WeTried Translations
Translator/Editor: Hydrogen B
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Chapter 59: The Devil’s Talent
──────
Rimon had lived for a long time.
He had experienced just as much.
That included being cursed by a black mage and having his body move against his will.
But at this moment, what overwhelmed him was a strange sensation unlike anything he had felt in centuries of life.
Giiiiing.
The bow slid over the strings.
A faint vibration rang through the air.
Like a spring breeze passing over a mountain spring deep in the woods, the sound was gentle yet seeped deeply into his heart.
But the sound changed.
Giiing.
Whenever the fingers of his left hand, gripping the violin's neck, pressed and released the strings as though caressing a lover, the sound of the Pitch-Black Violin changed dramatically.
It raced sharp and lively, as if cutting with a blade, then sank deep and heavy as though falling into a spring. Just as it seemed to settle as if catching its breath, it leaped and ran wild, racing and soaring like a maiden fleeing a devil, then tugged him onward.
Amazing.
This was his first time even holding a violin.
Yet simply surrendering his body to the curse and following its split-second instructions made such a performance possible.
Most surprising of all was the sound the violin itself produced.
It changed every moment, like birdsong.
Then it suddenly erupted with the violence of a dance.
It bounced from his fingertips.
It sank sorrowfully, cried out its grief, raged, and tore apart.
The speed and angle of the bow, the position of the fingers pressing the strings.
Even the slightest alteration in technique changed the strings' vibrations, and with them, the performance itself changed in countless ways.
Perhaps intoxicated by those changes, he forgot everything else.
Before the curse could guide him, he moved his fingers according to the melody arising in his mind.
Faster.
More dazzling.
More beautiful.
It had become a storm of music.
A curse that demanded the impossible every moment, as though he were riding a single leaf across the sea amid driving wind and rain.
A devil's temptation no one could follow even if their fingers broke and their muscles tore.
But he did it.
A body honed through swinging a sword trillions of times, and senses accumulated through countless brushes with life and death, naturally accepted the raging performance.
It was less a blossoming than an evolution.
A flower of possibility newly blooming from a great tree that had grown for centuries.
A heavenly performance born from a human who had surpassed human limits and an instrument blessed by a god, as though sweeping the entire world away in petals of sound.
How long had he remained lost in himself, drawing forth that music?
At last, the melody circling Rimon's mind came to an end.
The bow in his hand stopped.
Giiing.
The scattered melody faded.
The world sank into silence.
* * *
“...”
Perhaps the old man had not been lying.
Once the performance ended, the curse that had controlled his body vanished.
Yet even though he could finally move freely, Rimon could not immediately put down the Pitch-Black Violin.
He had played only one piece.
Still, a pleasant weariness filled him.
There was also the strange silence, as though the entire world had closed its mouth and was listening to him.
More than anything, the lingering echoes of that stormlike melody still held him captive.
“Whew...”
He stood silently for a moment before, like the seasoned veteran he was, shaking off the unfamiliar fatigue and the afterglow of the performance with one deep breath.
Then he returned the violin and bow to their case and spoke to the old man.
“I apologize for insulting you by saying you were senile. This violin really does seem to be a magical instrument.”
It was a straightforward admission.
A sincere apology for his mistaken judgment that the Pitch-Black Violin was merely a cursed instrument.
But despite Rimon's words, the old man showed no reaction.
He merely remained frozen with a stiff face, as though he had turned into a living statue.
“Old man? Hey, old man?”
“...”
“Hey, what's wrong with this old man...?”
Rimon waved a hand in front of the old man's eyes for a moment. Wondering whether the old man really had gone senile, he turned around.
This time, he was truly startled.
It was not because every child but one was staring at him with their mouths hanging open.
Nor was it because Sia wore an indescribable expression.
Li Qing-yu was looking blankly at him.
The droplets rolling down her cheeks startled Rimon.
“Princess, why are you crying?”
“...
Am I crying?”
“Yeah.”
As though she had not realized it herself, Li Qing-yu raised a hand and wiped her cheek.
She stared blankly at the moisture on her fingertips as though it were something unfamiliar, then nodded.
“I am. I was crying.”
