The sky was gradually growing late, and the central square of the campus was surging with heads.
For Lin Feng, who had just been released from that Hyperbolic Time Chamber where there was nothing but white nothingness, this scene before his eyes, full of the smoke and fire of the human world, was simply heaven. The youths of the skateboard club were falling on the steps until they grinned in pain; the club recruiters holding flyers were blocking new students like zombies; and in the distance by the fountain, those pairs of couples emitting the sour stench of love.
Noisy, messy, but fresh and alive.
Lin Feng took a deep breath of the air mixed with the smell of grilled sausages and exhaust fumes, feeling that his soul had been cleansed by this turbid mortal world.
"This is the life a human should live..."
Just as he was preparing to find a bench to sit down and properly enjoy some leisurely time without staring at a progress bar in a daze, a burst of music drifted into his ears.
In a corner of the square, a small circle of people had gathered. In the center of the circle were two boys: one holding an acoustic guitar with a missing corner, and the other sitting with his bottom on a Cajón—probably bought online for 9.9 yuan with free shipping.
The two were affectionately singing a duet of Ma Di's "Nan Shan Nan" (South of the Mountain).
With its melancholic lyrics and simple melody, it was deeply loved by literary youths. At the same time, because the threshold for playing it was low, it became a compulsory track for lawn guitarists in major universities.
"He is in the blazing sun of the South, heavy snow drifting..."
The guitarist's voice carried a bit of deliberately suppressed huskiness, attempting to imitate the vicissitudes of the original singer. The box drum brother next to him had his eyes closed, his face full of intoxication as he backhand-slapped the wooden box surface beneath his bottom, as if he were placing himself in a vast grassland.
The onlookers listened with gusto, and some even took out their phones to record.
However, Lin Feng had listened for less than three seconds when his brows furrowed fiercely.
If it were before yesterday, he would probably also think these two sang pretty well—at least they didn't go out of tune, and their emotions were quite invested.
But now, having possessed the [Ancient Rhythm Sacred Constitution (Bronze)], his auditory system had undergone a qualitative mutation.
In his ears, this folk song that should have been soothing and melancholic was simply a car crash scene.
That box drum player, every time he reached the chorus part, would inexplicably rush the beat because of excitement, the rhythm so fast it was like he was in a hurry to go to the toilet; and that guitar player, in order to cooperate with this suddenly fast and suddenly slow rhythm, had to frequently adjust the speed of his strumming, causing the whole song to present a weird "wave-style" progression.
Fast... slow... fast-fast... slow...
This was not some "Rubato" treatment at all; this was purely two people without internal metronomes hurting each other!
"Is this drum beat rushing to catch a market fair?"
Lin Feng felt his temples jumping wildly.
That feeling was like watching an OCD patient facing a row of crooked tiles, or watching a video where the audio and picture were out of sync—that kind of physiological discomfort made him want to scratch his heart and liver.
If it were an ordinary person, they would just think it didn't sound good and walk away.
But Lin Feng now had the blood of a "Rhythm Master" flowing in his body. This chaotic groove sounded simply like noise pollution to him; it was a blasphemy against the artistic dimension of "Time."
"Can't stand it..."
Lin Feng originally wanted to leave, but his feet seemed to have grown roots. That professional disease instinct of "must correct it" overwhelmed his reason.
With a dark face, he walked into the crowd step by step.
He didn't directly rush up to snatch the guitar or kick over the Cajón—that would get him beaten out as a lunatic. He just stood in the very front row of the crowd, hands in his pockets, looking like an ordinary listener.
Then, he began to move.
Pa.
A crisp finger snap.
This sound wasn't loud, appearing somewhat weak in the noisy square. But if one listened carefully, they would discover that this sound possessed a strange penetrating power—that was the "Absolute Syncopation" ability inherent to the [Ancient Rhyme Sacred Constitution].
Pa.
Another one.
Lin Feng did not follow the messy rhythm of those two passersby. Instead, like the most precise atomic clock, he segmented the air with a BPM so standard it was hair-raising.
That was the most comfortable, most perfect original tempo for the song "Nan Shan Nan."
Pa... Pa... Pa...
At first, those two performers immersed in self-intoxication didn't notice this handsome guy standing in the front row snapping his fingers.
The djembe brother was just preparing to perform a passionate chaotic beat at the climax of the chorus. His palm had just raised up when that crisp "Pa" suddenly came from beside his ear.
That voice was like an invisible baton, accurately stuck on the sixteenth note before the downbeat where he was about to land.
That was an extremely subtle psychological suggestion.
It was just like when you are walking on the road, if someone next to you shouts "One, two, one," your footsteps will unconsciously follow along.
The djembe brother's palm paused in the air for 0.1 seconds, and then inexplicably followed the guidance of that snap and fell down.
Dong.
This drum beat landed perfectly on the downbeat.
Comfortable.
The djembe brother froze for a moment. Although he didn't know why, the feeling of hitting that beat just now was actually much smoother than his random beating from before.
Pa.
Lin Feng was expressionless, continuing to snap his fingers. His eyes were hollow, as if looking through the void, but every snap was like a heavy hammer, striking on the subconscious rhythmic sense of the two people.
Slowly, the guitarist also sensed something was wrong.
He was originally preparing to drag out a note to create atmosphere, but that crisp "Pa" sound was like pinching his neck, forcing him to switch chords on time.
A strange magic shrouded this small area.
Lin Feng was like an invisible humanoid metronome, unknowingly taking over the control rights of this performance.
Pa (Strong beat)... Pa (Weak beat)...
Those two performers, who were originally like runaway wild horses, began to have glazed looks in their eyes. They no longer thought about "self-expression" or "emotional venting"; their bodies began to instinctively chase that crisp snapping sound.
The hand drum became stable and deep. The guitar strumming became uniform and neat.
The originally fast-then-slow "Nan Shan Nan" actually presented a kind of recording-studio-level stability at this moment. That tightness and seamlessness in rhythm instantly elevated the texture of the whole song by several levels.
Although the surrounding audience didn't understand music theory, they could intuitively feel it—
"Eh? Why does it feel like it suddenly sounds better?"
"Yeah, it sounded a bit messy just now, but now it feels so smooth."
"These two guys' level is pretty good!"
Someone in the crowd even began to nod gently along with Lin Feng's snaps, and the aura of the entire venue was thoroughly unified.
Finally, as the last chord fell, Lin Feng snapped the final finishing finger snap.
Pa.
The lingering sound curled upwards, a perfect ending.
The two performers stopped, covered in sweat, looked at each other, and both saw the shock in the other's eyes.
Did they just... seem to enter a kind of legendary Flow state? That feeling of not needing to think at all, with the rhythm flowing naturally, was simply too exhilarating!
"Phew..."
Lin Feng let out a long breath, and that pent-up air of OCD pressing on his chest finally dissipated.
Comfortable now.
This sounds much more pleasing to the ear.
Looking at the applause rising around him and those two passerby singers who had been successfully brainwashed and still looked excited, Lin Feng nodded with satisfaction. Deeply hiding his merit and fame, he turned around preparing to leave.
Helping others (saving one's own OCD) is the obligatory duty of every cheat-using system owner.