Melody of Sorrow

The night in Blood Culture Village was eerily quiet. Not even the crickets dared to disturb the heavy stillness, as if the universe itself had chosen to hold its breath. It was a night cloaked in tension and unspoken danger, where every emotion—resolve, anger, fear—seemed to linger in the air. But happiness was absent, banished by the palpable unease that gripped the village.

Despite the somber mood, the night itself was serene. The cool breeze carried a strange sense of calm, and the trees swayed gently as if whispering comfort to the anxious villagers. Yet even the refreshing air couldn't quell the worry etched into the faces of parents or the unease that had seeped into the hearts of even the youngest children.

In one quiet corner of the village, Alex stared out of his window. His jade-green eyes reflected the dark clouds above, searching for answers that never came. "The air is cool tonight," he murmured, his voice tinged with bitterness.

He sighed deeply, his gaze unwavering. "Today was humiliating. The tournament… everyone's energized, preparing, worried. And here I am—unbothered, useless." The words stung even as they left his lips.

"What's wrong with me?" His voice broke, his frustration mounting. "Am I cursed? Why doesn't anyone care how I feel, how much I'm suffering?" He clenched his fists, his heart a storm of conflicting emotions.

For the first time, Alex allowed himself to confront the depth of his pain. He had always worn a carefree mask, avoiding the whispers of "trash" and "failure." But tonight, that mask shattered. He longed for power—not for glory or recognition, but to understand the world around him, to escape the crushing weight of his inadequacy.

The universe offered no reply, only the chilling silence of the night. His thoughts swirled until exhaustion overtook him, and he drifted into a restless sleep.

....

The villagers were jolted from their slumber at dawn by a haunting melody that seemed to rise from the earth itself. It carried unspoken sorrow, wrapping the village in a blanket of raw emotion.

"Where's that sound coming from?" someone whispered.

"Is it… the three drum kings?" another asked, bewildered.

"No, it's coming from the training arena!"

Drawn like moths to a flame, the villagers gathered near the arena, their curiosity mounting. There, perched high on a bamboo tree, sat Alex. His fragile frame was silhouetted against the rising sun, his black hair and purple robe swaying with the wind. In his hands, he held a peculiar instrument, coaxing from it a melody that seemed to bleed sorrow.

Each note resonated with pain, too deep to be contained. The melody spoke where words failed, unraveling the turmoil buried within him. The wind howled, carrying his emotions through the village, as if the universe itself mourned alongside him. Tears streamed down Alex's face, his eyes shut tight, yet his fingers moved with purpose, weaving a symphony of grief and longing.

The villagers stood mesmerized. Even the elders, accustomed to stoicism, couldn't hide their awe. The melody pierced through their hearts, drawing tears to their eyes. They felt his anguish, his longing, his silent plea for understanding.

When the final note faded, the atmosphere shattered like glass. The oppressive sorrow dissipated, leaving only a profound silence. The villagers exchanged glances, their expressions a mixture of guilt and admiration.

"For years, we called him 'trash,' yet he carries this much pain," someone murmured.

Another whispered, "He's a musical prodigy… one the world may never see again."

Alex opened his eyes, his vision blurred by tears. He wiped them hastily, only to freeze when he noticed the crowd below. "Ah!" he exclaimed, nearly losing his balance.

Laughter erupted, breaking the tension. The villagers clapped and cheered, their praise genuine.

"Your music is beautiful!" someone called out.

"You should play for us more often," another added, grinning.

Alex's father, Feng Lord, stepped forward, his voice brimming with pride. "As I've always said, my son, you turn sound into something beautiful. You've touched their hearts."

For the first time, Alex felt the warmth of admiration, the weight of years of ridicule momentarily lifted. His heart swelled. "Maybe music is my escape," he thought. "If I can bring this much happiness to others, perhaps that's enough."

...

In the shadows of the forest, masked figures watched the scene unfold. Their expressions were hidden, but their voices betrayed their surprise.

"That melody… it reached even my bones," one muttered.

"He's talented, but still useless. Music won't save him in a world ruled by strength," another said with disdain.

"But have you heard of Gonja the Killer?" the first asked, lowering their voice. "His melodies caused Qi deviation, killing even the strongest warriors."

"Gonja is just a myth," a third interjected. "A beautiful melody can't kill."

The figures fell silent, their eyes fixed on Alex, the frail musician who had captivated an entire village.

Far from the village, the Three Drum Kings stood in a clearing, their usual banter subdued.

"That sound…" Chang, the quiet one, began. "It carried a sorrow I can't describe."

"It has to be Alex," Aiyun said, his voice tinged with awe. "No one else can play like that."

Bai, their leader, nodded thoughtfully. "I felt it too. There's something about him."

On a distant cliff, a lone figure watched the village, his face obscured by a smiling ghost mask. He chuckled softly. "A melody like that… it stirs the dead. Perhaps things are getting interesting." Beneath the mask, his eyes gleamed with unspoken intent.