DXD: Samsara Finis

A man walked under the endless blue sky, his boots heavy with dust, and his violin case strapped securely to his back.

He had no home, not anymore—not since he'd set out from the small coastal village tucked between forested hills and the vast ocean. His name was whispered from town to town, not because of fame or fortune, but for the way his bow glided across strings, how every note of his violin told stories that words never could.

They called him "the Freedom Violinist."

And he had only one mission: to spread his music to every corner of the world.

Each village he visited welcomed him with open arms. He played beneath cherry blossoms in spring festivals. He serenaded lovers under moonlight by quiet lakes. He stood on stormy cliffs and played to the raging seas. His melodies danced in the air, joyous and free, like birds soaring across cloudless skies.

But through it all, he carried a single name in his heart.

Elia.

His beloved, the one he left behind. With her warm brown eyes and the way she'd hum his compositions while tending the garden, Elia was the sunlight of his life.

They had promised each other something simple.

"I'll return," he had told her beneath the blooming apple tree. "I'll return when the world knows my music. And I'll write a song for you—the last one. The most beautiful one, then we will get married and happily forever after" 

And she had laughed, flicking a fallen petal from his hair. "Then I'll wait here, forever if I have to."

He believed her.

He believed in their future.

But the world had different plans.

Three years passed.

When he finally returned to the village—older, leaner, his fingers hardened by years of performance—he saw red lanterns still hanging across the streets, wilting in the wind. The villagers smiled when they saw him, but there was hesitation in their eyes.

Then he heard it.

"Elia? She's… married now."

His heart dropped.

"What…?"

"A match arranged by her father," the old man said, eyes filled with quiet pity. "You were gone too long. They said you'd forgotten her. She never agreed to the marriage, but… well… her husband is the son of a nobleman. She had no choice."

He didn't hear the rest.

He ran.

Feet pounding the cobbled road, heart thundering louder than any storm. The violin case slammed against his back with every step. He didn't stop to breathe. Didn't stop to hope. Just ran, as if speed could turn back time.

The house came into view—once white, once warm. Now gray. Faded. Silent.

The garden was overgrown, wild with weeds. The apple tree still stood, but the blossoms were gone.

And there she was.

Standing at the gate.

Older, maybe—but unmistakable. Her hair was tied back the same way she used to when tending the herbs. A basket hung from one arm, forgotten. Her eyes met his—those same warm brown eyes—but they no longer held the light they once did.

Her eyes widened when she saw him.

But she didn't run.

She didn't smile.

She only looked at him, as if he were a ghost.

A phantom of a dream that never returned in time.

Then a man appeared behind her—tall, smug, well-dressed—and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, like chains forged in silence. Her body tensed, but she said nothing.

Not a single word.

The violinist stood there for a long time.

He didn't cry.

He only turned, walked away, and resumed his travels.

Now his music changed.

The gentle sway of love and wind became the agony of storms and blood. His melodies screamed. His bow tore across the strings like thunderclaps. People no longer clapped when he played—they stared, stunned, breathless, as if they were watching a soul unravel in front of them.

The legend changed, too.

They now called him "the Demon Violinist."

Because his music no longer belonged to this world.

He never smiled again. Never spoke of her. But each time he raised his bow, it was a plea—an echo of the name Elia, lost somewhere between the notes.

A year passed.

When he returned to the village, it wasn't out of hope.

It was because something in his heart refused to stay quiet. A dull ache that never left, a pull he could no longer ignore.

The moment he stepped onto the familiar dirt road, he knew something was wrong.

The village was too quiet.

No music. No laughter. Just the wind, cold and hollow.

He approached the first person he saw—a wrinkled old woman sweeping her porch.

"Elia," he said, barely above a whisper.

She froze.

Her hands gripped the broom tighter. Her eyes welled with unshed tears.

"She's gone," she said, her voice breaking like brittle glass.

The world tilted beneath his feet.

His knees buckled.

He collapsed onto the road, the dust clinging to him as if trying to hold him together.

Dead.

Elia was dead.

"Why…?" he rasped.

The old woman stepped down from the porch and slowly sat beside him, her voice trembling.

"Her husband… he was cruel. Behind closed doors, he made her life a quiet kind of hell. She hid it well… but bruises don't lie."

He squeezed his eyes shut. His fists dug into the dirt.

"She always said," the woman continued softly, "that she was waiting. I never knew for who… she never spoke your name. But she would say it like a prayer… that someone was out there, traveling the world and he is great violinist"

The old woman turned to look at him, her eyes filled with quiet understanding.

"I believe that someone was you."

His breath caught.

"...Me…" he whispered, tears spilling freely now.

The old woman reached into the folds of her shawl, hesitating before pulling out a small, folded piece of paper—creased and yellowed with age, its corners stained with dried tears.

"I… took this," she admitted, voice low. "Found it in one of the dress she used to wear."

She placed the letter gently into his shaking hands.

"I believe it was for you."

He unfolded it.

And read the last words of the girl who once promised to wait beneath the apple tree.

"To the one I always loved…

I waited. I always waited.

Every song I heard, I imagined it was yours.

Even when my world turned dark, I kept listening.

I just wanted to hear you play one more time.

I'm sorry I couldn't wait any longer.

I hope i can hear .... you play one last song for me."

–Elia

He didn't scream.

Not right away.

He simply stared at the letter, the words like thorns in his chest.

And then…

He stood.

Walked.

To the mansion on the hill.

Where her husband still lived.

Where her pain began.

He did not knock.

The guards never had time to draw their swords.

He stormed through the halls like a spirit of vengeance, his case in one hand.

He found the man lounging, sipping wine, surrounded by comfort.

He looked up.

"Who the hell—"

He never finished his sentence.

The violin case dropped.

And with hands so calm they could have belonged to a statue, the violinist took one of the strings—thin, taut, steel.

And before the man could stand, the string was around his neck.

Tight.

Fast.

Silent.

A gurgled scream, a splash of red, and silence returned.

The violinist didn't run.

He sat down in the center of the room.

Pulled his violin from the case.

Tuned it.

Then he began to play.

It was not a scream.

It was not a rage.

This time… it was gentle.

A lullaby.

A breeze under moonlight.

He played for her soul. For her memory. For every moment they were denied.

The notes wrapped the blood-stained room in warmth and sorrow. Like petals falling into still water.

Tears slid down his cheeks.

But he did not stop.

He played until the guards arrived.

Until they pulled the bow from his hand.

Until the last note lingered in the air.

And then…

He smiled.

One last time.

——