Honkai: Star Rail: I Can Fix This Gender-Bent World — Chapter 103

Chapter 103: Playing the Erhu

Chen stopped in his tracks, turning to look at Yanqing, who was still clutching his hand with a deeply satisfied smile. The boy looked as if he had just unlocked a grand achievement simply by giving away a gift.

“Little one,” Chen began, his voice, filtered through Jingliu’s form, carrying a cool, ethereal quality.

“Do you… want to hear the true sound of this instrument? The song that truly belongs to it.”

Yanqing blinked, stunned for a moment before nodding with unrestrained vigor. His eyes, bright and clear, were alight with curiosity and anticipation. “I do! Can you play it, Big Sister? That would be wonderful!”

He scanned their surroundings, his gaze quickly landing on a stone bench and a small matching table set by the roadside, placed there for weary passersby. Beside them stood an ancient tree, its leaves whispering secrets to the wind.

“Let’s go sit over there!”

The two of them made their way over and settled onto the stone bench. Chen placed the erhu on his lap, his fingers, long and pale, brushing lightly across the two strings. He closed his eyes. Though a length of black cloth already obscured his vision, the gesture felt necessary, a final step to shut out the world.

Taking a deep, centering breath, he reached inward, not for his own emotions, but for the echoes deep within this borrowed body. Feelings that were not his, yet at this moment, were startlingly clear.

There were no superb techniques, no complex fingerings to start. The first few notes that scraped from the bow were even a little stiff, uncertain.

But soon, an intent forged in the crucible of ages, heavy with a deep pathos, began to flow from the strings.

At first, the music was fragmented, panicked—a frantic, disjointed scramble like a childhood home being torn apart by war and disaster. A rapid, shivering vibrato painted a scene of carnage—the relentless onslaught of the Abominations of Abundance—while low, guttural wails echoed the mournful cries for lost loved ones.

Suddenly, the tone rose, sharp and piercing, like a flash of sword-light cutting through the suffocating despair. This was the arrival of the Cloud Knights, who rescued the girl who would become Jingliu, pulling her from the smoldering ruins and setting her on the path to the Luofu.

The melody that followed became stark and repetitive, a monotonous cadence that still held an unimaginable persistence. It was the sound of a life spent learning the sword, day after day, year after year, freezing sorrow and hatred into a sheath of ice. It was the sound of an oath sworn in silence: to slaughter all that stemmed from the Abundance, to leave only destruction where the sword pointed.

Yanqing had been listening with simple curiosity, but his posture gradually changed. He sat up straight, the cheerful smile vanishing from his small face.

This sound… it was so strange.

There were no words, no lyrics, yet it seemed to be telling a story—one that felt impossibly distant and sorrowful. He thought he could hear the roar of war, the agony of partings, and the chilling sensation of someone encasing their own heart in ice, leaving nothing behind but the cold, sharp echo of a sword.

The music slowed, softening just enough to reveal a hint of warmth, a fragile thread of a bond. These were the brief, cherished years spent walking side-by-side with her master. Though no formal ceremony had ever been performed, the reality of their master-disciple relationship was obvious.

This flicker of warmth, however, was fleeting. It was brutally extinguished, replaced by a sound that was sharper, more shrill—the sound of something vital snapping.

Her master had fallen in battle.

Grief swelled into a monstrous, world-ending wave, only to congeal at its absolute peak. In that instant, the music became incredibly sharp, condensed, as if thousands of ice crystals had flash-frozen into a single, perfect blade.

That was it. In that moment, ice became a sword. Her state of mind was forged. Extreme grief had become the very foundation of her swordsmanship.

The music transitioned again, adopting a steady, solitary, and lofty rhythm. This was her life in the Cloud Knights, performing illustrious deeds, rising through the ranks to become a general. Yet, beneath this steady march lay a deep loneliness, a guardedness that kept the world at bay.

A slightly younger, brighter melody tried to interject, but the main theme immediately enveloped it with a heavier, more complex harmony. It was as if an impossible wall had been erected. She didn’t dare to give more, didn’t dare to get closer, terrified of the pain of losing someone again.

Yanqing’s brow furrowed, his small hand unconsciously clenching into a tight fist. He recognized that loneliness, that desperate resolve to freeze oneself in layers of ice to avoid being hurt. That deliberate isolation from those who came after, in particular, made his own heart feel inexplicably stifled.

This big sister… what in the world did she go through?

Suddenly, the music erupted, becoming impassioned and magnificent! It was the era of the High-Cloud Quintet. Different timbres, each one distinct and powerful, intertwined and connected with one another. It was the song of five peerless heroes riding together across the stars, living, loving, and fighting with wild abandon.

The melody soared to a heart-stirring peak—the ascension to Sword Champion, a feat that shook the universe! From the brilliant, blazing music, Yanqing could almost feel the heat, a sense of vitality and glory so intense it was practically burning.

But the zenith of glory is often but a breath away from the abyss.

A distorted, dissonant melody intruded, and cracks began to spiderweb through the brilliant music amidst a storm of intense conflict. Then came a sound—a snap and a fade—so tragic it defied description. That single strand of warm, bright timbre that represented Baiheng was utterly and completely annihilated.

The entire piece collapsed into a deathly, silent void. Only the lingering echoes remained, whispering of unbearable loss and total collapse.

Yanqing felt as if he had forgotten how to breathe, his heart squeezed violently by that phantom sound of a string snapping. Although he didn’t understand the specific references, the soul-crushing grief of losing one’s closest kin, one’s dearest friends, struck his young soul with the force of a physical blow.

After the crushing silence, the music rose again, but it was now completely transformed. It had become chaotic, manic, saturated with endless resentment and a ravenous desire for destruction.

It was the madness of falling into the Mara-Struck state.

The melody twisted and lurched forward, torn between the impulse to destroy and a single, desperate sliver of remaining sanity. This gave way to a duel, a slaughter so gruesome it would make one’s blood run cold. The strings produced a piercing shriek, like the mournful cry of a dragon and the brutal clash of steel on steel.

Finally, it all resolved into a single, heavy thud, as if severing all fate and all hope. The final, decisive note that represented the slaying of a dear friend, now a monstrous dragon, by her own hand.

Afterward came total rampage. The music was an out-of-control blizzard, a maelstrom of notes sweeping through everything in its path. It continued its frenzied assault until a majestic, heavy, and brilliant sound—one carrying the momentum of rolling thunder—forcefully intervened, suppressing and scattering the blizzard of notes. The music became scattered, ethereal.

Finally, it vanished into an endless void, a song of wandering… the sound of exile and disappearance after a final, cataclysmic defeat.

Yanqing’s face had turned pale. The madness, the pain, the betrayal, and the destruction in the latter half of the piece, combined with the sense of oppressive power from that familiar, brilliant sound… it filled him with an instinctive unease, a flicker of fear.

This story… it was too heavy, too dark.

After a long passage of void and low, aimless wandering, the music rose one last time. But now, only an extremely simple and monotonous melody remained. It was as if all complex emotions had been severed by a single, clean sword stroke, leaving only the purest, most singular obsession.

This solitary melody echoed, crossing vast, empty stretches of time. Its goal was clear, its direction unwavering, pointing toward a higher, more ethereal place—the world of the gods themselves.

And then, on an unfinished syllable, the music stopped.

It left behind an endless, lingering charm and… a trace of unyielding determination to return to an old, familiar place.

The piece had come to an end.