Christopher's true face

The oil lamp's flame flickered gently, casting an unsteady light across Rosinante's face.

The old man slowly lowered his head and looked at his gaunt hands.

Those hands had played and sung for countless people on countless nights. Now all that remained were a few trembling fingers. Then he gave a soft chuckle.

The chuckle was so faint, as though it had drifted to him on a wind from fifty years ago.

"Marry me? That foolish girl," he murmured, his voice so hoarse it was barely audible. "I was just a street musician. I had no house, no land, only an out-of-tune harp and a pile of worthless songs.

"You were a girl from a good family. You deserved a better life, not to wander the world with me, sleeping rough. What right did I have to ask you to stay?"

He raised a hand and wiped the corner of his eye with his sleeve, a smile appearing on his aged face.

That smile held the carefree spirit and tenderness of fifty years ago, as well as the acceptance and fulfillment of the fifty years since.

"But you lived well, and that's enough. What a bard fears most isn't that no one will listen to his songs, but that his songs won't make anyone's life better. You spent fifty years giving me the answer."

He lowered his head and looked at the musical-note pendant in his palm. His gaunt fingers slowly closed around it, gripping it tightly.

"This song was worth it."

Yaoyue stood, walked over to Rosinante, and gently crouched down. She took the hand holding the pendant in both of hers.

Her eyes were still red and tears were still flowing, but her voice was steady, as though she had finally found somewhere she belonged.

"Mr. Rosinante, if I may, I'd like to call you Grandpa Luo.

"Not because you saved my mother, but because you made her the person she became.

"The mother who sang beside my cradle, the mother who was still humming on her sickbed. Without you, she wouldn't have become that person."

Rosinante looked at her, an exceedingly gentle expression appearing on his wrinkled face.

He said nothing, merely raising his other hand and gently placing it over hers, patting the back of it.

Once, twice, so lightly, as though he were touching a fragile treasure.

At some point, Cioccolata had walked over to the old harp with broken strings in the corner of the room.

Her fingers brushed gently over the few strings that remained. Then she turned to look at Rosinante, her voice carrying a respect and a plea she rarely showed.

"Mr. Rosinante, I've roughly reconstructed the song using the manuscript and the version my master passed down to me.

"But there are many parts I haven't handled well enough. I've tried them over and over, but I'm still not satisfied.

"If I may, I'd like to ask for your guidance. I want to learn the whole song and pass it on."

Rosinante looked at her, his gaze moving between the lute in her arms and her youthful face. Then he slowly nodded.

"You want to learn?"

"I do."

The old man nodded slightly. A glimmer belonging to the carefree poet of fifty years ago rekindled in his cloudy eyes.

He rose unsteadily from his rocking chair and walked over to Cioccolata. His gaunt fingers hovered over the strings, tracing a motion in the air before gently settling on the sole intact string and plucking a low, lingering note.

"Here, before the chorus comes in, don't add a transitional note." He became a different person when he spoke of music, his hunched back seeming to straighten a little. "Because this isn't a song meant to make people comfortable. It's a song for people saying goodbye. Parting is never comfortable. Right here, it should give you a hard twist."

Cioccolata held her breath, hugged her lute a little tighter, and nodded earnestly.

Her eyes shone with startling brightness, as though she had found an answer she had been seeking for a long time.

"And for the final verse, don't slow down."

The old man continued, his finger tracing an arc in the air. "A lot of people slow down without thinking when they sing the final verse, feeling that the ending ought to be slow.

"But Rosinante's original intention was-don't slow down.

"It should be like a ship at the pier. When the time comes, it has to sail.

"Clean and decisive, without dragging things out.

"Only when you sing 'goodbye' that way is it truly goodbye."

Cioccolata sat on a low stool in the corner of the stone house, her lute resting on her knees, and plucked the final note.

Rosinante's guidance had an immediate effect.

When the song ended, no one in the room spoke.

Yaoyue's eyes had reddened. Rosinante sat with his eyes closed, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips.

