Chapter 70
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 70
Chapter Title: Nostalgic Twelve Songs
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Twelve Arts of Longing for Home.
-𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅮~
The Nostalgic Specter never revealed his name or his homeland, not even until the very end.
Yet somehow, in his playing, I could see a bustling harbor teeming with people coming and going, taverns where foreigners from distant lands mingled, and caravans of merchants and horses laden with cargo traversing treacherous mountain passes.
Traders from foreign shores piercing through perilous seas, bringing with them all manner of exotic goods.
A prosperous little nation where countless tales from those merchants flowed in, mingling with unfamiliar cultures.
There, by chance, a qin that had crossed the ocean must have been his beginning.
Whether it was during the Joseon era, Silla, or even further back in antiquity, I had no idea under what circumstances this man, born on the same land as me, had ended up on the opposite side of the continent as a master of sound arts.
I could only guess that he had a backstory even more convoluted than mine.
Yet they say an artist's talent deepens the more they suffer.
The Nostalgic Specter's performance—from wandering minstrel to the leader of a grand sect after eons unimaginable to ordinary folk—possessed something that transcended the imagination of anyone who hadn't heard it.
No matter how much I learned his techniques and flourishes, infused qi into notes, and reached the realm of wielding harmony through sound.
I could never match the weight of his years, so he warned me that if I ever entered the martial world, I should set the qin aside for a while.
Music ultimately transcends qi and ritual, entering the realm of the heart.
My technical prowess had already been honed to rival his own, but without the inspiration to build upon it, it was lacking.
He sternly cautioned that if I clung to the qin, I'd either become a third-rate hack blinded by money, churning out empty performances, or a bloodthirsty demon summoning slaughter with sound.
'Good grief... From the moment I joined the Heavenly Demon Divine Cult, when would I have had time to leisurely play the qin...'
Sure, he had wandered the land, perfecting his art with a single qin—receiving offers to serve as an exclusive court musician, treated like nobility wherever he went, as long as he had his instrument.
But I had dropped into the martial world without a single connection, climbed to the upper echelons of the Heavenly Demon Divine Cult, and waged war against the corrupt cult leader's faction.
Aside from a few solitary sessions to steady my troubled mind, I never had the time or leisure to properly practice the qin amid my frantic dashing about—what practice?
Perhaps he had foreseen even that, drilling the fundamentals into my body first.
'In the end, I picked up the qin again only after enough time had passed that I was invited to that damned cult leader's banquet.'
Honestly, by then, it had been years since I'd last touched one, so I was a bit worried.
I'd wielded the sword more than the qin, and the brush even more than the sword, so I fretted whether I'd tarnish my master's name.
But there was no retreating.
It was a battlefield disguised as a banquet, attended en masse by the neutral factions in our cult who were watching the power struggle between me and the cult leader, right as my own faction was steadily growing.
In a situation where I couldn't afford to yield an inch in my qi standoff with the cult leader, that bastard arbitrarily demanded I play the qin. I had no choice but to go along.
And yet.
The moment I reached for the qin after decades, my hands moved on their own, drawing forth the melody.
But that performance, even as it played my master's twelve songs, was infused with the fierce training of the Twelve Divine Demons I'd endured and the relentless years charging through the cult.
In the end, fortune turns like the tales of Sai Weng.
The neutral factions, upon hearing my playing, sided with me—the one who had fought fiercely in the name of the Heavenly Demon Divine Cult—over the cult leader's kin, who had wasted away the years in lax status quo and power games. My faction matched his in strength.
'So what about now?'
What has my qin become?
What years does it now hold?
The beloved companion, a gift from one I cherished who then vanished; eroded by time and gone. In this world neither Central Plains nor Korea, reborn in another form—what fills this new qin of mine?
-𝆕𝅘𝅥𝅮~𝅘𝅥~
My technique remained flawless.
As expected, since it had been hammered into me—soul-deep with blood and sweat, not mere flesh—even reincarnation couldn't erase it.
But if technique is the vessel, then the inspiration it holds is the essence.
Depending on the direction of that inspiration, the same notes played from start to finish diverge like heaven and earth.
What I pour in.
What I will pour in.
Perhaps that's why I readily accepted Chiron's proposal and came all this way.
To find it.
So what, truly, fills this vessel that is me now?
'Tch, that's why I hate the qin.'
In the end, no matter how many ears hear it, performance is a mirror reflecting the performer themselves.
A meditation drawing one deep into their own depths.
This life was meant to be healing after the last one's frenzy—take it easy, right?
That was the motto.
Yet half my days filled with war and intrigue, the other half wandering, and now my restless mind finds peace boring.
