Geisteswissenschaftliche Fakultät

Kapitel 5

He was a musician whose talent went unrecognized, and he told himself that he was a musician!

"Come and buy some! Hot steamed buns! They're good for your lungs and cough, promote blood circulation and calcium, and even help you live longer and stay young! Sir, would you like a steamed bun?" The short, chubby pastry shop owner enthusiastically promoted the food in the steamer. The steamed buns were emitting a fragrant aroma, making him swallow hard.

He felt his pockets and found only a one-yuan coin and three one-jiao coins.

"Sir, the steamed buns in our shop are free." The owner explained cheerfully, seeing his hesitation.

"Really?" His eyes lit up. A musician? Musicians are human too. And what human doesn't drool when they see food?

"Of course, what would you like to order? Meat buns, vegetable buns, char siu buns, vegetarian three-delicacy buns, whatever you want, we have it." The shop owner picked up a paper bag and deftly lifted the layers of steamer baskets. Steam rose up, and the plump white buns, half-hidden in the steamer, possessed a succulent and tender beauty.

"Really no money?" He didn't believe it. He'd been scammed many times, but no one would have the time to cheat a homeless person.

"Of course not." The shop owner still had that carefree, cheerful look on his face.

"Then I want five of each kind, no, ten, no, no, fifteen, and five more meat buns."

"No problem." The shop owner quickly moved his hands and soon stacked a pile of paper packages in front of him. "There are sixty-five buns in total. Have a good trip and welcome to visit again."

The shop owner lowered his hands to his sides, respectfully seeing him off, while secretly plotting his next move.

"Free of charge" has two interpretations: first, it's free; second, it doesn't charge money but charges other equivalent items. A meat bun is worth a month's life, a vegetable bun is worth a month's health, char siu buns, vegetarian three-delicacy buns… he's guaranteed to make a profit on this business. His poor calculations have ruined his reputation as a shady shop.

"Oh, miss, what would you like to order..." He welcomed and saw off just a passerby, who was no different from a pebble on the road.

He munched on a fragrant meat bun, mentally calculating his food expenses for the next few weeks. Without performing, he had no money for food, but he refused to lower himself to the level of a butcher's block; if he did perform, his art would be too sophisticated for the masses—he wouldn't play celebratory or popular songs, and his lofty ideals would go unnoticed. He had exhausted his resources, but his ambition remained.

I am a frustrated musician! I am a musician! He proudly told himself.

Musician—what an extraordinary title! Just that one word, "master," reveals the difference in status and taste. Only he, a street performer, knew Rapaganini; only he knew Antonio Stradivai. What did those craftsmen know? Brahms, Beethoven? They only knew how to love and love each other, all that mushy sentimentality. Yes, he and they were worlds apart, perhaps even further apart!

He traveled all over the country to audition for music conservatories, failing time and time again! Listen to what the examiners said: "Your technique is mature, but your emotion is lacking; your melody is cold. I'm sorry, please try again next time!"

He was a musician! A musician who never found his place! Those who held high positions in the industry were nothing but outdated relics; they didn't understand him, and nobody in this world understood him. Van Gogh died, Edison dropped out of school, Copernicus was burned at the stake, and he, too, was a genius. Geniuses are destined to be lonely!

"Sir, would you like to come in and have a look? Our shop specializes in all kinds of Chinese and Western musical instruments, from high-end to low-end, we have them all." The middle-aged shop owner was very tasteful; an old-fashioned watch chain dangled from his sharp suit, occasionally flashing a silver glint, as if time had turned back to the 1930s, an era when Gregory Peck was handsome and dashing, Audrey Hepburn was noble and charming, and Vivien Leigh drifted through southern manors—how many people respected musicians! But now…

"Sir, I think you must be a musician..." the shopkeeper said, offering a compliment. "Look at your hands, truly the hands of an artist—long, slender fingers, well-defined knuckles, supple yet powerful. You must play the violin!"

He was overjoyed, but pretended not to care, replying casually, "Hmm, pretty much, you guessed right." Didn't he realize that with the worn-out violin case he always carried, how many people wouldn't notice its origin?

