Chapter 58 - The Cursed Violin

“This is...” The moment Limon saw the Violin of Deepest Black, a groan escaped him. It wasn’t just the rich scent of magic that washed over him, incomparably stronger than when the violin had been inside the box. The glow of spiritual energy shimmering around it like fireflies in the dim light drew the groan from him.

Others might not have recognized it. In this Iron Age, when even Sword Masters had become obsolete, few could identify a magic item—rare even in the Age of Heroes—from its spiritual energy alone. But after a long life as a Sword Master and encounters with all manner of enchanted equipment, Limon could tell at a glance. No, he couldn’t have missed it. In a sense, that glow was the most familiar of all to him.

“You old geezer! This violin is cursed!”

Cursed demonic swords that drank blood. Cursed armor that turned its wearers into berserkers. Lamps that granted wishes at the cost of the owner’s lifespan. Whenever he hunted down black mages, treasures like those invariably turned up. The violin held the same murky spiritual energy. Far from soothing crying children, it was the sort of thing that could make adults cry. Limon bristled at the sight.

“Now, watch your mouth. How can you call a sacred violin made by a priest of Muse a cursed object?”

“Sacred, my ass. You think I don’t know half the cursed objects out there come from temples?”

“... Are you a mage?”

“I can’t use magic, but I’ve beaten down plenty of priests and witches.” Limon tapped the sword at his waist.

Having spent most of his life fighting, Limon had made plenty of enemies. They included not only black mages but priests who brainwashed people to spread their faith and witches who conducted human experiments. Black mages were evil by nature. But users of white magic sanctioned by gods weren’t necessarily good. The gods granting that sanction each had their own idea of goodness. No wonder Limon scoffed at the old man for insisting a cursed violin was sacred simply because a priest had made it.

“Ahem! Don’t get me wrong. This really is a proper magic violin.”

“A proper cursed violin, you mean.”

“If you really don’t believe me, just pick it up and see. If anything goes wrong, you can have my head.”

“Hmm...” Whether because of the sword at his waist or the menace in his eyes, Limon remained unconvinced despite the old man’s desperate protestations of innocence. He knew how dangerous magic could be. An invitation to try a cursed object out was hardly reassuring.

An unexpected person came to the old man’s defense. “Why not do as he says and give it a try?”

“Give it a try?”

“Yes. I don’t think he’s lying. If it were truly dangerous, it wouldn’t be here.” Li Qingyu smiled, then glanced behind her and added playfully, “Besides, if we keep this up, the children are going to cry.”

“...” Limon frowned at the children, who really were on the verge of tears. He had no desire to touch this suspicious thing, but if he refused, he couldn’t stop them from crying. Let them cry for certain, or put up with his misgivings? His choice had effectively been made from the start.

“Fine. Let’s see what’s so special about this thing.” He raised both hands and rubbed his face once, then picked up the Violin of Deepest Black, still grumbling. It wasn’t only for the children. Half his decision came from curiosity about what could give off so much spiritual energy, and half from confidence that a mere object couldn’t do anything to him. Arrogant, perhaps, but it hardly mattered. He was Limon Aspelder, humanity’s last Sword Master. He had survived a curse from the Demon God—the very pinnacle of black magic—and gone on to cut off the Demon God’s head.

TAP TAP TAP.

“...” It happened immediately afterward. Limon set the violin against his shoulder, secured it under his chin, and picked up the bow. His posture was so natural that not only Li Qingyu, who had been watching with interest, but even the sniffling children stared at him wide-eyed.

“Sword Lord, I didn’t know you could play the violin.”

“... This is the first time I’ve held an instrument in my life.”

“Then how do you know how to hold it?” His posture was so impeccable that Li Qingyu could have believed he was a violinist who had spent his life with a bow in his hand. Limon answered her flatly.

“What else? It’s the curse.”

“I told you, it’s magic.”

“Same difference, you old geezer. What do you call a violin that moves a person’s body without permission if not a cursed instrument?”

“Like I said, it’s a sacred violin made by a priest of Muse.” The old man grinned.

Long ago, there had been a priest who served Muse, goddess of the arts. Deeply devout, he wanted to offer his beloved goddess a beautiful performance. There was just one problem: he was tone-deaf. Tormented by a cruel handicap for a follower of Muse, the priest changed his approach. If he couldn’t play well himself, he would make an instrument that would let him do it. That was the Violin of Deepest Black, a masterpiece the priest, blessed by Muse, had spent his life creating.

