Perhaps the true power of a soul-seizing composition lay not in the piece as a whole, nor even in its climax, but rather in something entirely particular to each listener!

Some single passage would strike the softest, most tender place hidden deep within a listener’s heart, and all at once every buried thought would surge free, erupting all at once — and from that moment on, the listener would be lost entirely within their own thoughts!

“Parting Sorrow” was, by nature, a piece of grief — among the most soul-seizing compositions there could be, for within the heart of anyone who has ever loved, there exists just such a tender place, one that, once touched, could bring even the hardest of men to sorrow.

At this very moment, as Ziqing plucked the strings, utterly absorbed in the music, she failed to notice that, not far beside her, her own husband — Longyuan’s most iron-willed war god — had become the very first to fall, lost entirely within the music, his soul seized before anyone else’s.

Just how much tenderness lay hidden within this man’s heart — even Ziqing herself might not fully know.

There sat Jun Beiyue, cross-legged, his eyes closed at some point without anyone noticing. His profile, seen from the side, appeared even more striking, more finely sculpted than when viewed straight on. No one could say what he might be thinking at this moment — only that his cold, resolute face had gradually taken on a faint veil of sorrow.

Sorrow — when had this man ever known sorrow before?

And beside him sat Baili Weisheng, likewise cross-legged, his gaze still fixed on Ziqing, his composure nothing like Jun Beiyue’s stillness. His hands were clenched tightly, as though gripped by some strong emotion, or perhaps struggling hard to suppress something within.

And yet, watching closely, one would surely notice that, as the music rose higher and higher, his clenched fists were gradually loosening — there was no question, he too was sinking deeper into the piece, letting the music carry him in.

Gradually, as “Parting Sorrow” drew near its climax, Baili Weisheng’s eyes slowly closed as well, drawn into a world entirely his own — otherwise, he might have found himself recalling what had happened during his period of amnesia, whether he might remember having once asked Meng Duo’er, back then, if he was in love with Han Ziqing; whether he might remember that, before she could even answer, he had already denied it himself; or whether he might remember how he had, again and again, warned Meng Duo’er never to tell anyone about it at all.

Would there come a day when Meng Duo’er finally told him the truth? No one could say.

The only two listeners present had both been entirely captured by the music — perhaps lost within their own private worlds, or perhaps, through the music itself, they had already been drawn into the soul-seizing realm, into the very world the composer of “Parting Sorrow,” the Nanzhao zither master, had conjured into being.

And yet, the players themselves remained lucid throughout.

Those who understood music, who understood its emotional weight, tended to fall into one of two categories: either they were easily swept away by it, losing themselves entirely the moment they began to play; or they were the most composed of all, holding onto a thread of clarity throughout, carrying the piece all the way through to its very end!

Which of these two categories did Ziqing and Xuanyuan Lige fall into?

Clearly, they belonged to the latter!

Their music was more than enough to move others deeply — and yet it could not fully move themselves.

Both Ziqing and Xuanyuan Lige knew this: what would truly move them wasn’t their own music, but the other — the one whose strings sang in harmony with their own.

Harmony between two zithers required a meeting of hearts, an unspoken understanding between souls — and so, more often than not, those who played in true harmony with one another were lovers, or husband and wife.

The phrase “harmony of zither and se” was, in fact, often used to describe the bond between husband and wife.

A pity, then, that they were neither!

They needed more time — time to feel it, to build that unspoken understanding between them. Perhaps, had none of the past ever happened, they would never have needed it at all.

But certain things had, without question, happened — and anything one has poured genuine care into will inevitably leave its mark upon the heart. They needed time, needed far more time, to find their rhythm together, to come to know and understand one another.

Gradually, as Ziqing’s fingers danced across the strings, “Parting Sorrow” reached its climactic passage.

As the two of them struck the very first note of the climax together, Xuanyuan Lige looked up — and at that very same moment, Ziqing happened to glance toward him as well, and unconsciously, a faint smile touched her lips.

