Chapter 89

The next morning, Qin Yun bid farewell to Zhong Li and the Xia Xiaoxing sisters; although Xia Xiaoxing greatly admired—and even longed for—Qin Yun’s habit of traveling far and wide, she knew she would never be allowed to go.

So when she could no longer see Qin Yun’s Land Rover, her entire demeanor drooped.

Zhong Li rubbed her head hard: “At least you still have time to wander around. Look at me—stuck in a hotel all day, not a shred of freedom.”

Xia Xiaoxing felt no comfort, only more misery.

…

Leaving the Hilton Hotel, Qin Yun drove straight onto the highway, heading toward Jiangxi.

From the moment he entered Wuyuan in Jiangxi, he waited for the system’s check-in task to appear—but even after arriving in Jingdezhen, it never popped up, leaving him baffled.

But upon reflection, it was normal; in the months since he gained the system, the check-in tasks had never been strictly regular, and so far the only rule was that tasks always appeared locally.

Yet arriving at a place did not guarantee a task would appear.

With no check-in task binding him, Qin Yun simply stopped caring and threw himself fully into exploring the world: today learning pottery in Jingdezhen, tomorrow rowing on Poyang Lake.

Jiangxi was an old revolutionary region, so he made a special trip to several revolutionary sites to pay respects and reflect on the hardships endured by the older generation of revolutionaries.

Before he realized it, less than ten days had passed, and he had crossed Hubei and Chongqing, entering Sichuan.

Exiting the Guanglu Expressway into Luzhou, Qin Yun sent Han Wei a WeChat message: I’ve arrived in Sichuan.

At the moment Han Wei received the message, she was holding a monthly meeting.

One of her senior executives was reporting, her focus sharp; though her phone vibrated, she didn’t check it immediately, waiting until the report ended, adding a few remarks, then finally picking it up.

Then Han Wei’s spirit snapped awake, and she stood up instantly.

“Director Li, you take over the meeting. Xiao Song, book me a flight to Chengdu. And have you prepared what I asked for?”

A strikingly beautiful woman stood: “Director Han, everything’s ready and has been delivered safely to Siguniang Town. You can pick it up directly upon arrival. Should I book the earliest available flight?”

“Yes, the earliest possible. I’m heading to the airport now.”

“Understood.”

Han Wei returned to her office, changed clothes, and immediately sent Qin Yun a message.

“Master Qin, I’m leaving for Chengdu now. Shall we meet again in Siguniang Town?”

At that moment, Qin Yun sat at a roadside hotpot stall in Luzhou, savoring Luzhou’s signature tofu-dreg hotpot.

He glanced at his phone, thought for a moment, then replied: “I’ll pass through Chengdu. Why don’t you wait for me at Shuangliu Airport? I can pick you up—it’ll save you from taking a bus to Siguniang Town.”

“Fine. You might even get there first.”

“Not necessarily,” Qin Yun smiled, looking at the system panel appearing before him. “I might get delayed by something.”

【Check-in task released: Seek an elderly beggar on the street, replace him, and collect ten thousand yuan to complete the task】

This task made Qin Yun want to complain.

All he’d gotten was a two-stringed fiddle skill—surely the erhu didn’t have to sound mournful and wretched? Nowadays, the erhu was played on grand stages, even had dedicated recitals—why did the system reduce it to a begging tool?

But since the task had appeared, he could only accept it.

Fortunately, the system didn’t specify a location, so he searched on his phone and decided to wait until he reached Chengdu.

Eating as he drove, after roughly six hours, just before two in the afternoon, he finally exited the Chengdu Ring Expressway.

Following Dahan West Road, he turned onto Toufu Street per navigation, then entered Wenshu Yuan Street—and there he saw the person he was looking for.

The street teemed with people, packed with tourists.

But none of that mattered—what caught Qin Yun’s attention was the erhu music drifting through the air.

Some melodies were sorrowful, others joyful; looking around, the entire street was filled with beggars and street performers, one after another.

Qin Yun parked his car and briefly considered taking out his own erhu, but decided against it.

The system’s check-in task was clear: find an elderly beggar and replace him. So first, the target had to be a beggar, not a performer; second, he had to be an elderly man.

“Old man” meant a male elder; in traditional Chinese culture, “sou” was typically used only for men seventy or older.

So although there were only two conditions, meeting them wasn’t simple.

On the entire street, there were barely a handful of men over seventy still begging on the roadside; after circling once, Qin Yun narrowed it down to three candidates.

One had an old woman lying beside him—eliminated. The second played another instrument—temporarily eliminated. The third played the erhu, wore tattered clothes, had a white beard, and looked old enough.

Qin Yun didn’t hesitate—he walked straight up to the old man.

The old man was playing “Rivers of the Jiang,” but his skill was mediocre, emotionless, even slightly off-key; yet with his appearance and the fragmented music, the bowl before him was nearly full.

Seeing someone stop, the old man played a bit harder—but after five grueling minutes, the man still didn’t move. The old man thought: If you’re not going to give money, just leave already—you’re blocking my treasure bowl.

Qin Yun was actually observing the erhu; though its appearance was ordinary, its tuning was decent, and the silk strings gave it a resonance steel strings lacked.

