He had once been the greatest musician of all time.

There was something in the notes he played, other would say, something in the way his fingers moved across a violin’s strings, the way they touched a piano’s key, how he held a cello’s bow—once witnessed, it would never again be forgotten.

It’s as if the music enters one’s soul and listens to its deepest desires. To its fears, hopes, and dreams, bringing them to light. Making them come alive.

People would often say.

He always listened to what others said, and he was proud. Satisfied. Not by his accomplishments or notoriety, but by his audience’s obliviousness. For they were too unaware of the veracity of their words, while still being far away from the truth. A truth that was coarse and bare, staying concealed by nothing but his greatness.

How is a person able to create such music? To play with such proficiency, produce notes so raw and profound?

The answer was the audience themselves.

「Thou shalt seek and reach out to scarred hearts 」

「Rip out every bone and flesh who stand on thy path」

For at one point, the greatest musician of all time had been the most miserable man of all. Yet he had always known his fate was not one bound by scarcity and pettiness, but one born from grandeur and riches.

So the man did what he must.

「Whenever thou desires to rely on thy unspoken arts」

「Thou shalt feast on every sorrow, despair, and wrath」

He formed a bond with something that would give him the fate he had always deserved, a pact formed through his own blood and tears.

And he feasted.

Every scar and every wound a person’s heart had ever endured, had it been from their own pathetic insecurities and weaknesses to their most horrendous fears and sorrows. His music reached out to their hearts—

And fed.

A thirst that could never be quenched, a hunger that could never be satiated—every note his fingers made crawled out from his instruments with the sole desire to consume. To enter the audiences’ cores and tear them wide open, feasting and playing with those emotions. Becoming stronger. Vaster.

Grander.

Concert after concert, the musician would fill entire theaters and houses. Watching others beg on their knees for a chance to hear him play—for the chance to see him. And whenever he played entire symphonies, watching his music make people break apart…

The musician would smile.

For how could he not enjoy, how could he not feel pleased, to watch his own magnanimity grow so much? To witness all those who had belittled him and insulted him, cry until their eyes dried out of tears, scratch their own skin, or collapse on their knees whenever he played two notes?

Soon enough, the musician could no longer call himself a human. He was a superior being—mystical, marvelous, almighty. Yes, why should he stop with music? Why not aim for total control and subjugation?

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There is no soul alive who will ever be able to stop me, was what the musician thought.

And truer words had never been spoken.

It was a night when the wind blew colder and the stars shone darker, a being who did not belong in anyplace while being present everywhere. The windows cracked and the night howled, yet no sound came from the being who entered the musician’s house.

He knew what the being was with but a single glance.

That being raised its finger at him, a vicious grin ripping its face wide, as the shadows that covered it brought forth the stench of rot.

The stench of Death.

“Thou were warned, human, of the taint and corruption of the unspoken arts. Of the lure sung from within the shadows, the price your own blood paid.” The being’s grin got wider as it stepped closer, a crackle leaving its lips mimicking the sound of a laugh. “Thou leeched and fed until thy vessel could contain no more. And now… Thy soul belongs to the living no more.”

The musician fell on his knees, trembling. Shaking. Desperate. He could feel Death’s grip on his soul already, a frigid touch clawing and sinking its sharp nails around him as if to take ownership of everything he was.

He clasped his hands together, the sentences leaving his mouth broken and uneven as his teeth chattered and the sweat dripped from his chin.

“O grand being, Herald of All Beings, Master of Darkness, I beg you to hear my plea. Gi-give me one last chance to prove my worth to thee. I swear with my own heart and soul, thy wish shall be my command, no matter its cost, no matter its nature.”

The musician could not yet leave his creations and possessions behind. All the power he had achieved, all his music, throbbed inside him. Yarning to be used.

The being’s voice made cold shivers crawl in the man’s spine, entering his flesh, his bones, his very being.

“Thy end is nigh, yet I extend to thee the prospect of mercy. Play for me with thy own tune. Please me so and thy soul shalt never be coveted again.”

The man stood up with a shaken breath, tripping on his way to fetch his violin. It was his finest; del Patimento.

His fingers trembled and his vision blurred, yet still, he played. With no audience or soul to be seen, the man performed the same way he always would. For he had never once stopped loving music.

So his fingers ran across the strings, the bow moving furiously as the notes slithered their way out from the instrument. Music filled the house and cursed through the night, making the wind howl louder and the windows shudder.

And the notes still hungered.

With no audience, the man’s music was not strong enough. It lacked its usual power—its usual lure and intensity. He knew no mighty being would ever be pleased by a performance so lacking. So empty, so petty.

He knew.

If he played like a mortal man, he would perish. He would be forced to witness his own demise.

The man continued to play, yet the notes came for his own heart—his very own core. They tore it open and laid bare his own desperation, his shaken mortality.

And he played.

As the notes pulled his terror and anguish, his pain and woes, the man played. Faster and faster, the music pulled whatever came from his heart to feed and grow its power. Every touch on the violin was like a tear in his core. Every escaped melody from its chords, a scream from his soul. Yet just like he had done a million times before, he played.

Again and again.

Faster, frantic, maddening—the sensation of Death’s cruel grasp sinking deeper, getting tighter with each passing second.

And Death never stopped grinning.

Soon, the music was consuming him. Amidst so much pain, while drowning in so much terror and anguish, the man’s mind started to lose itself. He was blind, surrounded but nothing but darkness, yet he could still hear the music. He could still feel the notes’ hunger, gorging themselves as the dreadful melody pierced its way into his heart and insanity.

The man continued to play. His fingers continued to move.

And he realized he could no longer stop.

For what he had once been was already lost.

The crackled noise echoed within the music, Death’s laughter making the notes bleed as it blended with the notes. The man’s eyes and fingers bled, his symphony bringing nothing more but darkness. Madness.

At some point, the man thought he was laughing as well. He was unaware of what was his own music, what had been stolen, what belonged to Death.

And on that cold night, a night where the world was quieter and the darkness more relentless, the man played until there was no more music to be listened to, no more notes to be played, no more strings to be touched.

Or man.