musicians of old

Chapter 943 The New World (Final Chapter)

"Click——"

It resembles the interlocking of an ancient stone mechanism.

High above, in the deep space, at the very edge of the collapse closest to the "source of the disease," it seemed out of place with the surrounding pristine sky—there was a slowly writhing, pus-like necrotic cavity where all the rules were statically writhing, tearing, and clamoring. The edges were still trying to grow ineffective structures of colorful links, which were constantly collapsing and dissipating, staining the area with dim, polluting halos.

But with Fanning's tiptoeing and push, this rising "kingdom of creation," like a pacemaker in a diseased heart, finally aligned itself with a series of complex, profound, and shocking "embedding points," and then silently slid into that diseased cavity.

A slight shiver ran through the depths of the sky, lasting only a short time.

But its fame spread across the mountain peaks and throughout the boundless land.

The dense, colorful cavity suddenly contracted and disappeared, and the scattered, colorful fragments and unusual fog that had spread out from it also quickly faded, disintegrated, and dissipated, turning into a wisp of murky embers that were blown away by the stratosphere's gale.

Everything was completely blended into the backdrop of that clear, boundless blue sky.

The abnormal zone is gone, the "worm" is gone.

Fan Ning remained there for the time being, his feet firmly planted on the solid rock.

He turned around and truly looked out over the mountain peaks.

As dawn breaks, a magnificent panorama of interwoven mountains and rivers unfolds beneath your feet. Sunlight leaps out from behind the pristine snow-capped peaks in the distance, its golden rays, like melting honey, splashing onto the rough rock surface.

He breathed heavily, almost solemnly.

The air was crisp and clear, carrying the scents of new growth and the distant snow line; everything was deeply inhaled into the lungs.

Fan Ning stood quietly, letting the mountain wind blow, looking at the magnificent scenery below, her thoughts drifting for some reason.

"Ding dong~"

He heard the sound of bells on the necks of livestock on the hillside below.

“In the past, when I traveled or hiked, there was a gradual process of moving away from the hustle and bustle of the towns behind me or below. The last sounds related to the world that I could hear were the faint ringing of bells behind me—the bells hanging around the necks of cattle and sheep, or the bells of sleds.” The girl’s voice was clear, serene, and gentle as she recounted her past to Fanning, then softly recited the philosopher’s monologue, “Looking back, I can feel the difference in the air at a certain altitude. It’s a bit cold around me, but freer and purer than in the middle of a valley. This makes me more determined than ever to praise anything beautiful in life, and ten times gentler than my earlier descriptions of humanity. In short, regarding the smallest details, I now dare to pursue truth itself, dare to become a philosopher.”

"The first half is you, and the second half is Nietzsche, isn't it?"

"Ah."

"It's quite interesting, really. Nietzsche believed that he only truly became a philosopher after returning from his trip to the Alps in 1881."

"'Highlandists,' you know."

“Georg Simmel?”

"Simmel was also a remarkable German philosopher. He used the term 'mountainist' to describe this type of person in society at that time who liked to hike away from the hustle and bustle and contemplate important questions that were of great value to them."

Fan Ning listened quietly to the girl's voice, deeply recalling the memories, and smiled faintly.

Until he saw the other mountains surrounding him, echoing each other, and equally towering into the clouds, he finally saw other people climbing up as well.

The distance was vast, and the faces were blurred, with only the outlines being drawn by the morning light.

But one thing is certain: this time they are truly themselves, for this is the real world, and beneath their feet are real mountains. They hold in their hands something—choral scores, bows, timpani mallets, a flute, or a trumpet—and they stand together, arms raised high, letting the celestial dawn light shine through every inch of their bodies in hymn.

More and more people logged on one after another.

Some silhouettes are panting, seemingly carrying huge backpacks and facing the distance; some are slender and graceful, with their hair and waistbands fluttering in the mountain breeze; some are in groups of three or five, seemingly excitedly pointing out the mountains and rivers at their feet; and some stand alone, leaning on their canes, as if deep in thought.

But at different moments, they all waved, towards the new dawn, towards the magnificent light, and as if to each other's unseen existence, sending a silent greeting and declaration—I am traveling here, I am walking this road, I have reached my height.

Fan Ning's gaze swept over the people climbing the mountain, a faint smile appearing on his lips.

Then, his gaze lingered for a moment on one of the mountain peaks, where a silhouette wearing a top hat, with the faint glow of a slender cigarette emanating from his fingertips, and a mustache that curled up to the sides of his jawline.

The person stood alone at the boundary between light and shadow, not waving, but simply "watching".

The smile in Fan Ning's eyes hadn't faded, but he only nodded very slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if confirming a fait accompli.

A two-way confirmation of an established fact.

Fanning then looked away.

He turned and started walking.

He recalled Nietzsche's words in Thus Spoke Zarathustra: "May the lonely heights not be lonely and self-sufficient forever, and may the mountains descend to the valleys, and the winds from the heights blow to the plains."

In fact, many newborns die prematurely.

Just like many newlywed couples, it is not uncommon for their marriages to break up and separate soon after the wedding.

Even so, at the birthing bedside, at weddings, and at banquets celebrating countless years, everything still deserves and must be blessed with good wishes.

This world, this imperfect world, an eternally contradictory image, an image full of flaws, is probably a kind of intoxicating pleasure for the imperfect "kingdom of creation"—Fanning once thought the world was like this, and Fanning now believes that the world is like this.

He walked to the cliff on the other side of the mountain peak.

Below lies a steep abyss shrouded in mist, while in the distance are streams, woodlands, rivers, pastures, spinning wheels, and rose gardens, as well as chimneys and steel supports that appear and disappear amidst the endless city skyline.

He stood alone, the mountain wind billowing his thin clothes.

A bouquet of brightly blooming red roses appeared in her hands without her noticing.

It was the most intense red and shape, the petals delicate and glistening with dew, their moist and full radiance shimmering within, vibrant with life and dazzling in its splendor.

Fanning took a half step back and knelt on one knee; the roughness of the rock could be felt through his trousers.

The mountain wind howls, sweeping in from the horizon, passing over the ancient and pristine cliffs, free and vast.

He held the bouquet of small red roses high in his hands, letting them gaze at him in the pure, golden light of the sky. His posture resembled both the ancient rituals of a clergyman and an ordinary young man kneeling to propose to his beloved. He smiled gently, his eyes shining, his voice soft, as if speaking to every gust of wind, every tree, and every newly sprouted rock.

The rose petals in mid-air were edged with a flowing, warm, almost sacred gold.

Bless you, new world.

(End of Volume 8)