"Then you've come to the right place! Our shop has just received an absolutely unparalleled, timeless, and exquisite zither. So many people have come, but I refused to sell it to them. Look how worn this doorstep is! A fine sword is given to a hero, and a fine zither is given to a good master. What do you think of this zither?"

He took out a broken and tattered zither from the counter. The strings and the bow were clearly in a sorry state.

His face turned ugly: "Shopkeeper, are you deliberately making fun of me because I'm poor!" The zither case slammed onto the table, making the cymbals buzz.

"When buying shoes, you choose the ones that fit. But when choosing a violin, can you make a decision without actually playing it?" The shopkeeper handed over the bow and violin.

He took the instrument with some skepticism, nocked the bow, and began to play. The notes flowed smoothly, and he was instantly captivated. His high notes were passionate yet not shrill, and his low murmurs were melodious yet not somber. When the piece ended, he was completely absorbed in it, oblivious to his surroundings.

"This zither..." It took him a long time to come to his senses, and he was greatly shocked. Such a fine zither must be incredibly expensive. He wanted to buy it but had no money, and to give it up would be like burning his life.

“The person chooses the zither, and the zither chooses the person. Since you are destined to have this zither, I will gladly offer it to you without paying a penny.” How well said! This is no different from the words of Shu Qi and Boya.

He was overjoyed, thinking that he was blessed by heaven and that good things were happening to him all day long.

"Thank you! I will definitely prepare a generous gift to repay your kindness in giving me the zither another day."

"Of course, of course." They bowed and gestured for him to leave, some happy, some sad.

The zither is a fine instrument! Those who wield it all become masters. In the long river of time, amidst the dazzling stars, who could guess that behind it all is actually a violin, not a living thing?

The zither, a fine zither indeed! Those who wield it rise to glory on stage, and fall from grace on stage. The zither can draw upon the talent within, unleashing a torrent of brilliance that astonishes the world. Yet, when talent is exhausted and vitality depleted, one either dies suddenly or goes mad, ultimately ending in a tragic demise. That talent, that emotion, satiates the ears of the listeners, nourishes the heart of the zither, thus making it the finest zither in the world. Once drained here, it seeks elsewhere. You use me, I use you—it's nothing more than that.

The shopkeeper put down his newspaper, the headline in bold black font reading "Peerless Elegance: Paganini Reappears," and, holding a violin, dressed impeccably, smiled smugly.

The peach blossoms are red for a time in March, but the wind and rain bring nothing back.

To him, he was just someone passing through.

"Madam, what would you like to do for me..." She straightened her clothes and stepped forward to greet her.

Chapter Three: The Soul of the Gun

Name: Canglong Gender: Male Age: Appearance: Around 40 years old

Occupation: Weapons shop owner; Address: No. 3, Xikou Street, Bomeiji

The man in black raised the cold metal weapon in his hand and pulled the trigger without hesitation. Several soft thuds echoed from the black barrel, and a thick, red and yellow liquid quickly seeped onto the ground. He calmly surveyed his surroundings, checking for any oversights, then turned and walked away with an air of nonchalance. Even far from that absurd market, he was still thinking about the fallen shopkeeper's last face, which seemed to have a faint smile on it.

The half-open door creaked open, revealing the round face of a little girl. Inside the large shop, a light flickered on and off. A burly body lay in a pool of blood, riddled with five holes in his body and two in his head. One bullet had pierced the back of his head and exited through his temple, while another was lodged in his skull.

"Hey, get up!" The little girl ran over and kicked the corpse, waving a huge plastic bag in her hand. "Trying to renege on your debt?" She added a kick that went straight for the corpse's weak spot.

The corpse let out a "howl" and sat up, desperately rubbing the spot where the little girl had kicked it.

"Hey, the ten bottles of ketchup and five boxes of egg and oat porridge you ordered, plus the seven pieces of clothing from last time, make a total of fifteen souls."

"So expensive!!" Canglong shouted anxiously, "Your company is really ripping people off."

"Tch, whatever!" The little girl said indifferently, turning to leave.

"Yes, yes, yes!" Canglong hurriedly snatched the bag, got up, walked to a black iron cabinet, opened the door, and took out a bunch of bottles and jars.

"I said, is this how you use our ketchup and oatmeal?" The little girl looked at the mess of red and yellow stains on the floor with disgust. "Your guests are so disgusting, they like to see this kind of stuff!"

