Chapter 71
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 71
Chapter Title: Meeting with the Queen
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-Twang!
Hestiasias had crafted a masterpiece worthy of her renowned reputation.
Unlike the rigid sharpness of present-day gold, this deep and supple silver demonstrated a power beyond my expectations.
Even as my inner energy and divine demonic qi gradually intensified, the body of the instrument, infused with condensed vitality, amplified it several times over, enhancing its might.
The intricate gold strings woven from silver and pearl perfectly produced the desired notes with their mystical sheen.
High notes became even sharper, mid-tones even heavier.
The shifts in rhythm followed instantly thanks to its innate elasticity, and its ability to adeptly absorb inner energy and divine demonic qi, transforming them into sound, felt as profound as plucking the depths of the ocean by hand.
And that depth and power formed an excellent foundation capable of fully embodying the essence of the Twelve Laments without restraint.
-♪♪↓~♪↓♪↓♪~♪♪♪♪↓~
The Twelve Laments of Homeland Longing.
Twelve pieces composed in yearning for one's homeland.
The tender affection for home evoked in each melody, and the nostalgia for things now lost forever, could bring tears even to the stiffest stone.
They say it even made the Iron-Blooded Emperor weep openly—a man who had never shed a tear in his life.
However.
Could it truly be just such music?
Could a performer who merely harbored distant, tender sorrow have created a sound art that rose to lord over all demons and brought the Four Demon Lords to their knees?
Absolutely not.
A performance is a mirror reflecting the performer and a glimpse into the composer's abyss.
Even high monks called living Buddhas carry a single sword in their hearts.
Even beggars who curse the world sharpen poisoned darts within.
In the performance of the Ghostly Sounds of Nostalgic Wandering across the vast wilderness of the afterlife plains, I saw a ghost shrieking ferociously within that refined immortal-like performer.
Beneath the tears shed while painting scenes of the homeland lay rage toward those who destroyed it.
On the opposite side of the nostalgia for bygone eras that would never return burned killing intent toward a world that had erased everything.
Truly befitting a grand master of the Heavenly Demon Divine Cult—a savage, rough scream of fury resounded amid the beautiful tones of the strings.
As chilling as screams mingling in the midst of a raucous festival's revelry.
As cruel as ferocious torrents churning beneath a beautiful water's surface.
The chaos evoked by those ever-changing melodies and the beautiful blades flying within—that was the terror of the Twelve Laments of Homeland Longing.
Not Wanghyang (longing for home), but Manghyang (dead echoes).
It was a ruthless sound art that revealed why the epithet "Ghostly Sounds" followed the name "Longing for Home."
If one tried to block the blades of the sharp tones by focusing on the melody, the beautiful tune and the abyss surging beneath would seize the mind.
And if one depleted their mental strength guarding against the ghostly sounds, their body would be shredded, not leaving even a scrap of flesh.
Once the performance began, every audible note was both feint and killing blow; every flow was killing blow and feint—an invincible sound art.
Yet.
Today.
For the first time, even fully deploying the Twelve Laments, I faced a wall I couldn't so much as scratch, let alone kill.
The twelve pieces flowed into a trance-like state, soon reaching their climax.
The melodies that had fiercely assailed from all directions intensified their ghostly aura.
The goddess above and her divine power hadn't budged yet, but if it went to the final phrase...
The outcome would still be uncertain...
-Twang!
"...!"
Just before transitioning to the final movement.
For some reason, my fingers, which had danced furiously over the strings, slipped, and my hands came to a halt.
What... what the hell is this?!
In this desolate plain where time itself had stopped.
This ghostly sound art perfected amid the agony of soul being sliced and torn.
To have it cut off in such a mess due to my own mistake of all things!?
"Th-this, thiiiis...!!"
What in the world was the problem?
Just because my body had changed, or a few years had passed—petty reasons like that, and this performance ended so awkwardly?
In this very situation, where I had boldly declared challenge to a goddess of such lofty divinity that even my past self couldn't confidently predict victory or defeat?
In this utterly unacceptable situation, it felt like all the blood in my body surged in reverse, igniting a fury with nowhere to go.