Perhaps she had been shocked by something.
Despite her usually composed expression, her reaction was as though a screw had come loose.
In some ways, she seemed more out of it than anyone else there. Rimon asked uneasily.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. I think I was moved because my benefactor's performance was so wonderful.”
Li Qing-yu's calm answer made Rimon's expression even stranger.
Only her tone sounded calm.
She was calling him her benefactor.
And she was guessing why she had cried as though speaking about someone else.
No matter how he looked at it, that was not an answer from someone who was fine.
“Well, if you're okay, that's enough.”
Rimon did not bother pointing out the contradiction.
He simply nodded as though accepting her answer and let it go.
It was irresponsible, in a way, but Li Qing-yu smiled faintly at his indifferent reaction, as though she were pleased.
“...
That piece.”
It was then that the old man, frozen as though his soul had left him, finally broke free of his stiffness and abruptly spoke.
“Do you know the name of the piece you just played?”
“The name?”
Rimon tilted his head.
He had merely played the melody echoing in his head as the curse guided him.
He did not know what piece it was.
Still, his years had not been wasted. After thinking carefully, Rimon found a memory of hearing a similar piece somewhere in the dusty warehouse of his memories.
“Well, I think there was a piece with something like Capfs in the name, composed by Papago[1] or whatever.”
“Twenty-Four Caprices for Solo Violin, Op. 1, composed by Paganini.”
“Ah, right. That.”
There had been more wrong than right in his answer, but Rimon shamelessly nodded.
A thick skin came with age, too.
But the old man did not blame him for his shamelessness.
He merely looked troubled.
“It is an unusual piece. Paganini himself was the only one who could perform it properly.”
Niccolò Paganini. A violinist who left his mark on nineteenth-century music history.
Born with arms and fingers that were strangely long and flexible, he possessed such genius that he created pieces only he could perform.
Devilish pieces requiring technique beyond human ability.
Countless musicians had challenged his works, but all they had managed was technical imitation.
They said that not a single person had ever reproduced all of Paganini's scores with perfect musicality.
That was why he had been called the Devil's Violinist.
A genius of the century whose legend claimed he sold his soul to the devil for his performances, dividing violin history into before and after him.
“But now I understand.”
“Understand what?”
“That Paganini did not compose the Twenty-Four Caprices merely to show off his own technique.”
As though mocking himself for realizing such an obvious fact only now, the old man gave a hollow laugh.
Then, looking at Rimon, he continued softly.
“And that what was needed to play heavenly music was not a heavenly being, but a devil's talent.”
Was it pure emotion?
Envy of youth and talent?
Or regret that he had met him only now?
Rimon snorted at the old man, who looked at him with eyes filled with countless mingled emotions.
“Devil's talent, my ass. I only played what the curse made me play.”
“Well, it is true that without this magical violin, you could not have managed that performance even in a hundred years.”
“...
Aren't you agreeing a little too readily?”
“It is true, isn't it?”
The old man asked innocently, as though daring him to object.
Rimon clicked his tongue but did not argue.
That performance had only been possible because of the Pitch-Black Violin.
The curse had guided every minute change in bow angle and every subtle movement of his fingers, allowing him to produce the most ideal performance.
Of course, enduring that curse itself would have been impossible for an ordinary human.
Rimon, however, did not recognize that fact.
With the body of a Sword Master, capable of freely executing any sword technique, doing this much was only natural.
It had not been difficult at all.
“So you should take this.”
“What?”
That was why Rimon looked dumbfounded when the old man suddenly held out the case containing the Pitch-Black Violin.
“Take it? This? Me?”
“Yep.”
“...
Why?”
“Because thanks to you, this has become a truly cursed violin.”
The old man smiled bitterly.
He might have been nothing more than the keeper of a storage room in a dying amusement park, but he was still someone versed in the principles of magic.
That was why he could instinctively tell.
The Pitch-Black Violin had become unusable.
Not knowing was one thing.
But just as a gourmet who had tasted the finest delicacy could never again be satisfied with fast food, the violin had already found a master capable of handling its performance.
It would never tolerate some mediocre player again.
“I don't need some cursed instrument.”
