CHAPTER 1445: CHAPTER 1: THE BLACK CELLO

The deep cello plays in the night, the streets along the way are exceptionally clean and cold, the sound of trickling water particularly clear in the darkness.

...

Many people take it for granted that the Interstellar Era should be lively and bustling, with all sorts of information intersecting. In videos and films, numerous characters perform endless musicals and plays, whether vulgar or elegant, each has its own audience. Performers and viewers form a circulating Circle, where emotions of sorrow and joy, anger and pleasure flow and circulate.

This understanding stems from long-term residence in cities where the lights never go out, from the uninterrupted narration and accompaniment in every video and film. People have become accustomed to a world with music, accustomed to labeling everything with various short words and phrases.

If, one day.

The electronic devices by your side and in life shut down, entering a completely silent world, an empty and uninhabited world, in that long night where you could hear a pin drop, a monotonous world without any accompaniment or music, what would you think of?

Would it be a long memory, a deep fear of facing the unknown, or a rare sense of peace and relaxation?

The bizarre and motley information rushes through this era like a torrent, causing people to sometimes laugh wildly, sometimes feel anxious, sometimes hesitate, sometimes become angry, with numerous concepts and opinions manipulating the puppets below like invisible strings, making them laugh and cry.

All emotions are like flickering diodes, constantly flashing and leaping.

When one day this process is suddenly interrupted, returning to a gray and monotonous reality, a strong discomfort will spread, urging them to return to that wonderful world.

Objectively speaking, the life of an ordinary person is short and impoverished, like wearing a thick raincoat, holding an umbrella, walking hastily through the dark streets.

The unknown and uneasy always pervade, a voice in the heart always urging to quickly endure this stage, but turning at one street will always lead to another, with no place to relax and rest.

Fighting against the torrent of the era requires a very strong will, and turning around to face the darkness requires the courage to look at one’s self with various flaws, cowardice, even baseness.

~’If you are not a Sage, don’t force yourself onto that path.’~

In the quiet room, a black-haired man holds a cello, dressed in all black, his shoulder-length black hair slightly swaying with the movement of the Violin Bow.

The immersive melody sounds, narrating that life silently flowing through the darkness, a unique aesthetic and taste exclusive to him, isolated from external judgments.

The incandescent light passes through a yellowing glass lampshade, illuminating the tabletop, on which lies an open ancient detective novel. The man sitting by the table wears a grayish-brown woolen sweater, holding a freshly brewed hot coffee in his hands.

The cello melody crosses low valleys and gradually enters the soaring night sky, a magnificent sorrow of a lone bird soaring, grasping the hearts of the listeners.

...

...

The long piece ends in constant ups and downs and repetitions, the slowly released emotions seem to still linger in the room, in the dark night outside the window.

The cup holding the coffee is gently placed down, making a slight sound as it collides with the base ceramic plate.

"Haven’t heard you play in a long time, Prince." The man sitting by the table reminisced, recalling scenes from his youth, lamenting how everything now seems blurred, like yellowed and faded photographs.

The black-haired, black-clothed man places the cello down, his boots crossing the wooden floor, making sounds in the quiet night, he picks up a tin kettle from the fireplace on the side, pouring himself hot water and slowly savoring it.

"Speak, what brings you here." He sat opposite the man, lightly shaking a cup with his fingers, as if it contained not mere hot water, but rare wine.

"I want to ask you to kill someone." The man’s words were slow.

"Who?" The black-haired Prince continued shaking the hot water in the cup, watching the steam rise.

"My daughter."

"What a sad story indeed."

Both fell into a prolonged silence and quietness.

"I remember more than thirty years ago, the last time we gathered, you said you married a wonderful wife, and told us, these old friends, that you would retire from the scene, no longer getting involved in dark and dangerous affairs."

"Now, you speak of these things to me." His voice was as deep as the rustle of raven feathers.

A long sigh, the man in a grayish-brown woolen sweater picked up the worn detective novel beside him, containing old murder cases printed in black lead type.

"Novels often weave logical motivations for actions that ordinary people cannot understand."

"But in reality, it only takes one impulsive act."

"I need to be responsible for past impulses, to end that unfulfilled prophecy." His fingers flipped through the pages, his gaze absent-minded.

"A prophecy? Do you still believe in such relics from a superstitious era? If prophecies were truly effective, then the operation of society could rely on them for guidance now." The black-haired man shook his head, not understanding how the decisive and determined person of the past had become like this.

"Indeed, I originally didn’t believe." The man put down the book.

"The past me was so unyielding, capable of decisively executing any task, upholding my principles, finding balance between reality and ideals, continuously achieving success."

"Now, recalling, how confident and steadfast I was back then, never regretting any decision, and if there was any, I would use the gun and Sword in my hands to make it reasonable."