She truly wasn’t sure she could hold on much longer. If this continued, she feared she wouldn’t make it through the climax, wouldn’t make it to the very end — feared that her hands would be ruined beyond repair from this day forward.
And yet, even so, Ziqing still refused to open her eyes. She forced herself to smile, a faint, quiet smile.
Who was it who once said — even when unhappy, one should still try to smile; and through smiling, happiness would eventually follow?
Perhaps it was the same with pain — even amid terrible, terrible pain, if one forced a smile, and kept smiling, might the pain eventually fade as well?
Ziqing hadn’t even realized that, from beginning to end, she had kept that same faint smile fixed upon her face — she had always been the sort to smile rather than cry, after all!
Silently, she told herself: just hold on a little longer!
So many people had sacrificed so much for this single piece of music — no matter what happened, she could not give up now!
Hold on!
Han Ziqing, hold on just a little longer!
Though the pain was terrible, terrible pain, though she was terrified, utterly terrified, that she might never be able to play again — she was even more afraid, far more afraid, of giving up on herself.
This piece of music, this deserted island — it was no longer just her own concern alone, but something that carried the weight of so much more.
She could not be so selfish. She could not be so useless!
Hold on!!!
At this thought, Ziqing’s eyes flew open all at once, and her hands, which had been gradually growing weaker, were suddenly filled with strength once more, her plucking and strumming growing swift and nimble again.
At the very same moment, the music surged once more, filled with renewed power!
And almost simultaneously, the blood on her fingertips began to flow backward!
Ordinarily, as she played, her hands hung slightly downward, and any blood would have simply dripped down along her fingertips onto the strings below. But at this very moment, the blood seeping from between her fingers began instead to creep upward, spreading along the length of her fingers!
“Ziqing!”
Xuanyuan Lige cried out in alarm — and yet Ziqing seemed to feel no pain at all, her hands continuing to play unbroken, a faint smile directed toward him.
That smile — so calm, so simple, and yet somehow, at the very same time, it radiated an overwhelming sense of strength, striking straight through to Xuanyuan Lige’s heart!
If even a woman could hold on with such resolve, without a trace of fear —
What, then, was he so afraid of?
Watching her hands gradually being consumed by blood, all of Xuanyuan Lige’s focus finally returned entirely to the strings before him. Keng, keng, keng — his playing was, at last, no longer merely accompanying the Wuzheng, but truly playing in harmony with it!
Keng keng, keng keng — the music grew ever more urgent, soaring ever higher, and it was in this very moment that something extraordinary happened!
The once-sorrowful piece began to take on a tone of tragic grandeur instead — and gradually, the sorrow faded away entirely, leaving behind only that grandeur, brimming with boundless, inexhaustible strength!
The power of sorrow could bring only despair, only an end — but the power of tragic grandeur brought hope instead, the will to keep pressing forward!
As the music soared higher and higher, more and more magnificent, the curve of Ziqing’s smile grew ever wider, and Xuanyuan Lige, too, closed his eyes, a look of complete release washing over his face.
The sorrow that had once weighed so heavily dissipated entirely, and the whole of heaven and earth filled instead with a sound of sweeping, majestic grandeur — as though the heavens themselves were laughing, as though the earth itself were laughing, a single triumphant laugh echoing across the vast, boundless sea!
The score itself, in truth, held no fixed climax — every zither master found their own.
And it was at this very moment, carried by the music, that Ziqing began to sing, her voice rising high:
Clear wind, bright moon, a crane’s cry through the empty sky, the strings rise with the parting song, as war fires burn once more. The zither holds a spirit of its own, ringing out with a mournful sigh, and when the song draws to its end, fate itself entwines.
Thunder sweeps across armored steeds and golden blades, storm clouds roar with will that scorches heaven itself. The zither’s voice, transcendent, defies the multitude with a proud, unyielding laugh.
Between my fingers, butterflies dance in flight; upon the strings, the music flows on, clear and bright — high mountains, flowing water, yet no one to truly understand.
The zither, a weapon, the Wuzheng’s strings must break — proud and unyielding, stirred to life because of you.
Not one step yielded, complete victory before the court.
Chosen for riding and archery, the desert dust rises high, a blood-sweat steed swift as lightning streaking by.
