CH 117

Kwon Chae-woo was dreaming.

His vision was foggy. Who knows how long he’d been wandering aimlessly through this place where he couldn’t see or feel a thing, let alone distinguish what time or day it was.

One thing was certain. The further he walked, he drew lines, and the twisting sound grew louder and louder, until it felt as though his ears were bleeding.

“Ugh….”

He couldn’t hear anything over his terrible headache and the ringing in his ears. He felt like vomiting and wished to just turn around and go back the way he had come, but his legs seemed to move on their own.

That unbearable tone rose to an unbearable volume. The sound of something pulling and scratching reverberated like a soprano singing in vibrato.

That terrible screaming sound continued growing uncontrollably louder and louder in his head. It grew and grew until he thought his head might explode.

Almost instantly, the fog before his eyes cleared. In this dream, he saw someone. Covered in sweat, drawing lines, it was none other than Kwon Chae-woo himself, just younger.

He sits, dressed in a fitted tailcoat, a cello between his legs, driving himself to the limit with his performance. His arms, wrists, fingers all moving in harmony with careful restraint, sometimes swelling in wave-like motions, other times shaking intensely, violently.

The spotlight on him is illuminating. His fingers press violently against the four strings, beads of sweat dripping from the ends of his hair each time he cuts his bow across them.

The audience is holding their breath, unable to tear their eyes from the stage. They understand at once why this nobody of a boy is said to be the best at playing a Guarneri.

The same Guarneri played by Paganini until the day he had died.

Stradivari violins are also good instruments, but this Asian boy had appeared out of nowhere seemingly possessed by the spirit of Guarneri instruments, able to make such a beautiful sound that it pulled people in, tempting as the devil.

His playing was always heavy and dark. Yet at the same time it was never crude nor vulgar.

Opinions about his unique style were divided, but Kwon Chae-woo, who had a natural talent for mastering musical instruments, became Guarneri’s perfect muse.

And at that moment.

— Chaewoo, she’s dead.

All the memories poured out as though a dam had broken in his mind.

One day just before he turned 20, his world changed.

How the devilish talent, who made his debut at the age of thirteen as the youngest winner of both the Geneva and Rostropovich International Competitions, vanished in a single moment.

How that invaluable source of inspiration was lost overnight.

It all started with that phone call from his brother.

“Brother, I don’t care what her body looks like–” He was sobbing,“Just let me see her one last time.”

Now the cello was just a wooden plank to him. He’d been obsessed with this instrument all his life. The loss of his musical talent, as if it had been stolen from him, left him defeated to the point where he couldn’t play even a single note.

The scene shifted, the dream bringing his consciousness to another memory.

“Gaahhhhhh!”

The corners of Chae-woo’s mouth perked up at the sound of the desperate wail. He pressed his opponent’s back with his knees and lifted his neck mercilessly by the rope wound around it. He calmly tightened the rope around the man squirming on his back like a fish out of water. The hounds cheered wildly, slamming against the cage.

“St-stop……”! Gahhhh!”

Despite his opponent’s appeals, Kwon Chae-woo’s gaze remained indifferent. His eyes were motionless, just the corners of his mouth curving up in a sinister grin. The muscles in his neck were strained revealing the colorful veins beneath his skin. One thick tendon bulged from his arm, running from the back of his hand up to his elbow.

Jang Beom-hee, who stood watching from outside the cage, shuddered at the thought of Chae-woo’s monstrous grip.

“If you’re going to piss your pants at something as simple as this, why did you come in here?” He spat at the man.

“Ugh, ughhh! Please st—”

“How can you do this when life is so precious?”

“Gahhh!”

“If my job is to be a knife-wielding gangster, the least I should do is not listen to my pet.”

Chae-woo relaxed his strength and stepped back, his opponent dropping to the floor.

The wide square fighting cage reeked of rusty iron. Kwon Chae-woo scanned the men outside the cage with raw emotion in his eyes.

“Sir,” Beom-hee said, approaching with a towel in his hands.

It had already been six years since Kwon Chae-woo returned home and became addicted to violence, the taste of which he had only gotten by accident.