Father Rector Alfonso Aldunate didn’t simply enter the classroom — he exploded into it, robes flaring like a storm-tossed sail. His face was ghostly pale, his voice thin and trembling.77Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡl8mpUF15AU
“Boys! Listen up!”77Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrSWOZ7L15P
“General Maximiliano Blanchet… he’s coming. Less than thirty minutes from now!”
The older boys snapped to attention. The younger ones — thirteen-year-olds — froze mid-whisper, hearts hammering. The name Blanchet carried a weight of iron-fisted authority. It wasn’t just fear — it was the air itself solidifying around them. For one boy in particular, Sebastián, the fear pressed heavier, as if some invisible burden had already settled on his shoulders.
Father Aldunate stepped forward, hands wringing. “Rector, sir, there’s a problem. Some of the boys — their uniforms are a mess. They were playing soccer—”
“Don’t talk to me about soccer or uniforms!” Aldunate snapped, voice cutting like glass. “The General isn’t here to inspect shirts. He’s here to hear the national anthem. Every stanza. Complete.”
A stunned silence fell. All heads shook. Sebastián’s breath caught. Ignorance under Blanchet wasn’t a mistake — it was failure.
“And the General…” Father Aldunate’s voice sank, thick with dread. “He expects perfection. Anything less is an insult.”
The distant rumble of engines vibrated through the windowpanes. “Thirty minutes,” Father Rector Aldunate murmured. “God help us all.”
Chapter 2 — The Impossible Plan77Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtAkrlsJlHO
Padre Felipe entered quietly, unnervingly calm, as if the storm outside could not touch him. His eyes swept the room, absorbing every detail, finally locking onto Sebastián with sharp, unrelenting focus.
“Gentlemen,” he said lightly, amusement flickering at the edges of his tone, “I hear we’re on the brink of catastrophe.”
Father Rector Aldunate ran a shaking hand through his hair. “Felipe, the boys don’t know the last stanzas. The General arrives in less than thirty minutes. If we fail—”
Felipe raised a finger, slicing the air. “We will not fail. There is one way out.”
Father Aldunate leaned in, desperate. “Tell us.”
Felipe’s gaze didn’t sweep the room — it fixed on a single boy like a vise. The boy flinched under the weight of it, as if some invisible hand pressed down on his chest. Everyone else squirmed nervously, uncertain who Felipe had chosen.
“One boy. One voice,” Felipe said, crisp and commanding. “Someone who can carry the stanzas alone. Perfectly. No rehearsal. No instruments. No distractions.”
Father Rector Aldunate blinked, voice caught. “Who?”
Felipe didn’t look away. “Sebastián Alonso Valente,” he said, calm, certain. “Thirteen years old. Perfect pitch. A voice pure enough to make the forgotten stanzas sound like divine revelation. He will sing them a cappella.”
Father Aldunate’s mouth opened, then closed, disbelief etched on his face. “Alone? With no rehearsal?”
Felipe nodded. “It transforms failure into brilliance. The other boys will sing the familiar stanzas. Then Sebastián rises, and the forgotten verses become a moment of solemn artistry. The General will hear devotion, not incompetence. Our gamble — the only gamble — is brilliance executed perfectly.”
Father Rector Aldunate exhaled slowly, tension bleeding from his shoulders. “Then we do it. Immediately.”
Felipe’s eyes gleamed. “History is waiting.”
Sebastián’s heart hammered like a war drum. Me? Alone? His body felt icy cold. The sound of his own heartbeat drowned out all other noise. He realized the entire weight of the school — and the dictatorship — rested squarely on his young shoulders. The impossible responsibility was already pressing in, sharper than fear itself.
Chapter 3 — Twenty Minutes to Perfection77Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRJgVrt35Sw
Padre Felipe’s hand rested lightly but firmly on Sebastián’s shoulder. “Listen closely,” he said, calm yet piercing, “the reputation of Holy Cross Academy, the honor of your friends, even the safety of the Fathers — it all rests with you. These stanzas must be sung flawlessly, overflowing with emotion. Zero room for error. Do you understand the weight of this responsibility? You are not just singing. You are offering a perfect, artistic sacrifice to appease the General.”
Sebastián’s voice trembled, barely audible. “Father Felipe… I… I understand. The motorcade… in under fifteen minutes… may I… may I see the sheet music? I need to hear the melody in my mind, how the instruments usually support it.”
A fleeting smile touched Felipe’s lips. His eyes remained fixed on the boy, sharp, unrelenting.
“Go to Maestro Águila for the music — but forget the instruments. You will sing a cappella. Alone. Constantly lift your eyes. Look at the General. Show him the feeling, the reverence, the history. Your pitch alone is not enough. You carry the loyalty and the honor of every student and every teacher here. The words are a test of obedience. You are swearing submission. Do you understand what’s at stake?”
Sebastián nodded frantically, already hearing the first chorus in his mind, stripping away the horns and drums to isolate the bare melody. He sprinted toward the music room, the impossible task ahead tightening around his chest, the cold stone tiles echoing his pounding shoes.
Every step increased the pressure: minutes until the motorcade, the dictator’s gaze, and the impossibility of perfection as his only route to safety. Each heartbeat thudded louder, the burden of expectation heavy on him.
Chapter 4 — Dictator’s Arrival and Priest’s Gamble77Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhtTaCiHfTB
The motorcade’s deep rumble shook the cobbled street. Sleek black cars glinted under the sun. Flags fluttered from balconies. Soldiers in olive uniforms formed a rigid perimeter. Oil, dust, and the sharp scent of anticipation replaced the morning chill.
The lead car stopped sharply at Holy Cross Academy. Every boy froze, collars tight, knees weak. Sebastián felt a hollow emptiness open in his stomach.