“Take it anyway, even if you don't need it. If you really must, think of it as a prize for that wonderful performance.”
Even in the face of Rimon's answer, which was practically a refusal, the old man did not care.
He simply held up two fingers.
“In return, promise me just two things.”
“...
What kind of prize comes with conditions?”
“There is no such thing as a free prize without conditions.”
He casually said that these days, even supposedly free prizes normally came with conditions like giving up personal information or signing up for something.
Then the old man spoke with a serious expression.
“First, never give that violin to anyone else. If you truly have no use for it, leave it at a temple to be sealed away, or smash it to pieces and burn it.”
“That is a damn textbook way to deal with a cursed item.”
“Textbook methods have been proven to be the most effective.”
The old man did not deny that it was cursed.
Rimon frowned at his brazen attitude, then asked quietly.
“What is the other one?”
“Ah, that one's easy.”
The old man grinned.
Tapping the case containing the violin with a finger, he added one more thing.
“No matter how long it takes, once you can truly play it perfectly, come back here and play that violin for me again.”
“Was what I just played not enough?”
“I was satisfied. I only said it because you seemed dissatisfied.”
“I seemed dissatisfied?”
“Didn't you?”
“...”
Even after hearing the old man's meaningful question, Rimon said nothing.
He only gazed steadily at the case.
Cursed instrument or magical instrument, the violin was of little use to him, yet difficult to discard.
He was a Sword Master.
A swordsman who had lived without much interest in anything besides the sword, and without ever regretting that fact.
Yet the sensation that something had melted deep within his body the moment he played the violin.
And the faint presence he had felt only briefly before it vanished.
Those things drew an unexpected answer from Rimon.
“I can't promise I'll come before you get old and die.”
“That is why I asked you to perform at this amusement park.”
“What if this amusement park goes under?”
“Well, what can we do then? We will have to accept it as fate.”
“Fate, huh...”
Rimon gave a faint laugh.
Then he picked up the case containing the Pitch-Black Violin.
He handed out the plastic umbrellas the old man had given him to the children, who were still unable to shake off the performance's afterglow, and spoke casually.
“Don't wait for me, old man. I have no interest in performing, and fate and all that nonsense have never gotten along with me.”
“Fine then. See you next time.”
Without a contract or even a clear promise, Rimon led the children out of the Magic Hall.
Watching his back recede through the pouring rain, the old man wore an odd smile.
I really ought to live a long time.
The old man remembered.
Rimon had said that holding an instrument had been a first for him.
He also remembered how Rimon had left everyone trembling from that breathtaking performance, yet alone wore a dissatisfied expression.
Could someone who had produced a performance that would astonish even the sun and moon with the first instrument he had ever held truly leave that violin sitting in storage?
And once Rimon became satisfied with himself, what kind of performance would he give?
Filled with anticipation that made his heart pound like a boy in love for the first time, the old man rummaged through his silk hat.
He took out an old coin, rubbed it with his sleeve, uttered a short incantation, then flicked the coin with a finger.
“Muhama la Rodon sibaLa Un Maktoob.”
Ting.
That was when it happened.
A hairy, pitch-black hand burst from the shadows and snatched the coin as it bounced off the floor.
Then the pitch-black hand burst apart like ink, its remnants sweeping across the floor and cleanly erasing the moisture and footprints Rimon and the children had left behind.
The old man calmly straightened his silk hat as he looked over the floor, now cleaned in an instant.
“Hmm?”
After blinking several times, the old man rose from his seat.
He poked his head outside the Magic Hall and looked at the sky, which had somehow already cleared. A puzzled expression crossed his face.
“What? Why did it stop already?”
Once the rain began to pour, it normally continued anywhere from half a day to a full day.
Frowning at the fact that it had stopped in less than an hour, the old man looked suspicious.
There had been no memorial rite, nor had a spiritist come. He could not understand why the raging spirit's energy had suddenly calmed down.
“Has that stubborn fool finally come to their senses? Or...”
Footnotes:
[1] Papago: A Korean translation app. Rimon mistakes Paganini's name for it.
Papago is a Korean translation app, making Rimon's mistaken name for Paganini part of the joke.
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