The piano keys rose and fell beneath their hands.
The gentle, sorrowful lody of Castle in the Sky flowed like a spring.
Ming Po watched Chizuko's fingertips tremble with emotion, yet they were more resolute than ever before.
Tears shimred in her eyes, but a genuine smile graced her face.
Her body was so translucent it brought a jellyfish to mind—flickering with a srizing glow on the ocean floor, free and carefree, yet highly venomous.
Her equally transparent father occasionally placed his palm over her fingers, steadying the notes that wavered from her excitent.
That ethereal, joyous sound of freedom grew increasingly firm.
Ming Po stood behind the piano, his fingertips gently brushing the hilt of the Blade of Silver Mistletoe hidden in his pocket.
He did not step forward; he rely watched in silence.
He watched the sunlight slip through the ajar window lattice and cascade onto the father and daughter. Their transparent forms could only catch half the light; the rest spilled across the old Steinway.
The piano remained as aged as before. The scratches, the rot, the warped wood—looking at it was enough to make one's heart ache.
Yet in this mont, those scratches carried a lingering historical charm, a warmth reminiscent of an ancient town.
The musty sll in the air had dissipated.
"Dad—"
Chizuko whispered, "I'm sorry—I hid the ring—"
Her father simply smiled.
He wasn't as eloquent or as gentle as when Ming Po played his role.
He rely closed his eyes and gave a slight shake of his head, saying nothing, but a helpless smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
He had probably already forgiven her.
"I hid the ring because I wanted you two to argue—"
Chizuko said softly, "Sotis when my classmates and I had a falling out, an argunt would actually fix things. You guys were too quiet at ho—it suffocated ."
"I'm sorry, Chizuko."
His very first words were an apology.
Perhaps all children wait for a simple "I'm sorry" from their parents.
Chizuko's eyes instantly went red.
"Dad—are you going to leave again?"
"I never left. But I also left a long ti ago."
It was a gentle yet ruthless answer.
He hardened his heart, forcing Chizuko to accept reality.
As a Paradox, his residual consciousness had been forged into this piano, while his true self had died long ago.
But from another perspective, the living version of him and the living Chizuko were both living happy lives.
The abandoned, lonely ones were rely these two "individuals."
Ming Po stared at them, lost in thought.
A sudden realization dawned on him.
Perhaps—
"Empathy" was the side effect of this Title from the Domain of Slaughter.
Ming Po had completely manipulated Chizuko's emotions.
And the price for that was experiencing those sa emotions himself. Though the intensity might not be one hundred percent—it had to be at least fifty.
This was very similar to the passive effect of the "Detective" Title used as its material, making Ming Po's own emotions more rational and detached.
It was just that "Silence of the Lambs" took this aspect to an extre—
Under the Title's influence, Ming Po's own emotions had grown incredibly thin, like a god looking down upon mortals.
But precisely because of this, his inner mind was as blank as a sheet of paper, capable of bearing any painting. Through such an ability, he could even try to deduce what the other party would say or do next.
'Is this also the ability of that Professor Hannibal?'
'It doesn't quite feel like it.'
'It feels—a bit too gentle.'
"Dad," Chizuko suddenly spoke up after a mont of silence, the song still unfinished. "I want to be with you."
Hearing this, the man seed sowhat helpless.
He parted his lips as if wanting to say sothing, but eventually sighed and let it go.
The two of them were nothing more than residual phantoms of history.
What right did they have to encourage anyone to "live well," "be happy," or "stay strong"?
His figure gradually beca more transparent, breaking down bit by bit into fine motes of light.
"—We have always been together."
He murmured softly, "We are all—in Hell."
As his voice faded, his entire being finally shattered completely.
The specks of light drifted onto Chizuko, lting into her silhouette. Her figure lost the wavering nature of a ghost and slowly solidified. A shadow finally appeared beneath her feet, falling upon the soft carpet and overlapping with the shadow of the piano.
Chizuko didn't cry.
She rely wiped her tears and whispered, "This ti—I'll finish playing it properly."
Ming Po pulled his hand from his pocket, patted her shoulder, and listened quietly as she finished her final piece.
In the end, he did not draw the Blade of Silver Mistletoe.
The final notes grew slower and slower, lingering with reluctance.
The entirety of lody Manor began to emit a faint tremor.
It wasn't an earthquake, but rather like a breathing chest or a beating heart.
The old debris blocking the hallways, the mottled scratches, the coagulated obsessions—all slowly dissipated amidst this tremor.
The police tape on the second floor turned to ash. All the doors and windows flew open, and the fresh wind from outside instantly rushed in.
Outside, winter had ended without anyone noticing.
It was early spring, and the scent of vegetation from the forest blew away the gloom that had persisted for untold years.
Chizuko sat before the piano, her fingers lightly brushing across the keys.
Tear stains still marked her face, but she wore a smile of relief. She no longer looked like a ghost who had died with grievances, but rather like the little girl holding a trophy in the photograph, the light finally returning to her eyes.
Ming Po looked at her, the corners of his mouth curling up slightly as he turned and walked toward the door.
"Teacher—"
Chizuko's voice reached him. Ming Po paused, but did not turn around.
"Thank you."
Ming Po raised a hand and waved.
He said nothing. He simply walked through the open front doors and stepped outside.
Ming Po looked up.
The dense forest outside was no longer a pitch-black abyss.
The sky was bright. The clouds had parted, the fog had scattered, and the snow had begun to lt, revealing the tender green grass shoots beneath. The Mazda, covered in a thin layer of snow, was parked by the side of the road. The afternoon sunlight fell upon the car's body, plating it in a gentle golden glow.
'So—there can be another kind of solution to the Promotion ga.'
A sudden realization washed over Ming Po.
Obsessions could finally find release.
The trailblazers of the past could stop here, while the newcors would shoulder the destiny borne by the "Title" and continue forward.
Perhaps—this was the true principle behind the "Inheritance of Titles."
Defeating the "Paradox" and plundering the Title seed, on the contrary, to be an evil path.
That couldn't be called "inheritance"; it was more akin to "seizing."
However—
"It doesn't feel bad."
Ming Po muttered.
The dim yellow radiance in the depths of his pupils finally faded.
He turned the key and started the engine. The tires crunched over the lting snow with a soft sound, driving toward the daylight beyond the dense forest.
Ming Po didn't know where he was going either.
But he knew that lody Manor no longer needed to exist.
In the rearview mirror, the ancient, gloomy manor had now grown bright.
Its silhouette grew smaller and smaller, becoming increasingly transparent until it completely vanished from Ming Po's sight.
Yet, Ming Po could still faintly hear the sound of the piano.
And the wound deep in his heart—one that had never truly healed—felt as if it had been gently soothed, just a little, by this tender lody.
The long road stretched ahead, and the daylight was just perfect.
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