Chapter 58
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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 58
Chapter Title: The Cursed Violin
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“This is……”
The moment he laid eyes on that violin of deep black.
Rimon let out an involuntary groan.
It wasn’t just the thick, overwhelming scent of magic that hit him like a wave, far denser than when it had been inside the box.
Under the dim lighting, the violin shimmered with a glow of spiritual energy rippling around it like fireflies, drawing the sound from his lips.
Others might not have noticed.
In this Iron Age, where even Sword Masters were relics of the past.
Few could appraise a magical tool from the Heroes’ Age just by sensing its spiritual energy.
But Rimon, who had lived through long years as a Sword Master and wielded every manner of enchanted gear, recognized it at a glance.
No, he couldn’t not recognize it.
That spiritual energy carried a glow all too familiar to him, in the worst way possible.
“Hey, you old coot! This is a cursed violin!”
A blood-drinking cursed magic sword.
A helm that turned its wearer into a berserker.
A lamp that granted wishes at the cost of your lifespan.
It reeked of the same murky spiritual energy as all those “cursed” treasures that kept popping up every time he purged black mages.
Rimon bristled at the sight of something that wouldn’t soothe crying children but might make grown adults weep.
“Hey now, watch your mouth. This is a holy violin crafted by a priest of the Muse.”
“Holy, my ass. You think I don’t know half the cursed junk comes straight out of temples?”
“……You a mage or somethin’?”
“Can’t cast a lick of magic, but I’ve smashed plenty of priests and witches.”
Rimon patted the sword at his waist.
Having spent most of his life in battle, he had no shortage of enemies.
And among them weren’t just black mages—there were priests who brainwashed people for their faith, witches who ran human experiments, and the like.
Black mages were evil by default.
But those wielding white magic permitted by the gods weren’t always good, either.
The gods granting that permission each had their own standards of “good,” after all.
So it was no surprise Rimon snorted at the old man claiming the cursed violin was holy just because a priest made it.
“Ahem! Now, now, don’t misunderstand. This here’s a proper magical violin, through and through.”
“A properly cursed one, you mean.”
“Argh, if you can’t trust me, just pick it up and give it a try. If anything goes wrong, you can have my head.”
“Hmmm……”
Maybe it was the sword at his hip.
Or perhaps the murderous glint in his eyes.
Either way, Rimon didn’t soften his wary gaze, even as the old man desperately professed his innocence.
He knew better than most just how dangerous magic could be—there was no way “just try it” would fly with him.
The one who unexpectedly came to the old man’s defense was someone surprising.
“Why not do as he says for now?”
“Try it?”
“Yeah. Doesn’t seem like he’s lying. And if it were truly dangerous, it wouldn’t be sitting out here like this.”
Li Chingwei smiled warmly.
She glanced back with a playful expression and added,
“Besides, if we don’t, the kids are gonna start crying.”
“……”
Rimon frowned as he saw the children on the verge of bursting into tears.
He had no desire to touch such a suspicious item, but doing nothing would mean letting the kids bawl.
Guarantee the kids cry 100%.
Or swallow his unease.
His choice was decided from the start.
“Fine. Let’s see what all the fuss is about with this thing.”
He rubbed his dry face with both hands once.
Grumbling all the while, Rimon finally picked up the violin of deep black.
It wasn’t just for the kids.
Half curiosity about what made this violin radiate such immense spiritual energy.
Half confidence that some puny trinket couldn’t touch him.
Arrogant? Sure.
Didn’t matter.
He was Rimon Asfelder.
Humanity’s Last Sword Master—the man who survived the curse of the Demon God, the pinnacle of black magic, and severed its head.
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
“……”
It happened right then.
As Rimon tucked the violin under his chin, securing it against his shoulder, and picked up the bow to take position.
The motion was so natural.
Li Chingwei, who’d been watching with interest, and even the teary-eyed children stared at him with eyes wide as saucers.
“Sword Duke, you play the violin too?”
“……First time I’ve ever held an instrument in my life.”
“Then what’s with that posture?”
Li Chingwei blinked in confusion at Rimon’s stance—flawless enough to pass for a lifelong violinist.
Rimon gave her a deadpan reply.
“What else? Obviously the curse.”
“Hey, I said it’s magic.”
“Same difference, you old coot. What else do you call an instrument that hijacks your body?”
“Told ya. It’s a holy violin made by a priest of the Muse.”
The old man grinned.
In the past, there was a priest who served the goddess of arts, the Muse.
