182: Peerless Beauty

Midnight.

Countless "horror fans" waiting in front of their phone screens habitually wrapped themselves tightly in their small blankets,

preparing to welcome the Dream Weaver's new round of horror bombardment.

However, when they clicked on the new chapter titled "An Unrivaled Elegance" with trembling fingers,

the expected bloody skulls and gloomy Ghost Market did not appear.

What met their eyes was an illustration filled with Oriental charm.

Amidst the dancing snow,

an ancient seven-stringed guqin lay quietly in the snow. Faint cracks appeared on its body, and its name was "zao yue."

The accompanying text had only nine words:

[Prajna Paramita, zao yue is never-ending.]

"What's going on? Was the Dream Weaver's account hacked?"

"Where's the promised horror? What's with this artistic vibe?"

Filled with suspicion, the readers patiently read on.

As the words unfolded,

the ferryman Zhao Li—who always wore a black windbreaker, drove a Grand Cherokee, and only had eyes for money—

gradually blurred in the readers' minds. In his place,

was a young monk clad in a kasaya with features as beautiful as a painting.

Wuming.

He played the guqin in the heavy snow of the wasteland. The music was clear and ethereal, yet there was only the instrument, no soul.

To give the guqin named "zao yue" a soul,

and to let it see the beautiful scenery of this world, this eminent monk, who was about to achieve Buddhahood, stopped his footsteps on the path to the Yellow Springs.

[If you become a Buddha, this guqin is merely wood.]

[If you become a demon, this guqin will have eyes.]

In that eternal snow, the eminent monk Wuming took off the prayer beads symbolizing his Arhat status,

and sold his every lifetime and his very soul to the King of the Underworld.

All just to exchange for a wisp of a fragrant soul within the guqin.

From then on, the eminent monk Wuming no longer existed in the world; there was only the ghost messenger Zhao Li.

When they reached the final line—[I don't want to become a Buddha, nor do I want to become a demon; I only want you to live well]—

the keyboard warriors in the comment section, who had originally prepared to say "Holy crap, that scared me to death," completely broke down.

"Waaaah... Give me back my tears! I came to read a ghost story, not to attend a funeral!"

"Zhao Li! You greedy bastard, so you were carrying all this on your back!"

"One second I was laughing at him for being greedy and lecherous, the next I'm crying like a dog. Dream Weaver, you're truly heart-wrenching!"

That night, the atmosphere of the horror and supernatural section changed abruptly. The originally gloomy discussion threads turned into a massive scene of competitive misery... Nanjing, Gulou District.

In a bedroom of a luxury villa, the black and white keys of a Steinway grand piano reflected the moonlight from outside the floor-to-ceiling window.

Ye Xi lay on the piano lid, her eyes red as she stared blankly at her phone screen.

As a performer who had been accompanied by musical instruments since childhood, she could understand the core of that story better than ordinary readers.

"The guqin gained a soul, but the person lost himself..."

Ye Xi reached out, her fingertips gently brushing over the cold keys.

At that moment, she felt as if this piano, which had accompanied her for over a decade, was also letting out a faint breath.

Did it also have a soul?

Was it also watching her?

An unprecedented sense of loneliness and resonance intertwined, flooding over her like a tide.

At this very moment, she desperately wanted to find someone to talk to, someone who could understand this "crazy talk."

Driven by some inexplicable impulse, she dialed the pinned voice call.

"Beep— Beep—"

It rang twice and then connected.

"Hello?"

A slightly lazy teenage voice came from the receiver.

The background was very quiet, with only the faint sound of keyboard clicking.

The breathing on the other end clearly skipped a beat,

followed by a suppressed yet still audible sob, accompanied by a heavy nasal tone:

"Lin Que..."

Jiangcheng, SOHO Studio.

Lin Que had just closed the tide-like reward records in the backend.

Hearing that tearful call, his hand typing on the keyboard paused.

"What's wrong?"

Lin Que's tone was calm, but he sat up a bit straighter.

"Did Sister Yang dock your rations again? Or are your hands sore from practicing?"

"No..."

Ye Xi sniffled, her voice intermittent.

"Have you... have you read the new chapter of soul ferry?"

Lin Que raised an eyebrow.

So she's come looking for me already?

He leaned back in his chair, looking at the night outside the window, his tone as calm as an outsider's.

"I read it. 'An Unrivaled Elegance,' right? The story about the monk and the guqin."

"You read it too, right?"

Ye Xi's emotions were somewhat agitated, as if she had found an outlet.

"That Wuming... he sold himself just to give the guqin eyes. Lin Que, do you understand that feeling?

It's like... a musical instrument isn't just an object; it's alive, it's half your life."

Ye Xi spoke incoherently,

talking about the loneliness of practicing as a child, how she sometimes felt the piano was crying with her,

and the fate in the story where "zao yue" took human form to fulfill Zhao Li, yet also destroyed him.

Lin Que listened quietly.

He could even imagine the girl on the other end of the phone, who was usually as proud as a swan,

now slumped over the piano, crying her heart out.

"Actually."

Waiting until Ye Xi's emotions had calmed down a bit, Lin Que finally spoke slowly.

"Looking at it from another perspective, this might not be a tragedy."

"Hmm?"

Ye Xi stopped sobbing.

"For Wuming, becoming a Buddha is emptiness, and saving others is emptiness. Only that guqin was his sole 'reality' in this void of a world."

Lin Que's fingers gently tapped the tabletop.

"He didn't lose himself. On the contrary, within the music, he found a self more real than becoming a Buddha."

The other end of the line was silent for a long time.

Ye Xi chewed over these words carefully.

The sorrow that had been weighing on her heart dissipated quite a bit, replaced by a sense of sudden enlightenment.

"Lin Que..."

Ye Xi's voice was much softer.

"Sometimes I really wonder if you're an artist too. You understand much more than those so-called music critics."

Lin Que smiled slightly.

"Me? I'm just an ordinary high school student."

"Psh."

Ye Xi laughed through her tears, then sighed.

"But this 'Dream Weaver' is truly amazing. Although he writes horror novels, he must be an artist who deeply understands music and aesthetics at his core.

Otherwise, he couldn't have written such a state of 'unity between instrument and player.'"

An artist?

Lin Que looked down at his wrinkled cartoon pajamas,

then glanced at the half-eaten cup of instant noodles on the table, with red oil still floating on the soup.

To prevent this wealthy young lady from having any unrealistic associations,

and subsequently following the clues to uncover something, Lin Que decided to "be ruthless" to himself.

"Give me a break."

Lin Que gave a light scoff.

"What kind of artist would write web novels? I bet this Dream Weaver is probably some scruffy middle-aged uncle.

Scratching his feet while eating instant noodles, fantasizing about these horrific and poignant stories in front of a computer."

"Pffft—"

On the other end of the phone, Ye Xi burst out laughing.

"Lin Que, you really have a wicked tongue!"

Ye Xi scolded with a laugh.

"Give me back my feelings! The 'master' filter I just built up has completely shattered!"

"It's good that it's shattered. Go to sleep early, pianist."

Lin Que checked the time.

"Don't you have training tomorrow? Don't end up with dark circles under your eyes and scare your Sister Yang."

"Get lost! This young lady is naturally beautiful!"

The call was cut off.

Ye Xi looked at the darkened screen, the haze in her heart swept away.

Although this guy had a sharp tongue, after this bit of banter,

that slight, absurd intuition of "could the Dream Weaver be right beside me" instantly vanished.

True.

How could someone who writes such gloomy and desolate prose,

possibly be a guy like Lin Que, who can talk well enough to irritate someone to death?

...