A sigh escaped at the sight of myself, plunged into the chaotic heart of Greek mythology, original pandemonium.
"Haah..."
They say the quiet ink-dark scholar.
After a life of bloody battles and schemes, I tossed it all aside for wandering.
Have I become someone who can't be satisfied without the clamor?
This very qin was crafted because of Apollo, the sun god, whom I'd glimpsed that morning.
Peace had already sailed far away.
'Atalanta's been locked in a nerve war with the forest hunters lately, and Neris... last time she went into the sea, she was scheming something fierce with her sisters.'
Once thoughts latched on, they rode the notes onward, myriad musings crashing like tidal waves.
Hands unceasing, thoughts surging.
I couldn't tell if I played the qin or it held me—the performance delved ever deeper.
"Hm... Fierce and complex, ancient and weathered, yet brash, hot-blooded, brimming with vitality."
"?!"
-Ding!!
A voice pierced through my reverie.
No approaching presence, no one near—yet it burrowed straight into my ear, and my plucking hands instinctively shifted the tune.
The wanderer's plaintive cry for home vanished, the rambler's soulful murmur over three lifetimes gone.
A thunderous roar cleaved the air sharply, slashing at foes outer and inner demons alike.
Not quite music, the pinnacle the Specter reached on the path of the Music Immortal.
Too profound to merely name a tune, those who heard it couldn't call it mere song.
Thus it spread through the martial world as the cursed melody known as sound arts.
Nostalgic Twelve Songs - Striking the Pointed
Twelve Arts of Longing for Home — Striking the Keen Edge
-Shaak!
"Oh?"
The rhythm's myriad transformations lashed like whips in all directions, swirling sword intent forming a tempest.
'...Above.'
A graceful feminine voice, as if savoring tea and delicacies in an elegant pavilion.
Yet it bore the weight of eons and authority no mortal flesh could contain.
And surrounding that voice—a colossal halo.
A radiant power too vast for me to approach, gleaming brilliantly overhead, blocking the Striking Pointed melody.
Sound waves are simple.
Vibrations rippling through air against skin, tremors resounding in the ear.
No magic or martial art can fully defend against them.
For instance, a qi master once tried sealing out all external sound with a barrier, only for the Specter's variations to overwhelm it, shattering the barrier utterly.
No matter the soundproofing, nothing can stop sound more persistent than water, seeping through every crevice.
In a sense, the Nostalgic Specter's sound arts were invincible.
And yet she blocked it, gazing calmly down at me?
"A goddess, and one employing rather intricate magic at that."
"Indeed. Now turn around and pay your respects."
One thing I'd sensed wielding divine power—sinmaqi, as it were.
Divine power boasts miraculous utility and stability rivaling miracles themselves, but it's no omnipotent stone granting all wishes.
Rather, it optimally manifests the desired phenomenon based on the user's total reserves, comprehension, application, and proficiency.
I'd pushed back Eris and matched Nemesis's Judgment Sword on my first use because I deeply understood and embodied the essence of the Nine Phantom Sword, replicating it near-perfectly with sinmaqi.
It wasn't that their divine power was weaker or lesser than mine.
Yet this goddess above me, her voice dainty yet her reserves unfathomable, her mastery far eclipsing mine.
Nothing short of magic rivaling the Heavenly Demon Divine Art could achieve this.
'Direction differs, but... in a way, on par with my past self?'
No.
The faint eons and depth in her voice.
The colossal divine power sending chills down my spine.
The living, weaving manifestation of that power—even I felt awe.
Even my past self at the peak, conquering the martial world, couldn't confidently predict victory; her divinity was immense.
"Child, don't you find your demeanor rude right now?"
Even so, I couldn't let myself be dragged into her rhythm from the start.
Despite her imperious tone, I held my ground without turning.
"The performance isn't over yet. What kind of musician abandons his post?"
"Ho?"
"Shall I continue?"
No matter her profound realm astonishing even me.
Barging in mid-flow, demanding greetings and lectures?
'Frankly, it's annoying.'
This uninvited guest appearing out of nowhere, and a powerhouse momentarily overwhelming even me?
What of it?
No matter my current form, I carry the achievements and insights of long years, with pride to match.
Blocking my sound arts and looming so calmly?
Goddess or not, I couldn't let her keep looking down like that.
"Brazen. A first in ages."
"Then I'll continue."
-Ding!
The new gayageum I had acquired rang out shrilly, proclaiming the act's start, as my hands over the qin gradually picked up speed.
A solo for the faceless intruder.
A murderous intent targeting the rude interloper began ravaging the entire forest.