“Old man, how much do you earn here in a day?” he asked in a low voice.

The old man stopped playing, looking up warily: “Kid, what’re you after? Collecting protection money? Let me tell you, I’m under Brother Hu’s protection…”

Qin Yun laughed helplessly and cut him off: “Old man, you’ve got the wrong idea. I just want to borrow your spot for a bit, that’s all.”

“What do you mean?”

Soon, the old man stood and left with Qin Yun.

Quickly, the “old man” sat back down in the original spot, lifting the erhu.

Of course, the man now sitting there was no longer the original old man; Qin Yun pulled his hat low, hunched into his collar—though the collar smelled strongly, he couldn’t tell when it had last been washed.

Qin Yun didn’t expect to complete the task quickly.

He didn’t have time to beg all day—if he spent a week or more, earning ten thousand yuan wouldn’t be hard.

He glanced at passersby, leaned against the wall, placed the worn, shiny erhu on his lap, pressed the resonator, laid the bow, said nothing, and began to play softly.

He played “Rivers of the Jiang.”

The skill’s brilliance lay here: though he’d known nothing of these melodies before, he now played them effortlessly.

The strings sang—not loudly, but coldly, like autumn river wind carrying rain, seeping into every bone crevice. The sound was rough and heavy, bow stroke after bow stroke, as if squeezing a lifetime of bitterness, injustice, and unheard words into the strings, letting them slowly flow.

A few elderly tourists passed by, their steps freezing instantly; their smiles vanished, brows furrowing as they listened.

Qin Yun’s hands were steady. He closed his eyes, ignoring whether anyone stopped—he simply played.

“Holy shit, did Lao Liu take a bullet? Is this even him?” a fellow traveler muttered in shock.

They all knew Lao Liu’s level—they’d all learned by imitation, with zero understanding of musical theory.

But now—was Bing’s spirit possessing him?

How to describe it? The music sounded like a man with no way out, suffering in silence, choking back pain. As if all the hardship endured, the swallowed rage, the despair of having nowhere to turn, the loneliness of having no one to confide in—all wound tightly around two strings.

As the music unfolded, more and more people stopped, then slowly gathered.

Those with experience in tipping knew beggars’ music was merely a reminder—not an attraction—just saying: I’m here, drop two yuan and move on.

But now, many were drawn by Qin Yun’s rendition of “Rivers of the Jiang.”

Everyone had their own sense of beauty, but quality was bluntly obvious. Among a crowd of beggars, Qin Yun’s erhu was unmistakably superior.

After the first section’s lament and fury, Qin Yun’s bowing softened abruptly, as if sinking into thought and memory. A desolate, lonely scene faintly emerged in the onlookers’ minds.

The crowd was immersed in the emotion, their feelings rising and falling unconsciously with the music.

This technique was undoubtedly masterful—but none present were connoisseurs; they simply felt this erhu piece, ordinary in daily life, moved them profoundly now.

With the third section’s fierce resistance, the music neared its end. When the final note faded, Qin Yun’s motion slowed to a stop.

He lifted his eyes slightly—and froze. Good heavens, over twenty people had surrounded him, hemming him in against the wall.

Several had red-rimmed eyes; their faces bore no tourist joy, only a deep, aching sadness.

Qin Yun thought: Is it really that powerful?

A few breaths passed, then an old man clapped. Others followed, clapping too.

“Old brother, you play the erhu beautifully. I’ve heard ‘Rivers of the Jiang’ played by many, but none like you. That feeling—the river flows endlessly, the sorrow never ends—it cuts right through you.”

As the old man spoke, he pulled a hundred-yuan note from his pocket and dropped it into the empty bowl—the previous money had already been taken by the original owner.

“Yes, so well played—it’s a feast for the ears and eyes, but too sad. Old man, how about something cheerful next?”

More and more people voiced their enthusiasm; soon, the bowl was filled with red and green bills—easily over a thousand yuan.

Seeing the crowd’s eagerness, Qin Yun nodded and began playing “Drinking Song of Joy.”

His fingers shifted—moments before, sorrow vanished; the music soared like an opened jar of strong liquor, steaming, bright, and exhilarating. The bow danced lightly on the strings, the attack sharp, the tail soft, carrying a hint of drunkenness and boldness.

The passersby, still caught in sorrow, instantly relaxed, their eyes brightening.

The grief of “Rivers of the Jiang” was drowned in the joy of “Drinking Song of Joy.”

People loved crowds; seeing so many gathered, more rushed over. In moments, the crowd swelled into layers upon layers.

After the song ended, even more people tipped—five yuan, ten yuan, even hundreds.

Qin Yun didn’t need to count—he knew his bowl now held over two thousand yuan. He suddenly thought: Maybe ten thousand isn’t so hard after all?

Soon, the system chimed, confirming his guess.

【Check-in task completed. Reward received: Extended peak human condition by one-third】

The reward on the system panel made Qin Yun pause.

This was the second time he’d received a reward other than a skill—and after fully understanding it, he swallowed hard, utterly stunned.

Normally, the human peak lasts from twenty to thirty-five—fifteen years, the prime of a man’s life. Add one-third, and that’s five extra years—absurd.

Compared to normal people, his aging would be delayed by many years.