The Almighty Martial Arts System - Chapter 249

Hearing Jiang Fei’s question, murmurs immediately spread through the audience.

After a long pause, students—both male and female—began standing up to answer.

“Because the erhu isn’t elegant at all. It lacks musicality.”

“Honestly, I don’t know why, but I find the sound of the erhu a bit grating, not at all melodious.”

“I think the erhu has no vitality. It feels old-fashioned, like something only elderly men would enjoy—just like Peking opera.”

“…”

Various reasons poured from the students’ mouths. They weren’t deliberately disparaging the erhu; these were their genuine thoughts.

To them, the erhu compared to Western instruments was like traditional Chinese medicine compared to Western medicine—they simply couldn’t appreciate its appeal. Gradually, the discussion shifted, and soon, hundreds of students collectively urged Jiang Fei to skip the erhu and play a piano piece instead. Anything would do—Beethoven, Chopin, Mozart—they just didn’t want to listen to the erhu.

Hearing this, Jiang Fei felt a mix of emotions, a deep sorrow creeping over him. These were students from Peking University—not necessarily more cultured than others, but certainly more knowledgeable. Yet, these so-called elites showed no interest in preserving China’s classical heritage like the erhu or Peking opera, treating them as relics to be discarded. If even they felt this way, what hope was there for the general public?

“Seems the erhu really isn’t very popular,” Jiang Fei mused, watching the eager, opinionated crowd. He couldn’t help but shake his head with a bitter smile.

After a while, he raised a hand to quiet the room and asked, “Have you heard of Moon Reflected on Second Spring?”

A half-hearted chorus of “Yes…” followed. Their disappointment was palpable—Jiang Fei’s insistence on playing the erhu had dampened their enthusiasm.

“But have you ever really listened to it? I mean, with full attention and an open mind?” he pressed.

“No!”

“I’ve heard someone play the erhu before, but the sound was so unpleasant I never bothered again.”

The students shared their experiences freely.

Yet, their responses gave Jiang Fei some relief.

The problem wasn’t that the erhu sounded bad—it was that they’d never truly listened to it, or heard it played by a master.

Of course, Jiang Fei had chosen the erhu for a reason. He was confident he could make these students appreciate this classical Chinese instrument.

“Alright, today I’ll play Moon Reflected on Second Spring for you. After you’ve listened carefully, tell me if your opinion of the erhu changes,” he said with a nod.

Taking a deep breath, Jiang Fei adjusted his posture—leaning slightly left, back straight, sitting on the front third of the stool—the proper stance for playing the erhu. Instantly, he entered “performance mode,” the melody of Moon Reflected on Second Spring filling his mind.

Though not an ancient composition, Moon Reflected on Second Spring was created in the 1950s by the folk musician Hua Yanjun (Blind Abing). Despite its relatively recent origin, it was arguably the most profound, beautiful, and expressive piece in the erhu repertoire. Even those unfamiliar with the instrument had likely heard of it. For the hundreds of students in the auditorium, this piece was the pinnacle of erhu music—the perfect choice for today.

With his bow in place, Jiang Fei closed his eyes, as if embodying Abing himself—blind, unable to see the world.

Sigh…

The first note emerged like a lament, soft and restrained. Though just a single, unremarkable sound, it sent an inexplicable shiver through the audience.

The prelude unfolded under Jiang Fei’s hands—melancholy as early summer rain, sorrowful as autumn osmanthus, lingering like an unending thought.

Every student, including those who’d dismissed the erhu as shrill, now found themselves captivated. The sigh-like opening painted the image of an elderly man, weathered by hardship, pouring out his sorrows.

This prelude was nothing short of breathtaking—rivaling even the most renowned piano compositions.

The once-disinterested students now sat transfixed, their eyes locked on Jiang Fei, their minds wholly absorbed by the music.

Moon Reflected on Second Spring consisted of six segments, each conveying shifting emotions—sometimes deep and introspective, sometimes impassioned, sometimes mournful, sometimes defiant.

Not only Jiang Fei, but every listener could feel the bitterness, suffering, injustice, and resentment woven into the melody.

…

The vast auditorium fell utterly silent. Beyond the erhu’s mournful cry, you could’ve heard a pin drop. Even the photographers at the back stood frozen, afraid to make the slightest noise and disrupt the spellbinding performance.

Unlike other performances, where applause erupts at climactic moments, the highest praise for a musical masterpiece is absolute stillness—listeners so entranced they forget to clap.

The erhu wasn’t considered refined or highbrow. Even among traditional Chinese instruments like the guzheng or guqin, it was niche. As some students had said earlier, its sound often struck people as harsh, too desolate—something only the elderly could appreciate.

It was the music of the common folk, a flower blooming from the soil of ordinary lives.

Historically, the erhu was the companion of street performers, merchants, and struggling artists—how could it not sound sorrowful?

For delicate young women—or even most men who’d never known hardship—its melancholy was hard to grasp.

In many ways, the erhu was an instrument for weathered men with stories to tell.

Its tones could never be described as “melodious” or “pleasant.” Many dismissed it after one listen.

But today was different.

With Jiang Fei’s mastery—his skill at the peak of artistry—the erhu’s voice took on a mesmerizing quality, drawing listeners in like a siren’s call.

They were transported, through its mournful strains, to another world: seeing tattered old men, bewildered children, weary travelers on long roads, or figures huddled in the corners of bustling cities.

They envisioned Blind Abing himself, wandering the misty alleys of Jiangnan or the lush countryside, his music echoing through time.

Most of these students, in their twenty-some years, had never experienced such vivid immersion.

And never had they imagined that immersion would come from the erhu—an instrument many of them disliked or even scorned.

Everyone was lost in the music, swept away just as Jiang Fei was. Eyes closed, time slipped by unnoticed until the final notes faded into silence.

When the audience opened their eyes again, they understood deeply what it meant to be “left wanting more.”

Yes, left wanting more.

The men were visibly moved, struck by the music’s raw emotion. The women gazed at Jiang Fei with newfound tenderness, many with tears rolling down their cheeks.

Some were so moved they wept.

Now they understood why Jiang Fei had said certain emotions could only be expressed by the erhu—this profound sorrow was unique to its strings, impossible to replicate with any other instrument.

“What kind of enchanting charm must one possess to play like this?”

“Oh my god! Mr. Jiang is one of the most captivating men in the world… no, scratch that—the most captivating!”

“I never knew a man playing the erhu could be so handsome! From now on, my boyfriend has to learn it!”

“I used to think piano players were the most attractive. Now I know—a man in a long gown playing the erhu is the epitome of poetic charm!”

With a single erhu performance, Jiang Fei had once again won over countless hearts.

With a single erhu performance, Peking University would soon see a surge of students eager to learn the instrument—some out of genuine interest, others pressured by girlfriends threatening breakups.

Later, the university even established an “Erhu Club”—alternatively known as the “Jiang Fei Fan Club.”

Its first president? Zhang Liwei, Jiang Fei’s most devoted follower.