“A marvelous thing. It’ll let someone play even if they’ve never held a violin before.”

“... But they can’t let go of it until they finish playing?”

“Oh? How did you know?”

“That’s what you call a cursed item, you senile old geezer!” Limon snapped. He had a fair idea of the principle behind the Violin of Deepest Black.

‘So it’s a cursed sword in instrument form?’

A surprising number of cursed swords that moved their owners’ bodies and made them attack indiscriminately also granted swordsmanship the moment they were gripped. After all, knowing how to wield a sword meant cutting down more people. The Violin of Deepest Black worked much the same way. Sword or instrument, swordsmanship or performance—it forced the user’s body to move and employ skills instilled in it for a predetermined purpose.

‘The idea’s brilliant, though.’ Limon was honestly impressed. Even he had never seen an instrument use a curse this way to make up for a lack of musical skill. Not only posture and fingering but the knowledge of how to produce each note, even the score itself, appeared naturally in his mind. And since the curse ended as soon as the performance did, this could certainly be called a magic instrument.

“What are you waiting for? Go on, play it.”

Even so, Limon looked displeased. It wasn’t just the old man’s sly smile as he urged him to play. If this violin were nothing but wonderful, why was it rotting in a corner of the Magic Hall at a rundown amusement park? Besides, it was odd for a cursed instrument to be this well made in the first place.

‘That old geezer’s hiding something.’

Yet for all his suspicions, Limon didn’t shake off the curse. He simply set the bow against the strings. The children had stopped crying and were watching him, and if anything felt wrong, he was confident he could break a curse like this whenever he wanted. Half resigned, he moved the bow as the violin’s curse guided him.

* * *

‘Heh, another poor victim for the curse.’ The old man smiled with satisfaction and watched Limon with mischief in his eyes. ‘What ridiculous performance will we get this time?’

He hadn’t exactly lied to Limon. The Violin of Deepest Black really was a magic instrument, and a priest of Muse really had made it. But he hadn’t told him everything. He had left out the fact that even the priest of Muse had failed to play it properly. In a way, that was only natural. A tone-deaf priest could hardly put a flawless performance into a violin.

Of course, the priest had known that. So he had modeled it on the techniques of dozens of the finest musicians of his day and imbued it with Muse’s blessing, hoping to capture the ideal melody of the heavens. Amazingly, he had succeeded. Tone-deaf or not, the priest had been born with a gift for magic. There was only one problem: no one could actually play it.

‘Only a heavenly being could play heavenly music.’

Even with the same instrument, performances varied enormously with minute differences in arm and finger length, physical perception, and sensibility. The priest had ignored those differences and fused dozens of playing styles into a single curse. The result was beyond what a human body could perform. Even first-rate violinists had their technique and senses thrown into confusion by the curse, leaving them to play a complete mess.

‘Poor violin.’

In the end, the Saint of Muse could no longer bear his frustration and took his own life. The Violin of Deepest Black truly deserved to be called cursed: it had driven to death someone who, in the Silver Age, would have reigned as an absolute being. That was why a violin that should have been revered as a sacred relic was rotting here instead. It was impossible to play properly, and no one wanted an instrument with such an ominous history. Of course, the violin itself wasn’t to blame. But people judged by results.

‘If only it had found the right owner, it wouldn’t be treated like a children’s toy.’

The old man sometimes wondered whether the Violin of Deepest Black could have become a magnificent magic instrument if it found its ideal owner: someone with a body capable of mastering any playing style, senses beyond human limits, and an innate gift for musical expression. Every talent a musician could need. Then it might play heavenly melodies capable of moving even a god.

‘Not that a person like that exists.’ The old man knew better than anyone how absurd the fantasy was. In the decades he had watched over this Magic Hall, even those who could be called superhuman had failed to withstand the violin’s curse—from master-level martial artists who had mastered the Seven Dragons Society’s supreme arts to high-level players with performance-related skills.

So he looked forward to hearing what laughable performance Limon would give this time. As a bonus, he wondered whether Limon would buy the video recorded by the Magic Hall’s cameras or ask him to erase it.

Limon raised the bow, touched it lightly to the violin’s strings, and drew it smoothly across them.

SQUEE.

The smile vanished from the old man’s face.