The Villainous Male Supporting Character Courts Death Every Day : Chapter 24

Zabert and Sophie jointly released the symphony Snowblown, adding a brilliant stroke to the empire’s musical history and opening a fresh new chapter in the empire’s headlines.

Snowblown is a frozen plateau in the northern borderlands, and this movement sings of the beauty and sorrow of the icebound wastelands. It turns out that the northern borderlands had recently suffered military setbacks, with foreign tribes invading and seizing multiple mining mountain ranges, leaving countless refugees displaced and wandering.

The northern borderlands are desolate and barren, with scattered tribes and constant unrest; warfare was nothing new there. But through Mr. Zabert’s symphony, the ice mountains and snowfields suddenly leaped into the view of the capital’s nobility.

On the premiere evening, Her Majesty the Queen attended in person, moved to tears. With a grand gesture, she sponsored the association to hold charity galas across the nation centered on this symphony. The association also actively organized a charity fund, collecting donations and resources to support the northern borderlands.

Her Majesty the Queen is kind and benevolent, taking the lead with a donation of 1,000 gold. The Grand Duke immediately followed with 700 gold. The rest of the nobles responded in kind, and the collective attention of the powerful set the tone from above. For a time, the northern war became the hottest and most fashionable topic.

In streets and alleys, people gathered to play the *Snowblown* melody and discuss the northern war. Restaurants, clubs, hotels, and shops all hung azure flags symbolizing the northern borderlands to show their support.

People wore azure scarves and ribbons, donated money and goods, volunteered their time and effort, and joined this party of supporting the north and resisting foreign invaders. Songs and slogans echoed throughout the royal city.

Under the spiral of silence and media coverage, no one discussed the gossip between the Duke and the Count anymore. Charlotte, who had claimed illness for many days, also pinned an azure flower to her chest and attended the charity banquet, reappearing in social circles.

However, at several important occasions, the young Duke was nowhere to be seen, and naturally neither was that black-clad figure. Charlotte lowered her eyes, a trace of sorrow flickering in her gaze.

The melody of Snowblown continued to spread. Mr. Zabert was always hands-on, personally conducting at every event, and people were deeply moved by the old gentleman’s character and humanistic compassion.

The notes surged and roiled. At their most intense, they shook heaven and earth; at their most gentle, they tore at the heartstrings. Zabert swept his arms wide, his baton tracing exaggerated arcs. Every raise seemed to summon the fierce blizzards of the north; every descent was like war drums and whistling arrows, making the very air tremble.

At times his face twisted, as if he had witnessed the fires of war himself. At times his eyes shut tight, his mouth twitching with the utmost grief and sorrow. At the climax, his whole body shook as he conducted, his figure seeming to burn together with the orchestra, pushing the hatred of a shattered nation and broken mountains to its extreme.

This was not merely an orchestra conductor or a charity fundraiser; it was more like a magnificent performance, and the audience was completely captivated, willingly drawn into the drama.

“Quite a unique style, unlike anything before.” Victor walked over to Charlotte with a wine glass in hand, smiling and speaking softly. An azure handkerchief adorned his breast pocket, adding a touch of freshness and refinement to his dashing demeanor.

Charlotte focused on savoring the music, offering no formal greeting, only murmuring: “Sometimes it sounds like an angry roar, and sometimes… like an endless night…” Suddenly, she thought of those pitch-black eyes and fell into a daze.

Seeing Charlotte ignore him, Victor smiled bitterly to himself. He knew his niece was still sulking at him, but she probably didn’t know how much money that black-haired butler of hers had cost her uncle.

Victor turned his head to look at Zabert, admired by thousands, took a sip of red wine, and a flash of ruthlessness crossed his eyes, mixed with a hint of regret.

When he first learned that someone was secretly buying up Zabert’s debts, he had faintly guessed it was the Duke’s household making a move. He had assumed the young master was simply making a backroom deal to get Zabert’s piano.

At that time, he had been blinded by the hope of a marriage alliance between Milo and Charlotte, let his guard down, and sold off all the debts. A card he had held in his hand for years slipped away just like that.

He never expected the other side to counterattack so swiftly, his carefully laid plans cut off by a single symphony. Days of scheming went down the drain in one morning, costing him everything. But what truly made him back down was Charlotte’s resolute attitude.

Recalling Charlotte’s determined gaze, Victor shook his head helplessly. Truly, he had lost both the woman and the money.

Fortunately, he had weathered many storms. Wins and losses were normal in business dealings. Though he couldn’t exactly shrug it off, he wouldn’t lose his composure either. He collected himself, focused on cleaning up the mess, and cutting his losses was the priority.

“I was wrong this time, and I apologize to you.” Victor smiled lightly, as if nothing had happened. He leaned in slightly and lowered his voice: “Do you have any message you’d like me to pass along to him?”

Him? Charlotte was startled, instantly understanding who Victor meant. At that moment, she could no longer hide her feelings and said urgently: “Do you know where he is? Can you send him a message?”

“I cannot, but I know someone who can.” With that, Victor lifted his chin, gesturing toward a corner of the concert hall.

Charlotte followed his gaze and saw a slender brown-haired woman standing alone in the corner. She wore a sharp pantsuit, quite out of place among the flamboyantly dressed attendees at the charity gala. It was Zabert’s daughter, Sophie.

