Xia Beiluo sighed.
So, a "guitar" was just a musical instrument, a needless excitement.
Music, painting, literature—these were fields strictly controlled by The Church.
What ordinary people had access to were either gospel poems spread by The Church and flattering articles praising its glory, or synthetic electronic music composed by machines—cheap and repetitive, existing merely to numb people's dull souls.
Only the informed, or rather, the offspring of the upper class and nobility, would learn and appreciate the refined traditional music and the extravagant, romantic orchestras.
Looking at it, the "guitar," which seemed unsuitable for singing praises or performing in elegant halls for officials and nobles, certainly wouldn't fetch a good price.
"However, even so..."
Xia Beiluo picked up the guitar, examining its blade-like streamlined contours. It felt not like a musical instrument, but more like a weapon.