Kexi even breathed more quietly, afraid of disturbing the moment's lingering spell.

But Christopher's gaze, hidden behind his mask, was not on Cioccolata.

He was looking at the floor-as Cioccolata rose to bow and thank Rosinante, a letter had slipped from her clothing and fluttered onto the stone floor.

Christopher's pupils suddenly contracted.

He had seen this letter before.

More precisely, he had seen an identical envelope.

It was exactly like the one Napomo had shown him.

His gaze followed the letter. Cioccolata, caught up in the excitement of speaking with Rosinante, did not notice.

Christopher's fingers moved silently inside his sleeve, and the letter floated gently upward as though supported by an invisible hand. It traced a faint arc through the air and landed soundlessly in his palm.

The envelope was unsealed.

He drew out the letter and unfolded it, his eyes quickly scanning the words.

A moment later, he folded the letter again and put it back in the envelope.

Sure enough, it had that same style. The same scent of ink, the same handwriting, the same flippancy.

Christopher stepped forward through the silence, his pace unhurried and his usual gentle smile on his lips beneath the mask.

"Miss Cioccolata, that was beautifully played," he said softly, his praise sounding too sincere to have an ulterior motive. "With Mr. Rosinante's guidance and your performance, this song is sure to travel farther."

Cioccolata looked up at him and gave a slight nod of thanks.

But Christopher changed the subject, holding the letter up before her. His tone remained gentle, as though he were asking a casual question. "This letter-it fell from your clothing. I took a look, and it's very well written. If I may ask, who wrote it?"

Cioccolata abruptly reached inside her clothing, her expression changing slightly. But before she could speak, a voice sounded from the corner, not quite confident.

"I wrote it."

Kexi stepped forward from the wall, scratching the back of his head with a somewhat embarrassed, awkward smile.

He had a fairly good impression of Christopher.

This man had helped Yaoyue find Rosinante yesterday, had been courteous throughout the journey, and spoke pleasantly. No matter how Kexi looked at him, he didn't seem like a bad person.

So when asked "who wrote it," he stepped forward almost instinctively. There was even a hint of embarrassment at having been "found out" in his voice, but more than that, he was candid.

It had been seen anyway.

Christopher slowly turned around.

The eyes beneath his mask met Kexi's gaze. The curve of his lips deepened and deepened, finally becoming a meaningful smile utterly unlike all his earlier gentleness.

"I originally only meant to start with the young master of the Montelli family and ask about the whereabouts of the person who wrote the letter."

His voice was soft, as though he were talking to himself, yet every word reached Kexi's ears clearly. "I never expected to get an unexpected surprise-you're the one who wrote the letter?"

Kexi's smile froze on his face.

"You... what do you mean?"

"Someone wants you dead."

Christopher's tone was still gentle as he said it, as though stating a fact that had nothing to do with him.

Then he raised his hand. At some point, a heavy book had appeared, floating above his palm. Strange, dark red patterns flowed across its cover, and its pages rustled and turned without a breeze, giving off a resonance that made hearts tremble.

"A creator's greatest pleasure,"

Christopher opened the book, a nearly fanatical devotion in his voice, "is to tailor a perfect stage for his protagonists. The young master of the Montelli family, the bard, the orphan from Yuezhou, and-"

His gaze passed over the others and fell on the white-haired old man in the rocking chair. He gave a slight, apologetic bow. "Forgive my rudeness, Mr. Rosinante. You should have been able to enjoy your later years in peace, but unfortunately, you're here too."

As his words ended, the book's pages flipped abruptly to a certain page, and a violent suction surged out of it.

Countless chains of dark red writing flew from between the pages, weaving together in the air into a vast, all-encompassing net that enveloped Kexi, Cioccolata, Yaoyue, and Rosinante.

An irresistible force forcibly tore them from the real world.

Only Christopher and the heavy book in his hand remained.

He looked at the book, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. "I wonder what inspiration for new stories these new protagonists can bring me. I'm really looking forward to it."