Chen Hao's hand was still on the strings when the string vibrated on its own, as if it understood the note he hummed. He paused, then tried again, this time with a longer note. The three strings trembled gently in response.
He grinned, about to speak, when his left index finger suddenly twitched.
It wasn't the kind of muscle soreness you get; it was a sharp, piercing pain that seemed to drill into your fingertips. He instinctively let go, and the guitar almost slipped from his grasp, but he quickly caught it with his arm.
"Ouch." He looked down at his fingers; the pads were bright red with a white patch in the middle, and pressing on them stung.
Nana stood to the side, and the camera flashed briefly.
"You see?" Chen Hao held his finger up in front of her. "It's all scraped."
Nana didn't speak, but a line of text appeared on her palm: "Continuous pressing has caused damage to the epidermal tissue. It is recommended to stop practicing for fifteen minutes."
"Fifteen minutes? I was just getting the hang of it." Chen Hao shook his hand, trying to disperse the blood, but the more he shook, the more it hurt. "This thing is even more brutal than working out."
He tried to touch the strings again, but the slightest touch made him recoil in pain.
"No, I can't practice today." He put the guitar on the workbench, leaned back, and sank into the chair. "I thought playing the guitar was something for artsy young people, but I didn't expect it to be physical work."
Nana pulled up a data projection showing that his left hand had completed 473 string-pressing actions in the past two hours, with an average force of 3.2 Newtons per action.
“You’re using your finger as a chisel,” she said.
“I know.” Chen Hao rolled his eyes. “But if I don’t use force, the sound won’t come out. If I’m too soft, the sound will be weak; if I’m too hard, my hand will break.”
He stared at his hand; there was a small cut on his middle finger, from which a tiny droplet of something, like water, seeped out and shimmered on the strings.
"What if I switched careers and became a drummer?" he asked.
New words appeared on Nana's palm: Percussion instruments also require physical endurance training, and improper use of drumsticks can easily cause wrist strain.
"So neither path is easy?" Chen Hao sighed. "If I had known, I wouldn't have tried to be so capable. It would have been so much better to just eat in the cafeteria and play games in peace."
He finished speaking, closed his eyes, and tilted his head to one side. Sweat streamed down his temples, forming a small damp patch on his neck.
The woodworking workshop was quiet, with only the sound of airflow from the vents. A guitar lay on the table, its metal surface reflecting the light from the overhead lamp.
A few minutes later, he opened his eyes and reached for his guitar.
“One more time,” he said.
"I suggest you take a break," Nana said.
"I don't want to move at all after resting." Chen Hao waved his hand. "If I stop now, I'll have to start all over again tomorrow."
He picked up the guitar, and the moment his left hand touched the neck, he winced in pain. He gritted his teeth and tried pressing each key one by one, each press feeling like stepping on nails.
The first string barely made a sound, the second one slipped, and the third one couldn't be pressed properly, producing an unpleasant noise.
"Damn it." He let go. "This hand doesn't recognize me anymore."
He tried again, this time slower, preparing his strength for each note beforehand. He managed to string together three notes, but on the fourth, his fingers went limp, and the note stopped.
"No." He put down his guitar. "It really won't work."
He looked down at his fingers; they were red and swollen, with peeling skin at the edges. He pinched them with his right hand, wincing in pain.
"Am I being too hard on myself?" He looked up at Nana. "Do you think I can keep playing?"
Nana subtly adjusts the camera lens, revealing text on her palm: "Epidermal damage detected, but nerve signal feedback is normal." Pain is a natural response in the adaptation process of muscles and skin; historically, over 90% of string instrument beginners have gone through a similar phase.
There is another line: You have been able to stably output structured melodies, and your rate of progress is higher than the baseline model.
Chen Hao stared at that line of text for a long time.
"Does that mean... I'm considered fast?" he asked.
Nana nodded.
“But I feel like a fool.” He smiled bitterly. “For others, practicing the piano is art, but for me, it’s torture.”
He paused for a few seconds, then said, "You mean those people were like this at the beginning? They even practiced with their fingers rotting?"
Nana's Palm Update: Records show that a certain classical guitarist initially needed to soak his hands for ten minutes after each day's practice to relieve pain, and continued nighttime fingering simulation training with bandages.
