After a slight pause, the zither music continued to flow, shifting from tragic grandeur to mournful tenderness, then from mournful tenderness to steadfast resilience, as though recounting how that little girl had grown through countless hardships and dangers into the person she was today.
Those scenes unfurled layer by layer in his mind like a slowly unrolled scroll, every stroke carrying the warmth of truth.
When the final note slowly faded into the air, wave after wave of praise rose around the arena. "What a zither, what music. As expected of someone from the Tianxiang Cult."
Luo Yanrao's ten fingers still hovered above the strings. Her fingertips trembled faintly, and after finishing the piece, her face had grown several shades paler than before.
She took a soft breath, moved the long zither from her lap, and fixed her gaze on Li Bufan's still-closed eyes, awaiting the final outcome.
Li Bufan's consciousness remained within the illusion woven by the zither music.
He had thought that once the music ended, he would be able to escape. Yet the instant the last lingering note dispersed, he discovered that his body seemed to have been firmly locked down by some invisible force.
The zither music had not truly vanished. Instead, deep within his Spirit Sea, it silently condensed into a melody that repeated in an endless cycle, like an echo trapped in an abyss, recounting again and again the story of the general and the little girl.
Those scenes and emotions washed repeatedly over his consciousness like the tide. With every cycle, his perception became more vivid than before, as though his soul were gradually being permeated by memories that did not belong to him.
This was precisely the Tianxiang Cult's Seven-Ring Formless Zither.
The brilliance of this secret art lay in how the