they could’ve been part of it. Now, they had their shot to actually join in—
No one wanted to miss it. No pretending—just party!
So… where was Anson?
Nicholas was 100% sure this was all Anson’s doing, the key spark that transformed tonight’s premiere.
Next up, it had to be Anson’s entrance, pushing the vibe to its peak in one big surge.
But Nicholas couldn’t figure it out: Where was he?
He looked left, looked right—no hints anywhere.
Was he in the crowd?
In this chaotic, overflowing sea of people, even the biggest star would fade into just another face.
But what about the others?
Kirsten Dunst, James Franco, Sam Raimi—the rest of the crew? The celebrity guests invited to this massive premiere?
How were they going to show up? Where were they hiding?
Nicholas was stumped!
Anson was Anson, alright. Never assume you’ve got him figured out—he’d always flip the script and bring the unexpected.
The anticipation shot up again, uncontrollable. Nicholas’s heart was pounding.
Before he could snap out of it, he was already tapping along to the beat, letting his body melt into the rhythm.
Truth be told, Nicholas had stayed on guard this whole time, keeping his journalist senses sharp, refusing to relax. This wasn’t a carnival for him—it was work. But standing here, the wild, deafening energy seeped into his veins. Underneath his skin, his soul was already dancing.
Right then!
The band wrapped up a song. The makeshift group of musicians huddled, swapping ideas for the next track. The crowd shouted suggestions left and right, buzzing with excitement. A brief lull hit—then, out of nowhere, a voice in the crowd dropped a bombshell.
“Peter Parker!”
Huh? Who?
In a mix of gasps and confusion, people started craning their necks, searching for the source. Amid the surging tide, a small group tilted their heads skyward.
Eyes rustled upward, following their gaze. That direction? Straight to the roof of Radio City Music Hall.
Nicholas, Blair, Gloria—no exceptions. Everyone’s sightlines darted through the blue sky between the towering buildings.
There, a figure stood. Too far to make out clearly, but faintly, you could still trace the perfect outline of that lean frame.
It was… Spider-Man!
A figure in the full Spider-Man suit stood proudly on the rooftop terrace of Radio City Music Hall, radiating confidence.
More Spider-Man than Peter Parker—
Because he was wearing the mask.
For a split second, reality blurred. The fourth wall shattered. They were in New York, Spider-Man was here—it felt like a movie scene bleeding into real life.
Next second, would the Green Goblin swoop in?
That fleeting illusion was like a pebble hitting a still lake—ripples spreading out, half-real, half-dream, impossible to pin down.
Before anyone could process it, Spider-Man grabbed a cable and leaped off the edge.
Chapter 1522: The Crowd as One
In an instant, shock, disbelief, and daze crashed over them like a tidal wave. Their minds couldn’t process it fast enough—overloaded, lagging behind.
But before anyone could react, Spider-Man grabbed a steel cable and leaped down without a second thought. Just like that, it happened.
The entire crowd froze.
Not even a gasp or a shout—just pure, stunned silence. They stood there, jaws dropped, eyes wide, like a bunch of marionettes with cut strings.
Nicholas was no exception. For a moment, he forgot his job as a reporter, staring blankly at the scene. His heart clenched, adrenaline exploding through him.
Spider-Man clung to the “web” with his right hand, descending from above, and landed on the stage with a single-leg split—cool as hell.
Now Nicholas finally got why the stage was there. Its height made every move visible to the whole crowd.
Spider-Man stayed low, half-crouched, head tilted up, peering through the mask at the audience. His gaze swept slowly across them. The mask hid his expression, leaving everyone to guess what it meant—maybe he was sizing them up, maybe plotting something.
Then, he reached for his mask, fingers brushing the edge as if he might pull it off any second.
Gasp!
The sound caught in their throats, choked off. Every ounce of attention hung on that figure like puppets on strings. Some even tiptoed, straining to peek through the sea of people, hearts racing toward the stage, desperate for a glimpse of the truth.
Gloria studied him closely, piecing it together, then shook her head: That wasn’t Anson.
Even with the Spider-Man suit and mask obscuring his face, relying only on his build and stance, she could tell. It wasn’t him.
It was damn close—but not quite.
God only knows how many times she’d pored over Anson’s Dior ads and magazine spreads. Those snug, tailored fits revealed every line and proportion of his frame. Even in Spider-Man, she could spot which scenes used a stunt double and which were Anson himself.
Pulling her eyes away, Gloria caught Blair, Elaine, and Karen’s looks. A quick glance between them, and they all got it.
But if that wasn’t Anson, where was the real guy?
Then, a thunderous drumbeat exploded against her eardrums—
Boom, boom, boom-boom; boom, boom, boom-boom.
