Chapter 59
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 59
Chapter Title: Devil's Talent
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Rimon had lived for a long, long time.
And in that span, he had experienced many things.
Including the time he had fallen under a black mage's curse and been forced to move against his will.
But at this moment...
What enveloped him was a bizarre sensation unlike anything he had ever felt in centuries of life.
Zing.
The bow glided across the strings.
The faint tremor that resonated through the air...
Like a spring breeze brushing over a mountain spring—gentle, yet sinking deep into the heart.
But the sound shifted.
Zreeeng.
Each time his left fingers, gripping the violin's neck, pressed and released the strings like caressing a lover, the Blackheart violin's tone transformed dramatically.
It slashed sharply and lightly like a blade, then sank deep and heavy like plunging into a spring, quieted as if catching its breath—only to suddenly bolt wildly like a maiden fleeing a demon, leaping and pulling.
Amazing.
This was his first time even holding a violin.
Yet by surrendering to the curse and following its commands down to the comma, he could produce such a performance.
The most surprising part was the violin's sound itself.
It changed every instant, like a bird's trill.
Suddenly exploding in a dance-like frenzy.
Bouncing nimbly from his fingertips.
Sinking mournfully. Wailing sorrow, raging, tearing apart.
The speed and angle of the bow, the position of the fingers pressing the strings...
The slightest tweak in technique altered the strings' vibration, transforming the music into endless variations.
Was he intoxicated by those changes?
Forgetting everything else.
His fingers moved ahead of the curse's guidance, following the melodies rising in his mind.
Faster.
More dazzling.
More beautiful.
It had become a storm of music.
Like riding a single leaf through raging winds across the sea—each moment, the curse demanded the impossible.
A demonic temptation no human could follow without snapping fingers and tearing muscles.
But he did it.
His body, honed by swinging a sword billions of times, and senses forged crossing life and death, naturally embraced the onslaught.
It wasn't mere blossoming—it was evolution.
A single ancient tree, grown over centuries, now blooming a flower of new possibilities.
A human transcending human limits, united with a divinely blessed instrument, weaving a heavenly performance that swept the world in petals of sound.
How long had he been lost in that trance, drawing forth the sounds?
Finally, the melody circling his mind reached its end.
The bow in his hand stilled.
Zing...
The scattering notes faded.
And the world fell silent.
"......"
The old man's words hadn't been a lie.
As the performance ended, the curse dominating his body vanished.
Yet even with freedom restored, Rimon couldn't immediately set down the Blackheart violin.
He had played just one piece.
A pleasant languor welled up.
A strange silence, as if the whole world had hushed to listen to him.
Above all, the lingering echo of that storm-like melody still held him captive.
"Hoo..."
He stood frozen only briefly.
Like a true veteran of the world, Rimon shook off the inexplicable languor and the performance's afterglow with a deep sigh.
He returned the violin and bow to their case, then spoke to the old man.
"I apologize for calling you senile. This violin really is a magical instrument."
A straightforward admission.
A frank apology for mistaking the Blackheart violin for a mere cursed tool.
But the old man showed no reaction.
Like a statue carved from stone.
His face rigid.
"Old timer? Hey, old timer?"
"......"
"Hey, what's wrong with this old geezer...?"
Waving a hand in front of the old man's eyes for a moment.
Wondering if the geezer had truly lost it, Rimon turned—and this time, he was genuinely startled.
Not because of the kids gaping at him (one exception aside), or Sia's indescribable expression.
It was Li Chingwei staring blankly at him.
The teardrops trickling down her cheeks shocked him.
"Princess, why are you crying?"
"......Am I crying?"
"Yeah."
As if she hadn't noticed herself.
Li Chingwei wiped her cheek with one hand.
She stared at the moisture on her fingertips like it was something alien, then nodded.
"I guess I am. I was crying."
Had she been that shocked?
Her face looked calm as ever, but her reaction seemed a screw loose.
In a way, more out of it than anyone else there. Rimon asked awkwardly,
"You okay?"
"Yes. I think it was just that Benefactor's performance was so brilliant it moved me."
At Li Chingwei's composed reply, Rimon's expression grew even stranger.
Her tone sounded calm.
But calling him Benefactor.
Speaking as if about someone else, guessing at her own tears.
It didn't sound okay at all.
"Well, if you're fine, whatever."
Rimon didn't point out the contradiction.
He just nodded as if accepting it and moved on.
Irresponsible, perhaps—but Li Chingwei smiled faintly, seeming pleased by his indifference.
"......That piece."
That was when.
The old man, who had been dazed and rigid, finally loosened up and spoke abruptly.
"Do you know the name of what you just played?"
"Piece name?"
Rimon tilted his head.
He had simply followed the curse, playing the melody echoing in his mind.
He didn't know what it was.
But years weren't wasted.
After pondering, he dredged up a vague memory from the dusty corners of his mind—a similar piece he'd heard once.
"Dunno. Something like one of those Caprices composed by that Paganini guy or whatever."
"Paganini's 24 Caprices for Solo Violin, Op. 1."
"Ah, yeah, that."
Not even close in specifics, but Rimon nodded shamelessly.
Thick skin was a perk of age too.
But the old man didn't call him out.
He just looked a bit troubled.