The embroidered banner unfurls, rising to the ninth heaven.
Mounted, riding down the swallow in flight.
Brocade robes, banner-clad, the long whip raised on high.
Sweeping across heaven and earth, soaring through the vast open sky.
The roaring tide cries out in furious, wasted rage.
Better to die than speak a word of pain.
Reins cut loose, the ride grows wild and free.
The wind howls fierce, grass rustles, bowstrings ring.
Calamity strikes, hidden arrows turn.
Before others, who can understand this hardship?
Blood stains the yellow sand, unrestrained and wild.
Reborn from fire, a phoenix soars on high.
Drinking in the stars, remaking heaven and earth,
Smiling in the face of scattering clouds.
The silver needle strikes swift, the Asura’s radiance fades away.
The feathered arrow flies, freshly nocked upon the bow.
Undercurrents surge, turning all to battlefield.
A contest of wits and strategy, victory hanging by a single thread — fight! Fight! Fight!
Heaven and earth etch this very instant into memory.
A single gamble staked on life and death.
The phoenix takes flight, wings spread wide, and at last, hand in hand, they return home.
Xuanyuan Lige listened, utterly entranced, no longer certain whether it was the song itself that held him captive, or the music beneath it.
Amid the stirring, impassioned rise of music and song together, gradually, gradually, both Ziqing and Xuanyuan Lige lost consciousness. “Parting Sorrow” had passed its climax, though it had not yet reached its final end — and yet, slowly, their ten fingers came to a stop.
In an instant, Xuanyuan Lige vanished into thin air, while Ziqing collapsed forward, slumping over the strings, seemingly lost to unconsciousness!
Looking over at Jun Beiyue and Baili Weisheng nearby, they too had already fallen unconscious to the ground!
The entire world fell silent, save for the ceaseless wind of the Innocence Ravine, still howling on as it always did. Gradually, gradually, the figures of Ziqing, Jun Beiyue, and Baili Weisheng grew faint, transparent, and before long, vanished entirely.
Everything around them turned pitch black. Ziqing instinctively reached out to grasp for someone’s hand, only to find no one there beside her — she felt as though she had fallen into some kind of tunnel, utterly beyond her control, able only to let herself continue falling.
She had no idea where she was falling to.
The tragic, powerful, hope-filled sound of “Parting Sorrow” still lingered in her ears, her consciousness growing hazy, her memories growing hazy as well. She felt, in this moment, as though she could no longer think at all, able only to surrender entirely to whatever was happening, whatever surrounded her.
The further she fell, the darker it grew, until she couldn’t see her own hand before her face. The further she fell, the more weightless she felt, as though it wasn’t her body falling at all, but her very soul — falling, falling, endlessly falling.
She had no idea how much time passed before, finally, her feet touched solid ground, and in that instant, everything was suddenly bathed in light — so blinding that Ziqing quickly squeezed her eyes shut.
What was happening?
After a long moment adjusting, she slowly opened her eyes again, and at the same time, that uncontrollable falling sensation vanished entirely. Her mind cleared, her awareness sharpened, and her memories returned to her all at once.
Had they succeeded?
Had they successfully played “Parting Sorrow” all the way through, successfully entered its illusion?
“Qing’er!”
A familiar voice came from behind her, and just as Ziqing turned to look, someone pulled her from behind into a tight embrace, enveloping her at once in a familiar warmth. The anxiety that had gripped her heart instantly settled — it was Beiyue.
“Ahem! Ahem!”
Before long, Baili Weisheng, approaching from the side, gave a deliberate, exaggerated cough.
Jun Beiyue made no move to let Ziqing go, holding her not merely with affection, but with something close to desperation. He couldn’t shake the feeling he’d had just before being drawn into the illusion of “Parting Sorrow” — despite having thought of nothing in particular, he’d been struck, inexplicably, with the instinctive certainty that he was about to lose her.
Ziqing let him hold her, savoring the warmth and safety of this moment. Only then did she find the courage to look down at her own hands — and found, to her surprise, that they were perfectly fine!
How strange. Had their souls entered the illusion of “Parting Sorrow,” seized just like the wandering spirits, their souls claimed the same way?
…