“There’s no other way,” Canglong carefully opened the bottle cap and used tweezers to pick out clusters of dark red orbs of light from a large glass bottle. “My customers have rather unique tastes, so I have no choice but to sacrifice myself to entertain the masses. Look at me, I’ve been shot, stabbed, thrown, pinched, and beaten up—can’t you at least give me a discount?”

"No way." The little girl glanced at Canglong. "Have you ever heard the saying 'nine out of ten merchants are treacherous'? Hey, did you get that gun back?" She pointed to a gleaming .45 Browning pistol with a ebony grip on a long row of weapons racks. "This gun must have been around for... over sixty years, I still remember that little guy was quite good-looking..." She tilted her head, trying hard to recall the past of that boy.

“When a person dies, the gun comes back.” Canglong answered without looking up, capped the bottle, and handed a small glass bottle to the little girl. “Here you go, fifteen souls. Give me the receipt so you don’t try to cheat next time.”

"So you took his soul too?" The little girl reluctantly pulled out a receipt and placed it in her large palm, inwardly cursing the big guy for being far more thoughtful than he appeared.

"Sorry, I won't see you out." Canglong opened the door and gestured for him to enter.

"Hmph, fine, don't tell me then! Don't buy anything from my house next time!" The little girl stomped her foot, pouted, and disappeared into thin air.

After Canglong left, he closed the shop door, took out a tin box from the deepest part of the iron cabinet, and opened it. Inside the box was a small, crystal-clear white jade bottle lying on red silk, with a faint blue light shimmering within it.

“Old friend, I’ve come to see you again,” Canglong said, gently stroking the bottle.

"My gun can sense future dangers and destroy anything that threatens it before it does. It can also hit your target in any situation. But it needs the blood of your enemy and your soul to be nourished to work. You might be devoured before you even get what you want. Even so, do you still want it?" Canglong patiently explained everything about his product. The fifteen-year-old boy in front of him was one of the few customers who had the patience to listen to him finish his explanation. Most of his customers, the assassins, thugs, and spies, would have already silenced him before he got to this point.

"I will become a legend in Shanghai! I will leave my name in history!" The boy clenched his fist, his dark eyes gleaming with determination. That kind of resolve is something only a person with unwavering will can possess, something only a pure and passionate young person can have. With that kind of resolve, one becomes fearless, even in the face of hardship and suffering, one will forge ahead! This is a characteristic unique to humans, something that Canglong cannot understand.

“Alright, then I’ll entrust this gun to you.” Canglong handed the pistol with the sandalwood handle to the young man’s hand.

"Canglong, I have been accepted by Master Du and am now a third-generation disciple of the Twenty-Three Halls."

"Azure Dragon, my marksmanship is being appreciated more and more."

"Azure Dragon, I've received my first mission!"

“Azure Dragon… I… killed someone, but it doesn’t matter,” he raised his head and smiled, “The one who died was a bad guy, and the people all applauded. But… why do I still remember how he looked when he died? Those bulging eyes, that pale face, and that red stain on the ground…”

"If you want to back down, I can make an exception and take back that gun." Canglong looked at the boy's downcast face and suddenly felt a little sorry for him. Most of the people he dealt with were people with cold blood, and very few were like this boy.

"No!" The boy shook his head. "I must realize my dream. Then, one day, I will make sure everyone has a good life. Blackie, Amao, Yaya, Aunt Zhang, Uncle Zhang... I will make sure they live in the best houses, wear the best clothes, and have good food to eat every day. They will never have to suffer from hunger and cold again, and they will never have to be beaten up for stealing food from rich people. I must become strong!" The boy's eyes seemed to hold a heavier weight than before.

“Canglong, I’ve been promoted to the position of Hall Master,” the young and handsome man said, standing in front of the gun rack and watching the burly shop owner busily wiping and adjusting the guns. “These hands are stained with the blood of the enemy.” The man revealed a lonely smile. “Uncle Zhang has passed away, and Hei Pi and Ya Ya are getting married soon. Before long, I will definitely be able to fulfill my promise and give them the best life!”

Canglong looked at that young yet weathered face and tried several times to persuade him, but couldn't bring himself to speak.