"It's a special piece. Paganini himself was the only one who could play it properly."
Niccolò Paganini.
The violinist who etched his mark on 19th-century music history.
Born with freakishly long, flexible arms and fingers, he created pieces only he could play.
Demonic works demanding superhuman technique.
Countless performers challenged them, but all fell short—mere technical imitations.
No one perfectly recreated his scores musically.
Hence, the Devil's Violinist.
Legends said he sold his soul to the devil for that skill—a genius dividing violin history's before and after.
"Now I get it."
"Get what?"
"Paganini composed those 24 Caprices not just to show off his skill."
As if mocking himself for realizing the obvious so late.
The old man let out a hollow chuckle.
Then gazed at Rimon and continued softly.
"And that heavenly music required not a heavenly being, but the devil's talent."
Pure awe?
Envy of youth and genius?
Regret at meeting so late?
Whatever mix of emotions in the old man's eyes, Rimon snorted.
"Devil's talent my ass. I just played what the curse told me."
"True. Without this magical violin, it'd take a hundred years and still be impossible."
"......Aren't you agreeing too readily?"
"It's the truth, ain't it?"
As if daring him to complain.
Rimon clicked his tongue but didn't argue.
That performance was only possible with the Blackheart violin.
The curse guided the perfect angles for the bow, the precise finger movements—yielding those notes.
Aside from digesting the curse being impossible for ordinary humans.
Rimon didn't even notice that.
To a Sword Master whose body could freely unleash any sword art, this was natural.
No big deal.
"So take it."
"What?"
That's why.
When the old man thrust out the case with the Blackheart violin, Rimon looked dumbfounded.
"Take it? This? Me?"
"Yep."
"......Why?"
"Thanks to you, it's become a truly cursed violin now."
The old man smiled bitterly.
He was just a warehouse keeper in a failing amusement park, but he dabbled in magic.
Instinct told him.
The Blackheart violin was unusable now.
If ignorant, maybe—but like a gourmet tasting the ultimate delicacy, it wouldn't settle for fast food again.
Having found an owner who could handle its performance, it would reject mediocre players forever.
"I don't need some cursed instrument."
"Don't need it? Just take it anyway. Think of it as a prize for that fine show."
The old man ignored his refusal.
He just held up two fingers.
"But promise me two things."
"......Prizes with conditions?"
"Ain't no such thing as a truly free prize these days."
Like those deals requiring personal info or sign-ups.
With that cheeky line.
The old man turned serious.
"One: never give that violin to anyone else. If no use for it, seal it in a temple or smash and burn it."
"That's straight out of the cursed item disposal playbook."
"The classics are classics 'cause they work."
Not denying its cursed nature.
Rimon frowned at the audacity but asked lowly,
"And the other?"
"Ah, that's easy."
The old man grinned.
He tapped the case and added,
"Whenever you want, come back and play it perfectly once more."
"Wasn't that good enough?"
"I was satisfied. Just feels like you weren't."
"Me, unsatisfied?"
"Weren't you?"
"......"
Even at the old man's knowing smile, Rimon stayed silent.
Just stared at the case.
Cursed or magical.
This violin was chicken ribs to him.
He was a Sword Master.
No interest in anything but the sword, never regretted it.
But that melting sensation deep in his body during the performance.
And the faint presence that flickered briefly then vanished.
Made him give an unexpected answer.
"Can't promise to visit before you croak from old age."
"That's why I said play here in the park."
"What if the park shuts down?"
"Eh, fate's fate. Accept it."
"Fate, huh..."
A chuckle escaped him.
Rimon picked up the Blackheart violin case.
He handed out the plastic umbrellas the old man gave to the kids, still lost in the afterglow, and tossed out,
"Don't wait up, old timer. I ain't into playing music, and I get along poorly with fate and all that crap."
"Sure. See you next time."
No contract, no firm promise—Rimon led the kids out of the magic hall.
Watching his figure weave through the pouring rain, the old man smirked oddly.
'Gonna have to live a good long while.'
He remembered.
Rimon saying it was his first time touching an instrument.
And after a spine-chilling performance that stunned everyone, wearing a dissatisfied look alone.
Could a man unsatisfied with a first-try performance that'd amaze sun and moon just store that violin away?
And when he finally satisfied himself...
What performance would he bring?
Heart pounding like a boy in first love, the old man rummaged in his silk hat.
Pulled out an old coin, polished it on his sleeve, murmured a short incantation, and flicked it.
"Muhama la Rodon sibaLa Un Maktoob."
⟨ Incantation ⟩
Ting.
Right then.
A shaggy black hand shot from the shadows, snatching the bouncing coin off the floor.
Ink-black remnants splattered, sweeping the floor clean of the water and footprints Rimon and the kids left.
As the spotless floor gleamed in an instant, the old man casually adjusted his silk hat.
"Hm?"
Blinking a few times.
He stood and peeked outside the magic hall at the suddenly clear sky, puzzled.
"What? It stopped already?"
Once it started, the rain usually lasted half a day at least.
Less than an hour? Baffled, he frowned suspiciously.
No memorial rite, no spirit mage—why had the rampaging spirits calmed so suddenly?
"Did that stubborn spirit finally come to its senses? Or...?"