"Like heeell! You fucking piece of shit!!"
My own pride?
The true transmissions inherited from the Twelve Divine Demons were my medals, proof of my life.
Proof that I had endured hellish years between death and life, ultimately earning the right to become the lord of the demonic path.
Thus, I simply could not accept that the Twelve Laments had been interrupted midway by my own error, of all things.
"Uwaaaaaah!!"
Hands enveloped in divine demonic qi swung wildly, channeling that aimless rage with a scream.
At the edge of my vision, dyed blood-red, lay the nameless instrument that had made its first sound today.
[Stop.]
Just before my grip could shatter the instrument.
A hand as delicate as jade, worthy of the title "peerless beauty," had already seized my wrist and clamped down firmly.
Instantly, my blazing mind cooled, and cold wariness crept up my spine in place of fury.
...She's strong!
No matter how briefly I'd lost reason, my honed reflexes and qi sense didn't vanish.
I knew well how ridiculous it looked—head boiling over, then calming in an instant.
But had I sensed a presence behind me in that heated state, my rage would have targeted that presence instead of the innocent instrument.
Yet this lithe goddess had appeared as suddenly behind me as she had before, seizing my hand.
Not with any special force, but gathering all my divine demonic qi into a single point.
A strike that even Eris, let alone Nemesis, couldn't easily block—she'd caught it lightly, as if grasping a child's wrist. I couldn't hide my shock at that power.
"You're bleeding."
"...Blood?"
She was right.
My still-tender fingertips had been sliced and split; before I knew it, both the gayageum and my hands were drenched in blood.
My master and I shared one ironclad rule when playing such instruments.
Never protect the hands with qi or any other means.
Covering them dulls sensation, and playing with dulled sensation halves the emotional impact and power of the performance. It also makes it hard to pinpoint where the fingers slowed or missed a note.
Out of habit, I hadn't coated my hands with qi or reinforced them with divine demonic qi this time either—I'd played bare-handed.
But this time, my still-immature body.
This flesh that hadn't caught up to the years etched into my soul— it had tripped me up.
"That must hurt."
Her soft whisper in my ear, like soothing a child, drew gradually closer.
The beautiful goddess's face twinkled with amusement as she glanced at me, passed my face, and approached the hand she'd seized.
If elegance manifested as a power like inner arts or divine force, would it look like this woman?
Such idle thoughts arose; she was a goddess radiating charm and authority beyond mere beauty.
A subtle pearl-like halo enhanced her already surreal beauty, like a Photoshop effect.
Even the dignity and grace of the empress and princess I'd once met by the emperor's arrangement paled like a child's first steps—every gesture exuded poise and refinement.
"Whew~"
Like a mother comforting a child hurt from playful antics.
The goddess, with a benevolent yet mischievous smile, blew gently on my profusely bleeding hand.
Was it an optical illusion, or divine authority?
As her breath touched it, a light similar to the divine power she wielded swirled around, seeming to seep into my hand.
The moment her breath permeated my wound, I understood a new facet of divine power—why it was called the power of gods.
The blood trickling from my fingers, hand, and wrist faded as if an erroneous drawing were being erased.
My fingers, not merely cut but mangled into a pitiful state, healed in an instant, as if time had rewound.
"It reminds me of when my second child once got hurt playing with a sword-dagger his brother gave him as a gift. Boys are such wild handfuls."
The goddess chuckled indulgently, as if hopeless to rein in such antics, then gracefully stepped back.
Naturally turning to follow, I met her eyes as she sternly yet dottedly asked,
"Do you finally know who I am?"
There are many beautiful goddesses.
From that foolhardy self-proclaimed big sis Eris, to Nemesis who swung her pure white sword of judgment to clash head-on with my demon sword, even that forest psychopath Artemis—if born human, their beauty would have exhausted them lifelong.
Yet the goddess before me stood peerlessly supreme among them, exuding an authority a dimension higher.
Even a blind man would instinctively name her upon encountering her.
"Queen of the Gods, Goddess among Goddesses..."
And furthermore, Hero Breaker.
Hera.
One of the gods I absolutely must not encounter in this forest—the pinnacle among them—had appeared before me.