HDRDTH -Chapter 58 Shanhe Tu (Mountain and River Map)

At this moment, the lights at the front of the stage suddenly went out.

The two-thousand-seat auditorium fell into a suffocating silence, as if it had been vacuum-sealed.

“Woooo——!!!”

A piercing, desolate long cry—carrying a rough metallic grinding texture—suddenly tore through the air above the stage like an unpolished, rusted greatsword. It was the first note from a modified pressure-cooker valve horn. It had no elegance whatsoever, yet it carried a primal, sky-splitting pressure.

Judge Liu Jianguo shuddered violently. That raw, unrefined wave of sound made his heart skip a beat. An ominous feeling clenched his throat tightly.

“Next, let us welcome with warm applause the final performance of this arts festival: an original song brought by classmate Su Xi and her family member Mr. Yu Xian—‘Shanhe Tu’ (Mountain and River Map).” The guest host Shen Nian announced.

The entire stage then seemed to be struck by a hammer from deep underground.

“BOOM——!!!”

Yu Xian’s right arm bulged with veins as a steel rod slammed brutally onto a battered drum surface patched with wire and rubber. The sound was like a hundred-pound giant fish finally being dragged onto a boat after three days and nights of struggle, smashing its last strength onto the deck!

There was no musicality in it—only the savage conquest of wrestling with colossal forces of nature. The explosive vibration of earthbound weight mixed with metallic fury made the teacup lids in the front row professors rattle violently, as if struck by invisible waves.

Yu Xian’s rap entered. His voice was low and coarse, with none of the flashy tricks of youth. It was the gait of a 55-year-old soul walking through the river of time—each word like a stele retrieved from the depths of history, carrying the exhaustion and authority of witnessing dynasties rise and fall:

“Look at these mountains—ten thousand ravines and ridges, one river after another!”

“Let these rivers surge like stars and horses, forming bend after bend!”

“Paint this scroll—phoenixes circling and soaring, peaks beyond reach!”

“Let ink flow thick and rich, nourishing my magnificent land!”

Each word was iron. Each sentence was a blade. Every drumbeat struck directly onto everyone’s heartbeat.

Su Xi suddenly lifted her head. Her originally clear eyes now carried a wildness like a lone wolf in the desert. She stepped forward. Under the spotlight, her dark-gold cloud-patterned hanfu bloomed like ink peonies.

Her voice, like a drawn divine sword, cut straight into the chorus:

“I wield the brush to paint my mountains and rivers!”

Her voice was no longer soft and sweet. Under the violent drumbeat, it had been forced into something vast and heavy.

“Like a sword’s edge carving towering peaks!”

Her high note suddenly soared, carrying the force to split mountains.

The audience felt goosebumps erupt all over their bodies. An instinctive pressure from deep within their bloodline made them straighten their backs.

“Raging rivers move like dragons across the page!”

“My ink shall never fade—painting my China!”

On the final word “China,” she unleashed her full strength. The sheer weight of that sound made several elderly professors in the front row rise tremblingly to their feet.

In the VIP section, Lin Yaodong—who had been arrogant moments before—now gripped the armrest tightly, his knuckles white. His lips trembled:

“This… this fusion of wildness and grandeur… this is not some internet pop song. This is… a national-level weapon of music!”

With a soft “clack,” his rosewood cane slipped from his hand and fell to the ground, but he did not notice. His pride was collapsing under the crushing wave of this epic sound.

Beside him, Zhang Jieke had already turned ashen. He watched the pair on stage, his ears ringing. His proud vocal tuning tricks, breathy tones, and flashy outfits suddenly looked like pathetic insects beneath a dragon’s foot—ridiculous and cheap.

At the climax of the performance, all accompaniment suddenly vanished, leaving only a faint residual hum.

Then—an accident.

“Zheng—crack!”

A sharp metallic snapping sound exploded from the shadows. A thick steel wire, already overstressed from violent impact, suddenly snapped. Its hooked end whipped forward like a lash, aimed directly at Su Xi’s back.

It was too close.

She was still immersed in the final note and could not evade.

Yu Xian’s pupils contracted sharply. His right-hand drum motion froze for a split second.

Without hesitation, his body reacted on instinct forged from years of battling monstrous fish underwater.

His left hand shot like lightning toward the black wooden box at his feet. He grabbed the rod handle, wrist snapping into motion with a standard “fishing wrist flick.”

Index and middle fingers clamped the reel; thumb released.

The high-strength PE fishing line—capable of resisting deep-sea sharks—shot out like a precision strike.

“Whoosh!”

The line wrapped around the flying steel wire at an impossible angle. With a sharp wrist recoil, he locked it into a fisherman’s anti-snag “slip knot” in an instant.

The recoil force was enormous. An ordinary person would have been thrown off balance, but Yu Xian lowered his left arm, elbow slightly bent, his body acting like a tensioned fishing rod, dissipating most of the force.

The PE line bit into his palm, slicing down to the bone.

He did not even frown.

Blood dripped down the fishing line onto the dark drum surface like a sacrificial offering to the battle hymn.

At the same instant, his right hand never missed a beat.

“BOOM——!!!”

The final strike landed.

Su Xi took a deep breath, as if merging with the entire hall’s air. She turned her head slightly and saw Yu Xian’s bleeding hand and his towering silhouette. Shock and pain turned into strength.

A Mongolian long tune tore through the air.

“Ah——Huu——!!!”

It was not human language. It was wind across the desert, sorrow that transcended life and death, yet carrying unbroken resilience.

The melody had no lyrics, yet seemed to span thousands of years of wind and sand—sometimes piercing like solitary desert smoke, sometimes vast like a setting sun over endless rivers.

Su Xi closed her eyes. Her small body erupted with a monumental soundscape, forcibly painting a vision of warhorses, golden armor, and endless desert storms in everyone’s mind.

Yu Xian held the bloodied fishing line tightly in his left hand, as if pulling against some unseen abyssal beast. His right hand continued its steady rolling drum rhythm—like distant thunder across ancient wastelands.

The pressure-cooker horn on the side resonated faintly, forming a deep echo that intertwined perfectly with the Mongolian long tune.

This was no longer a school performance.

It was a soul-shaking resonance across time itself.

Elderly professors in the front row wept openly. Rough fishing men in the back row had red eyes, as if molten lava was surging in their chests.

Under flickering lights, Yu Xian stood like a living boundary stone carved from flesh and blood—guarding the girl before him, and guarding this unyielding river of mountains.

When the final note drifted from the dome like a falling bird and faded into silence—

The world went mute.

No applause.

No exclamation.

Not even breathing.

Two thousand people sat frozen in a terrifying silence.

Liu Jianguo slumped in his chair, face ashen, drenched in cold sweat soaking through his expensive suit.

As the vast echo of the Mongolian long tune continued to reverberate in his mind—capable of crushing every so-called “high art” he once believed in—

He finally understood what kind of existence he had provoked.