Charlotte’s eyes flickered, vaguely understanding something.

~~~~~

After the performance ended, the gala grew even more lively. After Sophie coldly rebuffed several advances from nobles and playboys, no one paid her any more attention. Standing alone in the corner, watching Zabert laugh and mingle among the crowd, she secretly clenched her fists.

The dark and surging style of *Snowblown*, seemingly a lament of the pain and suffering of war, but who knew that it was her heart-wrenching agony, her bone-deep hatred.

It was the dark notes bursting from the depths of her soul during countless nights of humiliation. Her hatred, her resentment, her fear, her despair—all poured into that soul-stirring melody.

She had thought these melodies would move her father, evoke his pity, awaken his guilt.

But Zabert had merely excitedly modified a few notes, tapped away at the piano, and then eagerly picked up his baton to bask in the crowd’s applause and cheers.

As if her pain, her hatred, were merely a movement for people to appreciate. And her wounds, her flesh and blood, concerned no one.

“You must be Miss Sophie. It is an honor to finally meet you.”

A clear voice like water reached her ears. Sophie looked over coldly and saw Charlotte gracefully curtsying to her.

Sophie merely returned the greeting coldly, her frosty gaze an unmistakable rejection. Deep down, she had nothing but disdain for these nobles.

But her coldness did not deter Charlotte, who simply began talking to her on her own. She offered a few compliments, exchanged a few pleasantries, and skillfully engaged her in conversation.

“After returning from my studies abroad, I traveled across the country. Passing through the Snowblown tundra, I was so moved by the local culture and scenery that I stayed to live there for many years. Only recently, due to the war, did I return to the capital and create this piece with my father.” Sophie recited the story Kyle had crafted for her without any emotion.

“Miss Sophie is remarkably brave and well-traveled. Truly admirable.” Charlotte lowered her eyes and said with feeling: “No wonder the style is so varied, like your experiences rich and colorful. It is precisely this that allows you to capture the ever-changing nature of the northern borderlands.”

Sophie merely sneered silently and said nothing. After a long silence, Charlotte spoke again: “I notice the style of this movement differs somewhat from Mr. Zabert’s past work. I imagine Miss Sophie contributed a great deal, especially that intense, lingering grief and bitterness. It is truly moving and soul-shaking.”

At this, Sophie snorted inwardly. What did these pampered young ladies know of hatred, what did they know of suffering? She simply did not reply.

After another long silence, Charlotte continued: “Only the strings in a few places are a bit too sharp and piercing. If lowered by half a step, they might be more fitting. The drums are thunderous and striking at first, but stretched too long, they become overwhelming. If shortened by four measures…”

Charlotte’s sudden critique indeed made Sophie frown with displeasure, and she retorted: “Deep sorrow and hatred are hardly pleasant and melodious. If the young lady cannot appreciate it, don’t trouble yourself.”

Charlotte simply studied Sophie’s expression carefully, paused, and said: “I hear a few gentle, lingering passages that seem somewhat at odds with Miss Sophie’s state of mind.” She chose her words carefully and probed: “Might there be another friend who gave Miss Sophie a different kind of inspiration?”

Sophie was taken aback. Only then did she look directly at Charlotte, sizing her up for a moment before nodding: “Indeed, there was another friend who participated in the creation. However, this friend wishes to remain unnamed. He hopes to keep the focus on the northern borderlands and not distract from it.”

Charlotte nodded, exhaling a breath as if releasing a weight from her heart. Then she faintly raised the corner of her mouth, a smile that was half bitter and half amused, half understanding and half regretful, her eyes flickering with longing and admiration.

That man, once again, had hidden his achievements and kept his name unknown.

Others might not have noticed, but Charlotte, well-versed in music, immediately detected the discord. This symphony named after the northern snowfields carried none of the northern musical character. Yet in those gentle, whispering passages, it was like the stillness of night, reminding her of those pitch-black eyes and his lingering melody.

“What a remarkable friend.” Charlotte lowered her eyes. She had devoted her life to music, yet never thought she could truly do something meaningful with it beyond the concert hall.

Her heart beat inexplicably faster, her body tingling as if electrified. She vaguely felt that this was what she wanted to do. She was willing to burn for it, to dedicate herself to it, to prove the meaning of her life through it.

That person, in the darkness, had pointed out a path for her and set an example. How she wished she could join him and do such meaningful things together.

Yet she had no part in it. The one fortunate enough to participate was the slender woman before her. Charlotte said with feeling: “Miss Sophie’s creation is truly magnificent.”

“I merely composed music and expressed my feelings. How is that magnificent?” Sophie thought this woman was a fool and sneered: “Or do you think that experiencing such sorrow and pain is magnificent?”

“Life’s hardships are inevitable. Recording that pain, savoring and refining it over and over—how is that not magnificent?” Charlotte said earnestly and sincerely: “What is even more magnificent is that no matter what changes one experiences, the passion for creation is still preserved.”

Sophie fell silent. Just when Charlotte thought she would not respond, she suddenly let out a low, cold laugh. Her tone was grim and heavy, each word like a blade slicing through paper: “Creation is not passion. It is a cry of pain, a howl of anguish, an escape from reality. If I did not do it, even for a second, I could not survive in this world.”

Charlotte paused slightly, feeling as if the air had been cut open. The words she had intended to say broke off in her throat. After a long silence, she sighed.

“Living is itself a very lonely thing. The pain we bear is destined to be felt only by ourselves.” Her voice was very soft, as if comforting, as if speaking to herself: “Perhaps, if one can have something to accompany oneself, to record that once-existed existence, that is already… very difficult…”

At these words, Charlotte suddenly stopped, grabbed Sophie’s hand, and pulled her into the shadows.

“What are you doing?” Sophie snapped, but seeing Charlotte’s strange expression, she asked: “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Charlotte said nothing, only handing her a handkerchief. Only then did Sophie realize she was already streaming with tears.