Her first thought? That wandering band was at it again. She almost rolled her eyes: Read the room, guys. Now’s not the time.
Everyone’s focus was glued to Spider-Man. The drums barely registered.
Except for a few—like Gloria and her crew, like Nicholas, like the folks stuck behind the band with no view of the stage.
Following the sound, Gloria’s eyes locked onto a figure. Her hand flew to her mouth, barely stifling a scream. Her body trembled despite her efforts, a storm of emotions roaring through her mind.
There, among that makeshift band, a new figure had appeared out of nowhere.
White shirt, navy suit, navy knitted tie—sharp, sleek, and perfectly fitted. Tall and lean, he radiated a youthful edge tinged with reckless defiance. The fabric hugged his broad shoulders and narrow waist, showing off flawless proportions. Fully covered, not an inch of skin exposed, yet every move oozed a lethal kind of charm.
In that split second, her breath caught.
He stood out like a crane among chickens—no words needed, effortlessly snagging every eye.
Who else could it be but Anson Wood?
Wait—if this was Anson, then who the hell just swung down from Radio City Music Hall?
No time to think, no room to move. Her gaze latched onto him, trapped in wave after wave of awe and shock, forgetting to breathe.
But Anson didn’t say a word. Bathed in the crowd’s burning stares, he raised both hands high and started clapping a rhythm, silent as ever.
Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap.
Simple, basic—the easiest beat imaginable, one clap after another. His hands synced with the drums, building like a hurricane taking shape right in front of them.
Gloria took a deep breath, steadying herself. She raised her hands and copied him, joining the rhythm.
She wasn’t alone.
Blair, Karen, Elaine—all of them jumped in, feeling the beat with their hands, letting their bodies play the tune.
One by one, more joined. Nicholas turned and saw it ripple out like wind over a wheat field. The crowd rustled, heads turning, whispers buzzing through the air. But it didn’t break the rhythm—it blended with it, a duet of human chatter and claps crashing together.
The ripples spread, wave after wave rolling outward.
It was a domino effect. The surging crowd turned in sync, one after another, all facing the same direction.
The packed masses couldn’t see clearly through the throng, but they didn’t need to. The word spread—
Anson was here.
Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap.
The rhythm grew from scattered to epic, messy to tight, sweeping across the whole place. With Radio City Music Hall as the center, it swallowed Rockefeller Center whole.
From above, it’d look like a raging sea.
Nicholas couldn’t help but feel the surge in his chest. Who could resist? Who could say no?
This was Don’t Be a Prude come to life—being part of the show, your own flesh and blood woven into the madness.
His heart detonated with every beat.
And yet, Anson never spoke, never even announced himself. Still, he pulled the entire premiere together.
Finally, he stepped forward, leading the musicians onward.
The crowd parted like the Red Sea for Moses, clearing a path for Anson and his crew. But here’s the wild part: more people started joining the band from the sidelines. Even some bold, curious onlookers tagged along for the fun, swelling Anson’s posse.
In a blink, the stage loomed close.
The musicians with instruments climbed up, hooking their gear to the sound system with quick, practiced moves. The latecomers with empty hands stayed on the red carpet alongside the African drummer.
Anson spun around, stepping to the stage’s edge. He faced the drummer—one up high, one below—and they signaled each other.
Boom-boom-boom-boom, boom-boom-boom-boom.
Light but rapid, the tempo kicked up a notch. It wasn’t about force—it was all rhythm.
Boom-boom-boom-boom, boom-boom-boom-boom.
Again, then again. More drums joined from behind, blending into the grand, unified beat. Two sounds danced together—one bold, one soft—clashing and weaving into layers of energy, like an ocean roaring under golden sunlight, a storm tearing through.
Chapter 1523: Riding the Waves
Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap.
Boom boom boom boom.
Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap.
Boom boom boom boom.
Two rhythms crashed together, stirring up waves of energy. It was just like “Don’t Play Pretend”—every person in the crowd became part of the band, the music, the performance. And like Thirty-First of August, it peeled away the glitz and clutter, letting the raw charm of the instruments shine through.
Right now, it was all about the drums.
With just one “instrument,” they layered depth and texture, blending distinct tones into something seamless, breathing new life into the air.
The crowd couldn’t help it—they went wild.
All reason, work, and random thoughts vanished. They even forgot to cheer for Anson’s entrance. They just… became the music.
At that moment, Anson straightened up, strode back to the center of the stage, and raised both hands like a conductor. Every eye, every ounce of energy in the room, zeroed in on him.
Then, with a sharp drop of his arms—
BOOM!
From the four corners of the square around Radio City Music Hall, massive drums—hidden until now—thundered in unison with his command.
