The whole process can be briefly summarized in three steps: Qi Wen appeared, Qi Wen lunged forward, Qi Wen was gone.
Don't forget that Huai Shi was still on fire, and even though the color had changed, its essence hadn't. The flames, fused with a large amount of Apocalypse and negative energy Source Substance, were simply a Soul Furnace. Even Qi Wen in his lifetime would have definitely died from such a plunge, let alone a shoddy replica hastily made.
Not just Huai Shi, even Clement was shocked. He hadn't expected the mass of Source Substance he'd exhausted to summon such a colossal mistake.
He had no idea that the flames on Huai Shi actually had the ability to incinerate Source Substance. He only saw the old man, filled with resentment, dissipate as if he had merely bumped into Huai Shi.
It was as though his wish had been fulfilled and he had ascended to Heaven.
So, the biggest sin this guy committed in his life was, at most, spitting on someone's shoes for no good reason? Where the hell did this Saint come from?
"Stunned, aren't you! I'm an ally of justice!"
Huai Shi, recovering, burst into laughter. He hid the cold sweat on his back and charged at Clement again. Then, the Skull of the Succubus cleaved down with a moan!
The Cavalry Sword shattered on impact.
Not expecting his killer move, into which he had poured so much Source Substance, to be utterly useless, Clement's reaction was sluggish. The Cavalry Sword slipped from his hand after breaking.
Then, he saw Huai Shi reverse the flail's handle, aiming the sharp end of the Shackles at him in a smashing downward strike!
Clement's expression changed drastically. He stepped back to steady himself, instinctively reaching out to block the descending Shackles. But then, he felt the Shackles were unexpectedly light and offered no resistance.
Huai Shi hadn't exerted any force at all.
It was as if he'd just made a feint, then let go, allowing Clement to snatch the Shackles.
Damn it...
In that instant, Clement thought he saw a mocking smile behind the gas mask.
. . .
When the violin music began, the alumni in the front row of the auditorium remained smiling. After a polite round of applause, they continued chatting about their previous topics—investments, options, or the hidden stories behind some recent minor shuffles in their departments.
The youngest person sitting here was nearly forty. After weathering so many storms, honestly, they couldn't really muster much interest in this modest show by their alma mater. It was more about enjoying the atmosphere and revisiting past memories.
A few seemed to notice the young man playing the violin on stage, giving a slight nod.
"Fengning, look at this one. He's quite good-looking, has a nice image."
"Indeed. With some grooming, he definitely has debut potential. We can get in touch if there's a chance later." The graceful woman nodded slightly, then looked towards the old man next to her. "I'm not too knowledgeable about the violin. What do you think, Professor Zhao?"
The old man beside her, who was peeling an orange, paused as if listening. Soon, he couldn't help but frown. "The violin is no good."
The principal, who had been smiling apologetically, saw his expression stiffen for a moment. He then looked a bit embarrassed, not knowing how he might have offended this venerable predecessor.
Zhao Yu was seventy-four this year. In terms of seniority, he was someone the principal's own father would have had to respect. Thirty years ago, he was already a professor at Dongxia Music Academy, a nationally renowned violinist, and a leading authority in string theory.
In the world of classical music, even if one couldn't dictate life and death with a single word, such a critique seemed too cruel for a young person like Huai Shi, who aspired to excel in this professional field.
"What I mean is, the violin itself, it's no good."
After peeling the orange, the old man didn't eat it. He simply placed the segments on a napkin, piling them up like a small mound. Then, as if understanding the principal's unease, he explained, "His foundation is solid, a promising talent, but the violin itself is no good. Remind him later not to use a factory-made instrument anymore; he'll ruin his technique with it."
"..."
The principal heaved a sigh of relief, wiped sweat from his brow, and explained to Old Zhao, "He's a child who has endured much hardship. It hasn't been easy for him to persevere until today."
Just as he was about to explain further, he saw Old Zhao raise his hand and wave it dismissively.
Old Zhao's downcast eyes finally lifted, gazing toward the stage.
"More talk is of no use."
His eyes, clouded slightly by cataracts, fixed on the young man's bowed head. He seemed to be taking him seriously now. "Let's listen first," he said.
From that moment, the faint noise and clamor from below the stage gradually vanished.
Until at last, it became profound silence.
Because the melody had gradually begun to resonate.
It was hard to imagine that this violin music, which was beyond words, could carry such full emotion. It flowed like a fountain, bringing a slight chill and softness that spread from beneath one's feet.
Winter?
Old Zhao's eyebrows lifted slightly, his expression becoming progressively more solemn.
Vivaldi's "Four Seasons" concertos were indeed classic pieces in the violin repertoire. However, the more classic they were, the more they tended to be confined by past interpretations and performances, making it hard to find new meaning.
But where could such full and palpable emotions be coming from?
At first, it was like a soft breeze blowing. Before one knew it, it had become a storm that pierced the soul.
With the cello's unique deep timbre, the soul hidden within the body seemed to tremble to the sound of the violin. The increasingly intense melody entered an ever-tighter rhythm, finally transforming into a blizzard, ruthlessly and fervently enveloping everything.
It was as if thunderstorms raged and the earth shook.
Within the hurried rhythm of harsh winter, all joy and delight were suppressed in this unspeakable prelude. But as a clear, bright note emerged from the storm of hardship, the blockade of the storm cracked open a gap.
Following that, a melody as wild as galloping horses burst forth from the prelude, climbing to a crescendo, soaring with the string sounds, leaving behind the oppressions and snowstorms of the past, and racing freely.
All things sang in jubilation.
The brisk melody was reborn from the low notes of hardship, soared into the sky, and sprinkled down the dew of hope like rainwater.
At that instant, Old Zhao couldn't help but let out a long breath. It was as if he saw time flowing backward, returning to those poor, confused days of his youth.