“Azure Dragon…” The man walked in, looking lost and dejected. His once pristine white shirt was now stained with a shocking amount of red.

Canglong stopped what he was doing and waited for him to continue.

“I just killed three people,” he laughed hysterically, a maniacal, neurotic laugh, then he started crying. “That man came to avenge the killing of his son. His son was one of the fiercest men under the Heavenly Lord. I just finished him off last month.” He began to tremble violently. “The old man was probably over seventy years old. He was holding a gun, and his hands were shaking…” He clutched his head in anguish, his eyes glazed over.

“He cursed at me…he kept cursing at me, I just couldn’t bring myself to shoot, and then he rushed at me…and then…”

"My gun can sense future dangers and destroy anything that poses a threat before it does..." These were the words that Canglong said to the boy many years ago, and they have never been wrong after countless verifications, so of course they will be this time as well.

“He died, and he looked at me with that look in his eyes as he breathed his last.” He shook his head desperately, trying to forget that face. “That sorrowful look in his eyes. Later, that woman rushed over with her child, crying and demanding my husband and father-in-law. Then, she died too…” The man weakly raised his eyes to look at Canglong. “Your gun truly lives up to its reputation.”

The mocking tone masked a deep sadness.

"That child... why did you kill him?" Canglong asked.

The man paused for a moment: "A child that small can't possibly survive in this world. Rather than end up like me, I'd rather he lie in his mother's arms and sleep peacefully forever!"

Of all the statements in this series, only this last one is firm and unwavering.

"You're regretting it!" Canglong asked, looking at the young face in the flickering candlelight. "Still not willing to stop?"

"How can I accept it? How could I possibly accept it?" The man shook his head, as if he had heard something ridiculous.

"I can help you, either by keeping your identity hidden or something else..."

"No one can help me, no one!" He staggered out of the shop like a drunkard and disappeared into the night.

That departure lasted for decades.

"Welcome, may I ask how you are here...?"

The young man walked in, dressed in a well-fitting suit, with a warm and refined smile. But his face and eyes were just like those of the boy who vowed to make his mark on history. In an instant, Canglong felt as if time had turned back decades.

“You must be Mr. Canglong,” the man said, taking out a paper bag and handing it over. “My father’s dying wish was that I return this old item to you.”

Canglong took it; the pistol with the sandalwood handle lay quietly in the bag, showing no trace of murderous intent at this moment.

"May I ask how your father passed away?" Canglong could see that a faint blue light lingered around the gun, and it was this blue light that washed away the gun's fierce and malevolent aura.

“My father passed away peacefully at the age of eighty-eight,” the young man said gently. “Before he died, my father said that this item was a gift from you, sir, and it saved his life several times during the War of Resistance. Therefore, he insisted that I express my gratitude to you in person.” As he spoke, he bowed respectfully.

“My father also said that he should have returned it in person, but because we had spent so much time together, he had developed feelings for him and had tried to return it several times but had not been able to, which has led to this delay until today. Please forgive him, sir.” He bowed again and took his leave. In the course of their conversation, which lasted for several tens of minutes, he did not ask at all how Canglong, who looked to be no more than forty years old, knew his father. He must be a wise man.

Canglong put the gun back on the display shelf, closed the shop early, turned off the lights, and sat in the darkness to examine the gun, which had a gentle grip. A pale blue light shimmered around the gun, making the cold, hard metal appear soft.

"Old friend," Canglong called softly, and the blue light suddenly brightened considerably, slowly flowing around the gun as if in response.

"I'm so happy, old friend, I'm really glad you're back!"

The dragon grinned, as if it had returned to that warm afternoon when the boy looked up at the sky, his eyes clear and firm!

Chapter Four: Drunken Silk

Name: Ruler Gender: Male Age: Appearance: Early twenties

Occupation: Silk shop owner; Address: No. 33, Nanshudun, Bomei Town

"Phoenix feathers, Pegasus wings, the horn of a fully grown unicorn—look at these treasures of Shennongjia!"

"Don't miss out! We've just received three Undine heels. Look at their beautiful faces and silky long hair! Buy one and you'll never want to look at anything else again!"

"Gemstone, gemstone, a genuine artifact from the Bohai Kingdom, a treasure you can't even find in museums!"