The wind on the garbage mountain was fierce, whipping up discarded printer paper and plastic bags like a dirty blizzard.

  The ghost of the nameless artist still hunched over the wrecked piano. His hands hovered over the keys, trembling, yet he dared not let them fall. The surrounding massive industrial noise, the curses of scavengers, and the cheap techno music drifting from the distant city formed an invisible wall, trapping him and his music tightly inside.

  He couldn't hear his own heartbeat anymore.

  In this noisy world, silence was death.

  John Doe stood not far away, gripping the burning hot Yin-Yang iPad. His finger was already on the summon button, but he was waiting.

  "Boss, you sure about rolling with this gentleman?"

  Bone had picked up two thick foam pads from somewhere (probably packaging for some precision instrument) and was trying to stuff them into his ear holes.

  "I ain't got ears, but my bone conduction is sensitive as hell. If this guy comes out, won't my skeleton get rattled to dust?"

  "Cut the crap and stuff 'em tight." John pulled out two cotton balls to plug his own ears, then looked at tiny Grace hovering above the tablet. "You too, turn your volume down."

  Grace looked at these two wusses with a face full of disgust. She pulled a control panel out of thin air with both hands and dragged the [System Volume] straight down to 1%.

  "Tch, isn't he just some old geezer into classical music? How loud can he be? Could he really be louder than that beatboxing monk from yesterday?"

  Grace obviously knew nothing about the "lethality of art." She kept roasting: "Besides, this ghost is about to dissipate. Why summon a deaf guy? How are two deaf guys gonna communicate? Sign language? Or should I set up a LAN chat room for them?"

  John didn't explain. He just took a deep breath and pressed the button, facing that desperate back.

  "Come on out, Maestro. Teach these tasteless punks... a lesson!"

  [Connecting to Valhalla...]

  [Matching Keywords: Suffering, Deafness, Grasping Fate by the Throat, Rage.]

  [Match Successful!]

  [Responder: Ludwig van Beethoven.]

  [Summon Tag: Fury.]

  BOOM—!

  Without any warning.

  A pitch-black crack, like lightning, split the haze above the garbage mountain right open.

  That wasn't light. That was pure, materialized [Rage].

  Immediately after, a frenzied figure walked out of the fissure.

  He wore a rumpled, old-fashioned coat stained with wine and ink. His iconic, wild grey-white hair danced in the wind like a lion's mane. He wasn't holding a baton, but lugging a massive hearing aid (or maybe some kind of megaphone?) that looked like it was cast from bronze.

  Beethoven. The Saint of Music.

  But his current state was anything but elegant.

  As soon as he landed, he kicked a discarded oil drum flying.

  CLANG!

  The drum flew dozens of meters, smashing into an operating trash compactor and jamming it to a halt instantly.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  "IT'S TOO LOUD!!!"

  Beethoven let out a deafening roar. The voice was hoarse and gritty, yet it carried the force of someone trying to scream their lungs out.

  "Where are all these flies coming from?! Buzz! Buzz! Buzz! My ears are going to explode!"

  Even though he couldn't hear sound, he could feel the chaotic, filthy, illogical vibration waves in the air. For a soul seeking ultimate harmony, this was more torturous than death by a thousand cuts.

  "Damn..." Bone's jaw dropped. "Does this grandpa always have such a short fuse?"

  "Told you." John shrank his neck. "Artists are all nuts."

  After Beethoven finished venting, those bloodshot eyes, burning with fanatical fire, finally swept over to the corner.

  The shivering ghost sitting in front of the broken piano.

  Beethoven froze for a second.

  That violent aura suddenly retracted. He strode over; though his steps were heavy, they didn't kick up any dust.

  He stood by the piano.

  The ghost sensed something and slowly looked up. Seeing the legendary Saint of Music standing right in front of him, he was nearly scared out of his spectral wits and instinctively tried to stand up to give up his seat.

  "Sit down!"

  Beethoven pressed down on his shoulder. His grip was strong, yet steady.

  He didn't speak. He just extended that large, calloused, stubby-fingered hand and placed it on the piano lid.

  Then, he closed his eyes.

  He was "listening."

