Taihao passed through cities where the Human Race lived and crossed desolate wildernesses.
When he was hungry, he picked wild fruit. When thirsty, he drank river water. When tired, he found a tree to lean against and sleep.
He was in no hurry to go anywhere or do anything. He simply wanted to see what this world truly looked like.
Taihao stopped beside a riverbank.
This was a tributary of a great river. The current was gentle, and the riverbank was covered in smooth pebbles polished by the water.
Dense reeds grew along both banks. When the wind blew, white reed fluff drifted through the sky.
In the distance, several Human Race cultivators were clearing the river channel, digging out silt and piling it into embankments.
Taihao sat down on the riverbank to rest.
The water rushed and murmured, as though someone were speaking.
The wind passed through the reeds with a mournful howl, as though it were crying and laughing at once.
Birds flew overhead, their wings fluttering as their calls drifted near and far.
All these sounds mingled together in chaotic disorder, yet they were unexpectedly pleasant.
He suddenly realized something.
When the Human Race worked, no one ever sang.
It was not that they could not sing. No one had taught them.
Back then, Su Miao had taught the Human Race literacy, farming, cultivation, Artifact Refining—everything except music.
It was not that she had forgotten. At the time, the Human Race had been struggling on the brink of life and death. Who would have had the heart to sing?
Now, things were different.
An urge rose from Taihao's heart. He wanted to preserve these sounds, to make those who worked less weary, and to make travelers feel less alone.
He dug up a lump of clay from