There was nothing Xuanyuan Lige loved more than seeing her smile softly like that — and yet, at this particular moment, that very smile filled him with worry, for “Parting Sorrow” was a piece of grief!

They’d reached the climax now — how could she possibly still find it in herself to smile?

Just moments ago she had been so deeply immersed, and now she had entirely lost the state she’d worked so hard to reach. Never mind Ziqing — Xuanyuan Lige himself hadn’t even noticed that his own sorrowful mood had already dissipated as well.

Even so, worried as he was, Xuanyuan Lige still returned her smile with a faint one of his own, his gaze drifting down toward her fingers — and in that very instant, with a sharp “keng,” the string beneath his own hand very nearly snapped from the force of his shock!

Heavens above — what was he seeing?

There, on the strings, Ziqing’s hands moved back and forth, plucking, sweeping — and at some point, without anyone noticing, they had begun to seep with blood! From beneath every fingernail on both her hands, thin streaks of fresh blood had begun to well up.

Her hands… her hands had reached the very limit of what they could bear!

“Your hands…” Xuanyuan Lige couldn’t help but cry out, his composure entirely shattered. Even as his fingers continued moving across the strings, the notes that followed carried only tone, no feeling at all.

Ziqing had clearly noticed his sudden shift, and yet, rather than answering him, she closed her eyes instead, still lifting her face toward him, maintaining that same faint smile.

Unlike Xuanyuan Lige, the moment Ziqing closed her eyes, the music grew all the more sorrowful, all the more weathered with grief — so much so that even Xuanyuan Lige found himself struggling to bear it, his own hands unconsciously slowing, before gradually, without his even realizing it, settling back into their original rhythm.

Today was the fourth day.

Before this, they had already been playing for three full days and nights!

Three days and three nights meant little to a solitary soul like Xuanyuan Lige — but for Ziqing, it was nothing short of approaching her absolute limit!

Xuanyuan Lige remained unaware of his own hands’ movements, his entire attention consumed by Ziqing’s. There were still three more days and nights ahead — could this woman possibly hold on that long?

Throughout that entire day and night, Ziqing kept her eyes closed the whole while, a faint smile fixed upon her face, and Xuanyuan Lige’s gaze never once left her hands, never once realizing that his own hands had long since been taken over by the sound of the Wuzheng, moving entirely beyond his own conscious control, perfectly in harmony with Ziqing’s playing!

The climax of “Parting Sorrow” built higher and higher with each passing note, growing ever more sorrowful, ever more grief-stricken, until it seemed, in the silent expanse of heaven and earth, that this sound alone remained — as though the very heavens wept, as though the earth itself wept, boundless in its sorrow.

Through that entire day and night, Xuanyuan Lige remained utterly absorbed in the sound of the Wuzheng, forgetting entirely that he too was a zither master in his own right, never noticing that the Xuezheng had become little more than an accompaniment to the Wuzheng.

Another sunrise, another sunset passed — five days and five nights now.

The climax of “Parting Sorrow” reached its absolute peak, the music ringing out sharp and resonant, seeming to shake even the very air itself, the whole atmosphere trembling with its force!

By this point, all ten of Ziqing’s fingers had gone entirely numb, no longer merely seeping blood, but soaked through completely, as though dyed crimson from tip to tip — her fingernails no longer even visible beneath the blood!

The strings of the Wuzheng, once nearly transparent and colorless, were now speckled and streaked through with dried blood.

And yet, still, she pressed on!

In truth, once the music entered its climax, her awareness only sharpened further. She understood clearly that, unlike Xuanyuan Lige, she was no solitary wandering soul — her hands were real, living flesh and blood, and if this continued much longer, they might well be ruined beyond repair!

As her awareness grew ever clearer, every pluck of the strings brought a fresh wave of pain to her fingers — each finger heavy as a thousand pieces of gold, every ache echoing straight into her heart!

She truly wasn’t sure she could hold on much longer…