The roar rolled in, sweeping over everything.
Onstage, the ragtag band kicked into gear, the melody cascading down, filling the space in an instant. The whole world drowned in the sound.
“SAIL!” (Note 1)
Anson grabbed the mic and let out a raw, raspy roar. The simple word exploded with power.
In that split second, thousands of eyes lit up, burning bright.
“This is how I show my love, lost in my head, daydreaming wild, ‘cause… baby, blame it on my ADD.”
His lazy, weathered voice tore through the thundering waves, ripping a corner of the clear blue sky wide open. Golden sunlight burst through, the lingering notes dancing fast between pounding hearts and trembling souls. The crowd shivered, out of control.
Drums and beats, melodies and heat—they tangled, collided, burned free. The vastness of the universe stretched the limits of imagination wide open.
“This is why the angels cry, all my twisted pride to blame, baby, blame it on my ADD.”
His light, effortless singing didn’t seem to take much, but it carried a stubborn strength. It stood tall through sorrow, gritted its teeth through pain, gazed at the stars through despair. That fragile, conflicted power poured out between the notes and words, unleashing something massive.
But it wasn’t just watching from the sidelines.
As everyone clapped along, as they became part of the performance, the melody seeped through their skin, invaded their souls, and spread. That struggle between dark and light—cold one moment, blazing the next, free then aching—gripped their hearts tight.
Their minds? A roaring blur.
Reason gone, selves lost. Part of them felt detached, souls swept into a cosmic storm. Part of them turned into the notes, melting into the melody, the raw release beyond words.
Then, it broke free—
“SAIL!”
A howl, a bellow, straight to the skull, pure exhilaration.
“SAIL!”
Arms wide, riding the wind, shaking off the endless muck and mire of life, embracing freedom.
“SAIL!”
So small, trapped in the cage of reality—petty worries and daily grind all there was, the end in sight from the start.
Yet so grand, chasing the unknown in a vast universe, life brimming with possibility. Only they could hold themselves back.
Hearts surged, blood boiled.
No doubt, this was classic Thirty-First of August—epic and bold, brought to life through crashing instruments and sweeping arrangements. But it wasn’t classic Thirty-First of August—stripped down, back to basics, shedding the ornate for something pure.
Who could resist?
“Maybe I should scream for help, maybe I should end it all, baby, blame it on my ADD.”
“Maybe I’m a freak, maybe I don’t listen right, baby, blame it on my ADD.”
Emotions swelled, passion blazed.
Then, they couldn’t hold back—
“SAIL!”
When Nicholas heard his own voice rip from his throat, a messy tangle of feelings hit him.
A bit of shame, a bit of hesitation, a bit of thrill, a bit of abandon, a bit of madness.
He hadn’t expected this. A seasoned journalist, he’d seen it all in Hollywood—big highs, brutal lows, the shine long worn off. He thought he was immune to the hot-blooded narratives of fame, too jaded to fall for it. It was just a job.
But right now, a pure, indescribable emotion broke through.
Life—so short, yet so long. The end was set, but no one dictated the journey. They alone owned the story. They could drift aimlessly, complain endlessly, give up entirely—or they could explore boldly, chase adventure, live true to themselves.
Every now became the past, every moment built the future. In life’s limited span, there was no time for fear or doubt. Seize every second, reclaim its color and fire.
Through storms, through chaos, through crashing waves—set sail.
Forward! Unstoppable! Never still!
Like moths to flame! Shattered to dust! Burning out bright!
“SAIL!”
Nicholas owned his mess—tears streaming, belting it out in the crowd, looking like some wide-eyed rookie.
But he embraced it fully, pouring every ounce of himself into the moment, shining fierce.
From Catch Me If You Can’s audience walk-in, to The Butterfly Effect’s level playing field, to Spider-Man 2’s shared voyage—Anson used film as his medium, premieres as his stage, awakening the soul’s passion through art’s raw power.
“SAIL!”
Nicholas didn’t even wipe the tears off his cheeks. He didn’t check who was watching. Right now, he didn’t care what anyone thought. This was his moment.
It was simple to the core, pure to the extreme, yet the song and melody crashed together with unbelievable force. Everyone found shards of their soul in the soaring sound, blurry eyes catching the sun’s glow, lighting up the stage.
Clap! Clap! Clap! Clap!
Clapping, leaping, crying, reveling.
No one was spared.
The scene stretched boundless, a dazzling starfield unfurling, the infinite universe laid bare.
Beyond the barricades, eyes gathered, unstoppable. Crowds and cars paused in sync, all turning the same way.
For a fleeting moment, New York hit pause.
Note 1: “Sail” by Awolnation
