Chapter 59 - A Devil's Talent

Limon had lived a long time and experienced a great deal, including a dark mage's curse that had moved his body against his will. But what seized him now was a strange sensation unlike anything he had felt in centuries of life.

CREEE.

The bow slid across the strings. A faint vibration sounded through the air, gentle as a spring breeze skimming a mountain pool yet resonating deep within the heart. But then the sound changed.

CREE.

Each time the fingers of his left hand caressed the strings against the violin's neck as though they were a lover, the sound of the Violin of Deepest Black changed dramatically. It surged, sharp and nimble as a blade's stroke, then sank deep and heavy as though plunging into the pool. Just when it seemed to quiet and catch its breath, it leaped and raced in a frenzy like a maiden pursued by a demon, drawing its listeners in.

How strange. This was his first time even holding a violin, yet simply yielding his body to the curse and following its instructions down to the tiniest pause let him play like this. Most surprising of all was the sound the violin made.

It changed from moment to moment like birdsong. It burst out fiercely, as though dancing, bounced from his fingertips, then sank into sorrow, howling its grief and anger until it seemed to tear apart.

The bow's speed and angle, the placement of the fingers pressing the strings—changing the technique by the slightest degree altered the strings' vibrations and transformed the performance entirely. Perhaps intoxicated by those changes, Limon forgot everything else. He moved his fingers to the music rising in his mind before the curse could guide them. Faster. More dazzlingly. More beautifully.

It had become a storm of music: a curse that demanded the impossible at every moment, like crossing the sea on a leaf amid driving wind and rain. A devil's temptation no one should have been able to follow, even with broken fingers and torn muscles. Yet Limon did. His body, trained by trillions of sword strokes, and the instincts he had honed on the brink of death took the furious performance in stride.

It was less a blossoming than an evolution: a new flower of possibility opening on a great tree that had grown for centuries. A human who had surpassed human limits and an instrument blessed by a god came together in a heavenly performance that seemed to sweep the world with petals of sound.

How long had he been making music in that trance? At last, the melody circling in Limon's mind came to an end. The bow in his hand stopped.

CREE.

The drifting notes faded, and the world fell silent.

* * *

"..."

The old man hadn't been lying, it seemed. Once the performance ended, the curse controlling Limon's body vanished. Yet even though he could move freely again, he couldn't bring himself to set down the Violin of Deepest Black.

He had played only one piece, but a pleasant weariness had settled over him. A strange hush made it feel as though the whole world had fallen quiet to listen. Above all, the lingering echo of that stormlike melody still held him captive.

"Whew..."

After a moment of standing motionless, Limon drew a deep breath and, like the seasoned veteran he was, shook off the inexplicable weariness and the music's lingering hold. He put the violin and bow back in the box and addressed the old man.

"I apologize for insulting you by calling you senile. This really does seem to be a magic instrument."

It was a straightforward admission, an honest apology for having mistaken the Violin of Deepest Black for nothing more than a cursed instrument. But the old man showed no reaction. He stood frozen, his face rigid, as though he had turned to stone while still alive.

"Old man? Hey, old man?"

"..."

"Hey, what's wrong with this old—man?"

Limon waved a hand in front of his face. Wondering if the old fellow really had gone senile, he turned around—and this time, he was genuinely startled.

It wasn't the children staring at him with their mouths agape, all but one of them. Nor was it Sia's indescribable expression. It was Li Qingyu, gazing at him blankly, and the drop of water rolling down from the corner of her eye.

"Princess, why are you crying?"

"... Am I crying?"

"You are."

She seemed not to have noticed. Li Qingyu lifted a hand and wiped her cheek, then stared at the moisture on her fingertips as though it were something unfamiliar. She nodded.

"So I am. I cried."

She seemed to be in shock. Her face looked as composed as ever, but her response sounded as though something had come loose inside her. In some ways, she seemed more dazed than anyone else there. Limon asked uneasily, "Are you all right?"

"Yes. I think your performance moved me because it was so wonderful, my benefactor."

Her calm answer left Limon looking even more perplexed. Only her tone was calm. Calling him her benefactor, speculating about why she herself had cried as though discussing someone else—none of it sounded remotely all right.

"Well, if you're all right, then fine."

Limon didn't point out the contradiction. He simply nodded and let it pass. Irresponsible as that might have been, his indifferent response made Li Qingyu smile faintly, almost as though she were pleased.

"... That piece."

The old man finally broke free of his stupor and spoke abruptly. "Do you know the name of the piece you just played?"

"The name?"

Limon tilted his head. He had merely followed the curse and played the music sounding in his mind. He had no idea what piece it was.

Still, his years hadn't gone entirely to waste. After thinking it over, he dug a memory of something similar out of a dusty corner of his mind.

"I think there was something like it among those Cap-something pieces composed by Papago or whoever."

"Paganini's 24 Caprices for Solo Violin, Op. 1."

"Yeah, that's the one."

He had gotten more wrong than right, but Limon nodded shamelessly. A thick skin was another benefit of age.

The old man didn't reproach him. He merely looked troubled. "It's an unusual work. Paganini himself was the only one who could play it properly."

Niccolò Paganini: a violinist who left his mark on nineteenth-century music history. Born with unusually long, flexible arms and fingers, he used his genius to compose pieces only he could play—devilish works demanding technique beyond human limits. Countless musicians had attempted them, but all they could manage was a technical imitation. It was said that no one had ever reproduced every one of Paganini's scores with complete musical fidelity. That was why he had been called the Devil's Violinist. A genius who divided the history of the violin into before and after, he even inspired a legend that he had sold his soul to the devil to play.

