The melody shattered, the emotion choked.
He put down his guitar and slumped to the ground. An unprecedented realization, like poison, seeped into his heart—he might never sing his old songs again.
The boy who could resonate with the wind, the water, and the entire forest on the mountain rocks had been utterly killed by this dirty and cruel arena of fame and fortune. His throat wasn't physically damaged, but the pure land within his soul that nurtured music had been polluted and destroyed.
Music, his last refuge, had also shut its doors to him.
This was a more profound despair than the collapse of his career, the mounting debts, or even the threats to his life. It was as if the very foundation of his existence had been uprooted.
He picked up a pen, tore off a scrap of paper left behind sometime during the night, his fingers trembling violently with agitation and despair. He wanted to write something—not the whitewashed lyrics required by the company, but his most genuine and painful inner monologue at this moment.
The pen tip grazed the paper, leaving messy yet profound marks. There was no complete melody, only broken words, a torrent of blood-soaked accusations and cries:
"[...] Starlight falls, the mire swallows the throat…
The strings are mute, no longer able to sing that song of the mountains…
They tore their wings, and blamed me for not being able to fly…
Weaving a web of lies, forging shackles of debt…
Even the wind carries the scent of surveillance…
Tell me, is perseverance merely a laughable act of self-destruction?
Tell me, is purity destined from birth to be tainted?
If the song is destined to drown in the torrent of power and money…
If the price tag for the soul is eighty-seven million…
What can this broken shell still fight for? [...]"
The handwriting is distorted. Like the scratching of a dying man. This wasn't a song; it was a desperate suicide note written to himself. As he finished writing, tears blurred his vision, dripping onto the paper and spreading the ink like gray-black flowers blooming in despair.
He threw down the pen, crumpled the sheet of paper filled with his painful monologue into a ball, and clutched it tightly in his hand, as if it were his last vestige of untainted truth.
Time continued to tick, the twenty-four-hour deadline drawing ever closer. No news came from Su Yuqing; the silence was chilling. Man has gone mad.
Hope, like a candle flickering in the wind, is on the verge of extinction.
Despair, however, is like a malignant tumor, seeping into his very bones.
He leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, and awaited the final judgment. Whether it would be salvation or destruction.
Time crawled in the deathly silence, each second like a struggle in scalding tar. Lin Chen huddled in the corner, clutching the crumpled piece of paper filled with a monologue of despair tightly in his palm, sweat soaking the rough surface. There was no word from Su Yuqing; her phone was completely dead. He couldn't even confirm the message... He couldn't even guarantee a successful delivery.
Just as he was about to be consumed by the anxiety and despair of waiting, the apartment doorbell rang sharply and unexpectedly.
It wasn't a rough knock, but the doorbell. Restrained, yet carrying an undeniable sense of pressure.
Lin Chen froze, his heart clenching. They're here! Is it someone from Xingyao? Or…?
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down, and walked to the door, peering through the peephole.
Two people stood outside. The one in front was a lean, expressionless young man in a black polo shirt. Lin Chen recognized him; he was Lu Tianyu's personal assistant, the one always carrying an encrypted hard drive and acting mysteriously. Behind him stood a man in a deliveryman's uniform, his hat pulled low, carrying a small cardboard box.