With devout faith, he yearned to offer his beloved goddess beautiful music.
One problem.
He was tone-deaf.
Tormented by this fatal flaw for a worshiper of the Muse, the priest had a revelation.
If he couldn’t play himself, he’d craft an instrument that could play masterfully in his stead.
That was this violin of deep black.
A masterpiece forged over a lifetime by a priest blessed by the Muse.
“Even someone grabbing a violin for the first time in their life can play it perfectly.”
“……But you can’t put it down until the performance ends?”
“Oh? How’d you know?”
“That’s what makes it a cursed item, you senile old fool!”
Rimon snapped back sharply.
He had a rough idea of how this violin of deep black worked.
‘Basically, it’s the instrument version of a cursed sword.’
Among cursed swords that hijack the wielder’s body to attack indiscriminately, quite a few let you wield swordsmanship just by gripping them.
More slaughter that way, after all.
This violin of deep black operated on the same principle.
Sword versus instrument.
Swordsmanship versus performance.
But at its core, forcing the user’s body to execute pre-programmed techniques for a set goal? Identical.
‘The concept’s genius, though.’
Rimon was genuinely impressed.
He’d never seen a curse twisted into supplementing poor playing skill like this.
Not just posture and fingering—the full knowledge of how to produce every note, even the sheet music, flowed naturally into his mind.
And the curse ended after one performance? Definitely a magical instrument.
“What’re you waiting for? Play already.”
Still, Rimon’s expression soured.
It wasn’t just the old man’s sly grin as he urged him on.
If this violin of deep black was purely a boon, why was it rotting in the corner of an rundown amusement park magic hall?
The high completion of a cursed instrument was suspicious enough from the start.
‘Something’s off with this old coot.’
But suspicious or not, Rimon didn’t shake off the curse.
He just rested the bow on the strings.
The kids had stopped crying and were watching him. If something felt wrong, he could dispel a curse like this anytime.
With half-resigned determination, Rimon let the violin’s curse guide his bow.
‘Heh heh, another pitiful victim for the curse. One more added to the tally.’
The old man smiled contentedly.
He watched Rimon with mischievous eyes.
‘Wonder what ridiculous performance we’ll get this time?’
He hadn’t exactly lied to Rimon.
The violin of deep black was a proper magical instrument, crafted by a priest of the Muse. All true.
But he hadn’t told the whole story.
Like how that Muse priest couldn’t produce a proper performance even with it.
In a way, it was inevitable.
A tone-deaf priest couldn’t embed flawless playing into the violin to begin with.
Of course, the priest knew that flaw.
So he emulated the techniques of dozens of the era’s finest performers, infusing the Muse’s blessing to capture the ideal heavenly melody.
Astonishingly, it worked.
Separate from his tone-deafness, he had innate genius for magic.
One problem.
No one could actually play it.
‘Heavenly music is for heavenly beings only.’
Even on identical instruments, performances vary wildly based on subtle differences in arm length, finger size, sensation, emotion.
Ignoring all that and fusing dozens of styles into one curse?
Impossible for a human body.
Even top violinists got their techniques and senses scrambled by the curse, churning out utter disasters.
‘Poor violin.’
In the end, the Muse’s saint couldn’t bear the frustration and took his own life.
In the Silver Age, it would have reigned as an absolute treasure. Driving its creator to death? Truly a cursed instrument.
That’s why a violin worthy of relic status rotted here.
No proper performance possible, and its ominous origins scared everyone off.
Not entirely the violin’s fault, of course.
But people judge by results.
‘If only it had the right owner, it wouldn’t be treated like a kid’s toy.’
The old man sometimes wondered.
A body that could handle any technique flawlessly.
Senses transcending human limits.
Innate musicality to boot.
Meet the ideal master with every talent a musician needs, and this violin of deep black could’ve been a magnificent magical instrument.
One to move even the gods with heavenly sounds.
‘Not that such a human exists.’
He knew better than anyone it was a pipe dream.
Dozens of years guarding this magic hall.
From Seven Dragon Society masters at the pinnacle of their arts to high-level players with performance skills.
Even those superhumans couldn’t handle the curse.
So he looked forward to it.
What hilarious butchery this time.
Bonus: Would Rimon buy the hall’s hidden recording, or beg it deleted?
And so, as Rimon raised the bow.
Lightly touched it to the strings.
And slid it smoothly across.
Screeeeech.
The old man’s grin vanished.