From the car emerged General Maximiliano Blanchet, flanked by Admiral José Uribe Moreno, General Hugo Montoya, and General Enrique Leiva. Medals caught the sun like daggers.
Father Rector Aldunate, pale and rigid, stood beside Padre Felipe, outwardly composed while his heart hammered like a frantic drum. They bowed. Felipe spoke first, his voice rich, ceremonial, perfectly controlled.
“General,” he said, deference measured to the syllable, “the honor of your presence fills us with immeasurable happiness. We are truly unsure if we deserve such grace.”
Blanchet narrowed his eyes, studying the priest with the precision of a man who valued loyalty as hard currency. He gave a faint, almost imperceptible nod, letting Felipe continue.
“Excellency, you have rightly decreed that the tenth and eleventh stanzas — long forgotten — must be restored. A most noble and necessary command.”
“The General’s face remained stone-cold. The silence stretched. Palms sweated. Felipe lowered his voice.”
“These stanzas demand absolute purity. To render them fully, we propose the familiar anthem be sung by the boys, and the final stanzas entrusted to one prodigious voice: Sebastián Alonso Valente.”
Blanchet’s gaze flickered — recognition, or suspicion.
“The son of Don Julio Ernesto Valente? From the vineyards?”
“Yes, Excellency!” Father Rector Aldunate seized the opening. “The only heir. Thirteen years old. A prodigious tenor. Perfect pitch. An unparalleled tribute.”
Felipe inclined his head, leaning slightly forward. “A cappella, General. Nothing but the clarity of a child’s voice, raised to you, to the Nation. A single, unaided oath of loyalty.”
“The courtyard held its breath. Blanchet’s gaze swept past the priests, across the frozen rows of boys. Then, at last, he gave a single, decisive nod.77Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXZbjZKQ9tG
‘So be it. The anthem first. Then the stanzas… from El Niño Valente. Alone. Let us hear whether Chile truly sings in the voice of its sons.’”
Relief flickered across the priests’ faces. The gamble had paid off — for now.
Chapter 5 — A Solo for the Dictator77Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsyCsBwK8E8
Sebastián stepped forward, centered in the semicircle. His polished shoes clicked sharply against the stone. The morning air bit. Each breath hung misty. His heart pounded like a caged bird. He fixed his gaze on the General and the Junta.
The chorus of boys had finished. Silence fell. All eyes were on him.
Padre Felipe gave a subtle nod, whispering, “You are the school now, Sebastián.”
Sebastián inhaled, focusing on perfect pitch to steady his fear. Then he began.
The archaic stanzas poured forth with crystalline precision. Every note steady. Every word flawless. His pure voice cut across the courtyard, climbed tiled roofs, reached the men in uniform.
He lifted his eyes, locking onto Blanchet. The General’s stone face flickered. Twice, Sebastián thought he saw a hand tap a quiet rhythm against a trousered leg. Even General Montoya’s jaw softened slightly.
Sebastián’s small hands hovered over his chest, rising and falling with the voice. He didn’t merely sing — he carried history, meaning, submission, reverence, all at once.
As the final note faded, a profound silence held. Then Blanchet straightened, his lips curving in approval — not quite a smile.
“At last. These verses are given the honor they deserve.”
Engines rumbled as the motorcade began to pull away, polished boots and jingling medals receding into the distance. Only then did tentative claps ripple through the boys, growing into full applause. They began mimicking the generals, exaggerating stiff salutes and permanent frowns.
“Montoya’s jaw!” one boy shouted. Laughter erupted.
Sebastián watched, pale but steady. Inside, he replayed every note, every breath, every lifted gaze. The impossible demand, the dictator’s attention, the school’s honor — survived.
A classmate ran to him, grinning. “Seba! You saved all of us!”
Sebastián nodded, distant. “It was necessary. Perfect was the only way.”
Another boy nudged him. “Perfect? You made it look easy! We were frozen!”
Sebastián exhaled. “I just… focused on the words. Respect.”
A smaller boy tugged his sleeve. “Padre Felipe knew it would work?”
Sebastián glanced toward the priests. Felipe stood calm, alert, unreadable.
“He always knows.”
The boys laughed again, awe dissolving into noise. One small boy had carried the weight of the school, the anthem, and the gaze of power — and had not dropped it.
Chapter 6 — After the Storm: Quiet Triumph77Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZKxwNb30Lr
The courtyard was empty. Late afternoon light crept through shuttered windows. Fire crackled in the rector’s office. Papers cluttered dark wood.
Aldunate leaned back, half-empty glass of brandy in hand. His face pale, tension drained into weary peace. Felipe recounted the morning quietly, gestures minimal but precise. Father Álvaro and Maestro Águila huddled close, flushed with relief.
“Sebastián… flawless. The courtyard froze. And yet he succeeded,” Álvaro whispered, awe-struck.
Felipe nodded. “Blanchet leaned in — he let the boy’s voice reach him. Seduced by artistry of obedience.”
Aldunate smiled thinly. “God’s gift. Holy Cross Academy survived — triumphed.”
Águila’s eyes twinkled. “Let them laugh. They stared down the wolf and sang him a lullaby.”
Felipe’s gaze drifted to the fire, voice dropping. “Today we survived. Today we won. Tomorrow… who knows what demands await. The price of perfection is high.”
Aldunate straightened, firelight catching deep lines. “We’ll be ready. No more improvising. Every stanza will be learned.”
Águila nodded. “Whether we like it or not.”
A gentle quiet settled, the kind that comes after narrowly escaping disaster. Smoke, brandy, unspoken relief mingled.
Felipe allowed the faintest smile. “Conspirators in full uniform. Tonight we mock them. Tomorrow we master them. And God help anyone caught unprepared again.”
77Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvZI49bIlnL
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