"He's still practicing with his hands wrapped up?" Chen Hao's eyes widened. "Are you crazy?"
Nana: Consistent training is a key factor in skill development.
Chen Hao didn't speak, looking down at his hands. He suddenly remembered when he used to play basketball, he would twist his ankle but still have to play. His coach would say, "It's normal to feel pain. It would be strange if you didn't feel pain."
He sighed, stood up, walked to the toolbox, and pulled out a clean piece of cotton cloth.
"Alright," he said. "Then I'll play along with you to the very end."
He tore it into four strips and wrapped them one by one around his left finger. His movements were clumsy, and he kept getting tangled. In the end, Nana helped him secure the ends.
The feel changed after the cloth strip was wrapped around my fingers. Touching the neck of the violin didn't feel as smooth as before; it felt a bit like touching a layer of gauze.
He tried pressing the strings, and it still hurt, but at least it didn't slip directly.
“This equipment is like a construction worker carrying bricks,” he said. “But I am a bricklayer now, carrying musical notes.”
He sat down again and placed the guitar on his lap. This time, he didn't rush to play; instead, he warmed up his fingers, slowly pressing down to feel the force.
The first note came out a little muffled, but steady.
The second one was slightly off-center, so he adjusted his position and tried again.
Thirdly, success.
He started from the beginning, following the rhythm of the "first cry," one note at a time.
The first time, I stopped twice in the middle.
The second time, I didn't press the last note firmly, and the ending was weak.
The third time, he played it extremely slowly, making sure every movement was clear. The six notes flowed smoothly, with the last long note held steady.
He released his grip and let out a long breath.
"Luckily, I didn't give up," he said.
Nana's palm revealed: The performance was 86% complete this time, with errors concentrated at the connection between the third and fifth notes, showing significant improvement compared to the previous round.
"As long as there's progress, that's good." Chen Hao smiled, his forehead covered in sweat.
He didn't stop, continuing to repeat the melody. If once wasn't enough, he would repeat it twice. His fingers grew increasingly swollen, and the cloth strips, soaked with sweat, clung uncomfortably to his skin.
But he didn't take it off.
Once, while plucking the string with his left pinky finger, he used too much force, and the cloth strip came loose and slipped to one side. He stopped, rewrapped it, and continued practicing.
As dusk fell, the base's lights automatically turned on. He sat on a small stool in the corner, his back slightly hunched, his stomach pressing against his thighs, in an awkward posture, but he didn't change it.
Nana stood to the side, and the camera kept focusing on his hand gestures.
More than an hour had passed, and he was able to complete the "first cry" five times in a row, with at most one wrong note.
For the last time, he closed his eyes and played the last note. The room was quiet for a few seconds.
He opened his eyes, hummed the rhythm he had just heard, and then gently tapped out the beat on the piano with his right hand.
“This can be written down,” he said. “We can’t rely on luck to remember it anymore.”
He reached into his pocket to look for a pen, but found none.
"Nana, can you record this? Just the version I'm humming right now."
Nana's palm appears: Audio samples have been synchronized and can be played back at any time.
"Okay." He nodded. "Write the score tomorrow."
He removed his hands from the instrument, his fingers still trembling. When he untied the strips of cloth, he found that the skin underneath was completely white, with a red ring around the edges, and several places were chafed raw.
“It’s so ugly,” he said.
But he didn't complain.
He gently placed the guitar back on its stand, sat for a while, and didn't get up.
He was still humming, over and over again, as if afraid of forgetting.
Nana stood quietly, and a new record was added to the system log: Subjective willpower assessment level improved, feasibility of continued training confirmed.
Chen Hao suddenly looked up.
"How long do you think it will take me to practice before I can play a complete song?"
Before Nana could even display the text, he waved his hand.
"Forget it, don't tell me the numbers," he said. "Knowing them will only make me less willing to practice."
He stood up, stretched, and his shoulders cracked twice.
The four fingers of his left hand were wrapped with gray and white cloth strips, while his right hand gently stroked the surface of the zither.
He hummed that short, catchy tune, his eyes focused.
Sweat trickled down his temples and dripped onto the floor with a soft pattering sound.
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