  Not with his ears, but with the hand pressed against the lid, feeling the residual, faint, undissipated aftershocks of vibration.

  It was the melody the ghost had just played.

  It was the mournful cry of being abandoned by the world.

  One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.

  Beethoven snapped his eyes open. In those eyes that had been filled with rage, there now surged a moving sorrow and resonance as deep as the ocean.

  He understood.

  No language needed, no sheet music needed, and certainly no goddamn LAN needed.

  Pain is the most universal language in this universe.

  "Are you in pain, too?"

  Beethoven looked at the ghost. His lips didn't move, but John clearly heard a voice resonating directly on the soul level.

  The ghost stared at him blankly, two streams of transparent tears flowing from his eyes. He nodded frantically, pointing to his own chest, then at the broken piano.

  "They... stole my songs..." the ghost mouthed. "They said I was trash..."

  Beethoven understood.

  On that serious, rigid, even somewhat ferocious face, a rare—almost childishly mocking—smile appeared.

  "Trash?"

  Beethoven looked around, eyeing the electronic waste covering the mountains and plains, then looking at the glamorous yet soulless city in the distance.

  "Hmph."

  He sneered. It was a scorn for the entire era.

  "They are the ones who are deaf."

  Beethoven shoved the ghost aside, but didn't chase him away. Instead, he squeezed himself onto the narrow piano bench.

  "Come."

  He grabbed the ghost's skeletal hand and pressed it onto the bass keys.

  "Since they can't hear your crying."

  Beethoven placed his own hands on the treble keys, ten fingers spread wide like an eagle ready to hunt.

  "Then we'll try a different way."

  "We won't cry."

  "We... will roar at them!"

  "BOOM!"

  Beethoven's fingers came down.

  Not a gentle touch, but a sledgehammer smash.

  The first note exploded.

  That wasn't a piano sound. That was a cannon shot.

  Under Beethoven's hands, that scrapped piano with half its strings broken emitted a sharp, grandiose roar, like metal tearing apart.

  John felt the ground shake.

  "Holy crap!" Grace exclaimed, her data body rippling. "This sound wave frequency... something's wrong! Is this an infrasonic weapon?!"

  The ghost was startled by this sudden power and tried to pull his hand back.

  "Don't stop!"

  Beethoven glared at him. There was no blame in his eyes, only encouragement—the toughest kind of support that only one of the same kind could give.

  "Follow me! Your anger, your grievances, all your hate... smash it all in!"

  The ghost trembled and tried pressing a key.

  Thump.

  The sound was small, timid.

  Beethoven didn't turn his nose up at it. His left hand immediately filled in with a powerful chord, wrapping around that weak note like a father holding up a toddler learning to walk.

  "Again!"

  Thump! Thump!

  The ghost's eyes changed. That long-suppressed dead ash reignited into a flame.

  His fingers began to apply force.

  "CLANG—!!!"

  The music started to become coherent, fierce.

  Two deaf men.

  One was dead, heart like dead ash.

  One was mad, isolated from the world.

  But right now, on this forgotten garbage mountain, in front of this shattered piano.

  Four hands, even if one pair had become ghost hands.

  They intertwined.

  "Is this... artistic exchange?"

  John covered his ears, watching the two backs swaying wildly in the wind. Although his brain hurt from the vibration, he felt something blocking his chest.

  "This ain't exchange." Bone shoved the foam pads deeper and shouted, "This is basically... two madmen declaring war on the world!"

  Beethoven's hair flew; his fingers moved so fast they were a blur. He wasn't just playing the piano; he was using the keys to choke the throat of that damn fate.

  And under his lead, the ghost was no longer that pitiful victim.

  He straightened his spine. His ghost fire was burning.

  He was roaring.

  Even though he couldn't make a sound, that piano music was his most deafening roar.

  The wind stopped.

  The surrounding roar of machines seemed to be suppressed by this immense aura.

  In the entire garbage dump, only the storm-like piano music echoed between heaven and earth.

  [System Status]:

  Physical Realm (Royal Road): Connection Unstable / Paused.

  Spirit Realm (Patreon): 20+ Chapters Online / Stable.

  [Link]