"But I finally understand."

"Understand what?"

"That Paganini didn't compose the 24 Caprices just to show off his technique."

The old man gave a rueful chuckle, as though mocking himself for only now realizing something so obvious. He looked at Limon and continued softly.

"And that playing heavenly music takes not a heavenly being, but a devil's talent."

Was it pure admiration in the old man's eyes? Envy of youth and talent? Or regret that they had met only now? Limon snorted at the tangle of emotions in his gaze.

"What devil's talent? I just played what the curse told me to."

"True enough. Without this magic violin, it'd take you a hundred years to play like that."

"... You don't have to agree so readily."

"But it's true, isn't it?"

The old man asked with an innocent air, as though inviting an argument. Limon clicked his tongue but didn't offer one. That performance had been possible because of the Violin of Deepest Black. The curse had guided him through the ideal technique, down to the slightest adjustment of the bow's angle and every precise movement of his fingers. The only catch was that an ordinary human could never have kept up with its demands. Limon himself didn't realize that. With the body of a Sword Master capable of wielding any sword technique at will, he had found it only natural. It hadn't been difficult at all.

"So you take it."

"What?"

That was why Limon stared in disbelief when the old man suddenly held out the box containing the Violin of Deepest Black.

"Take it? This? Me?"

"Yep."

"... Why?"

"Because thanks to you, it's become a truly cursed violin."

The old man smiled bitterly. He might be little more than a caretaker in a failing amusement park, but he had at least some knowledge of magic. Instinctively, he knew the Violin of Deepest Black was no longer an instrument anyone else could use. It might have been different if it had never known such a performance. But just as a gourmet who has tasted the finest cuisine can no longer be satisfied with fast food, the violin had found a master capable of meeting its demands. It would never again tolerate a mediocre player.

"I don't need a cursed instrument."

"Take it anyway. If it bothers you, think of it as a prize for that fine performance."

The old man ignored Limon's near refusal and held up two fingers. "But promise me two things."

"... What kind of prize comes with conditions?"

"There's no such thing as a free prize without strings attached."

These days, he said blithely, even things advertised as free came with conditions like surrendering personal information or signing up for a new account. Then his face turned serious.

"First, never give that violin to anyone else. If you truly have no use for it, leave it at a temple to be sealed away. Or smash it to pieces and burn it."

"That's a pretty damn textbook way to deal with a cursed item."

"A method becomes textbook because it's been proven to work best."

The old man didn't even deny it was cursed. Limon frowned at his audacity and asked quietly, "And the other thing?"

"Oh, that's easy."

The old man grinned and tapped the violin's box with a finger. "Take as long as you like. Once you can give a truly perfect performance, come back here and play this violin for me again."

"What, the one I just gave you wasn't enough?"

"I was satisfied. I only say it because you didn't seem to be."

"I wasn't satisfied?"

"Were you?"

"..."

Limon didn't answer the old man's knowing smile. He simply gazed at the box.

Cursed or magical, the violin was more trouble than it was worth to him. He was a Sword Master, a swordsman who had lived without much interest in anything besides his sword and had never felt he was missing out. Yet when he had played, he had felt something melting deep inside him. That sensation, and the faint presence he had sensed for only a moment before it disappeared, made him give an unexpected answer.

"I can't promise I'll come back before you die of old age."

"That's why I asked you to play at this amusement park."

"And if the park goes under?"

"Well, what can I do? I'll have to accept it as fate."

"Fate, huh..."

Limon gave a short, wry laugh and picked up the box containing the Violin of Deepest Black. He handed out the plastic umbrellas the old man had given them to the children, who were still lost in the afterglow of the performance, and said curtly, "Don't wait for me, old man. I've no interest in playing music, and fate and all that crap has never gotten along with me."

"All right. See you next time, then."

Limon took the children out of the Magic Hall without signing a contract or even making a definite promise. Watching him stride away through the falling water, the old man smiled to himself.

'I'd better live a long time.'

He remembered Limon saying he had never held an instrument before. He remembered, too, the dissatisfied look on Limon's face after a breathtaking performance that had given everyone else goosebumps. Could a man who had astonished even the sun and moon on his first try with an instrument really leave that violin sitting in its box? And when Limon finally played to his own satisfaction, what would it sound like? His heart fluttering with anticipation like a boy in love for the first time, the old man rummaged through his top hat.

He pulled out an old coin, rubbed it with his sleeve, murmured a short spell, and flicked it with his finger.

"Muhama la Rodon sibaLa Un Maktoob."

TING.

A hairy black hand sprang from a shadow and snatched the coin as it bounced off the floor. The hand burst like a blot of ink; its black remnants swept across the floor, wiping away every trace of moisture and every footprint Limon and the children had left behind. The old man calmly straightened his top hat as he surveyed the floor, cleaned in an instant.

"Hm?"

After blinking a few times, he rose and poked his head out of the Magic Hall. The sky had already cleared. He stared at it, puzzled.

"What's this? Why has it stopped already?"

Once the rain began, it usually lasted at least several hours, often half a day. It had stopped in less than an hour, and the old man frowned uneasily. No one had performed a rite for the dead, and no spirit mage had come. Why, then, had the rampaging spirit's energy suddenly quieted?

"Has that stubborn thing finally come to its senses? Or...?"