1286-1290

Chapter 1286: Captivating

An objective assessment: Joaquin Phoenix, within his abilities, gave his all to portray Johnny Cash.

But in the previous life, did Joaquin's version of Walk the Line become a classic? Did Joaquin’s portrayal of Johnny Cash move audiences?

No, it did not.

Why? Was it because Joaquin lacked acting skills?

No, the answer lies in the music.

From the moment the two Jameses conceived the Walk the Line project, they aimed to enter Johnny Cash’s world through music. However, Joaquin’s biggest shortcoming was his inability to touch Johnny Cash’s soul through music or connect with audiences via the music.

Now, all the pressure is on Anson.

After careful consideration and firsthand experience, weighing the pros and cons, Anson finally made his choice—even if it meant throwing the entire crew into chaotic overdrive.

In Anson’s view, the trouble and difficulties they faced now would be worth it because—

The hardest part is getting started.

Once the breakthrough was made, he believed he could push open the door, and the subsequent tasks would become simpler.

And so, here was this pile of chaos.

Clearly, Anson knew the consequences of disrupting the crew’s shooting schedule, yet he still did it. This indirectly revealed the weight he placed on the role, as well as his unavoidable tension and anxiety.

After much deliberation, Anson decided this was necessary. Then, he acted decisively and resolutely.

Now, the moment of truth was here—

It was time to see whether the horse was a stallion or a mule.

From the moment he stepped into the recording studio, Anson consciously allowed himself to “indulge,” letting his nervous emotions run rampant.

A bit distracted, a bit anxious—amid the tension and unease, he did not forget to sprinkle in a touch of humor. These small details reflected Johnny Cash’s essence. Anson was immersing himself in the character and attempting to transform the recording studio into Sun Records from half a century ago, bringing everyone back to that fateful afternoon when Johnny Cash’s musical dreams hung in the balance.

In a way, Anson was letting the character consume him, silently breaking the line between reality and illusion, blurring the boundaries between himself and the role.

Beyond the music, Anson had entered his performance.

So, the nervousness was real. The caution was real. The awkwardness was real.

At the same time, the jokes and banter were real too—his attempts to ease his tension, even though he still felt parched afterward, were all genuine.

This feeling was particularly delicate.

For Anson himself, it was something entirely new—like being in a half-dream, half-awake state.

Then, Anson looked toward the camera lens, nodding slightly to signal that he was ready.

In front of the camera, Anson was nervous.

Behind the camera, Mangold was nervous too.

The tension spread throughout the entire crew, so much so that even Hunter and the others held their breath, no longer in the mood for their usual joking around.

“Action!”

The clapperboard sounded on set, and the cameras began to roll.

The lens focused on the Tennessee Three—Anson, Larry, and Dan-John—standing in an inverted triangle formation.

Initially, Mangold had planned to use a panning wide shot to capture the Tennessee Three’s backs while Sam Phillips was the only one facing the camera.

But on second thought, this was Walk the Line, and it wouldn’t make sense for the first scene not to highlight the biggest star in the cast. Mangold changed his mind and decided to open with a direct shot of the Tennessee Three.

Anson stood at the forefront, just two steps from the lens. His tall, imposing figure filled the frame, and all three men were dressed in black shirts, their solemn expressions resembling those at a funeral.

However, though the cameras were rolling, Anson didn’t react. Standing motionless before the lens, it seemed he had forgotten the time—frozen, as if he were scared stiff.

Hunter froze. “Oh no, Anson’s freaked out.”

Cody shot Hunter an exasperated look: “Do you even know what you’re talking about? Freaked out? Anson? No way!”

But Anson truly wasn’t responding. He stood there, eyes half-closed, seemingly adjusting his breathing. Though the scene had started, he remained motionless.

Time ticked by slowly.

Mangold grew increasingly anxious. Unfamiliar with Anson’s working style, as this was their first collaboration, he had no idea what was happening.

Should he call “cut”? Or should he let this play out?

For a moment, his mind raced, unable to settle.

It wasn’t just Mangold—everyone else held their breath too. As the standoff dragged on, the tension, anxiety, and impatience in the room escalated. No one was immune.

Everyone could feel the intensity. The atmosphere on set was shifting.

…

In a sense, Hunter was right because this was precisely the effect Anson was deliberately creating.

Anson knew the camera was on him. He was the focal point.

He also knew all eyes, both on and off set, were on him.

Including Dallas. Including Larry and Dan-John.

So, consciously, Anson slowed the pace of his performance, building the tension and pulling everyone in the recording studio into this charged atmosphere.

---

Taking a deep breath, he tried to regain control of his emotions.

But, involuntarily, he took another deep breath.

On the surface, it seemed his breathing had steadied, but in reality, the atmosphere grew even more suffocating. There was a palpable sense of oxygen deprivation, causing those nearby to unconsciously adjust their own breathing. Anxiety and unease rippled through the air.

Yet, this was Anson. Even the director dared not interrupt the filming.

Mangold, unsure of the situation, chose to remain silent. His restraint only added to the mounting tension.

The onlookers were utterly confused. They knew this was a film crew and that they needed to stay quiet, but the bizarre scene unfolding before them was incomprehensible, making it impossible to suppress their murmurs.

One by one, they began whispering.

"Is this some kind of performance art?"

"No wonder people say art is profound. I can’t understand this at all."

"How pretentious. What are they even doing?"

"Is that it? Filming a movie looks so boring."

"Is he holding back for some big move? What's next, Pegasus Meteor Fist? Is he going to obliterate everyone in the recording studio?"

The scattered whispers grated on Mangold's nerves.

Even though the noise didn’t affect the filming in the recording booth—where it was barely a faint rustling, like raindrops on banana leaves—Mangold still felt deeply irritated.

He couldn’t calm down.

In that moment, a thought flashed through Mangold’s mind: if someone handed him a machine gun, he might actually turn around and fire indiscriminately, silencing the world at last.

Restlessness. Tension. Anxiety.

It all simmered in the air.

Dallas noticed. He was slightly surprised—so, even Anson could get nervous.

The once towering, imposing Anson seemed to have lost his usual aura entirely. Now, he appeared... restrained, awkward, and hesitant. Beneath his unease, there was even a trace of vulnerability. He didn’t dare meet anyone’s gaze.

This subtle change helped Dallas’s own frustration and tension gradually subside.

Then, finally, a sound broke the silence—

(End of Chapter)

*Chapter 1287: Embracing the Role*

After a long stretch of quiet and silence, finally, there was a sound—

Buzz, buzz, buzz.

The gentle strumming of guitar strings stirred the air, the faint vibrations rippling outward.

Johnny Cash began to move.

"…Yes, I know Jesus saved me."

Luther and Marshall harmonized, "Saved my soul."

One could sense he was trying to open his throat, aiming to make his voice shine.

However, his singing still felt heavy and muffled.

The pitch and enunciation sought to convey vitality, yet his throat felt dry, dragging the sound backward. It was like an elephant with its feet tied to the ground, trying to escape gravity by holding onto a helium balloon, only to be pulled back down every time.

This tension affected Luther and Marshall’s voices as well.

In theory, the three-part harmony should have enriched the performance, adding layers to the music. Even without distinct vocal parts, the collision of different voices should have created a resonant effect.

But unfortunately, that wasn’t the case.

The trio’s singing lacked depth and felt weak.

Though all three voices were present, they failed to create true resonance.

Even worse, the three performers were so immersed in their act that they remained oblivious to the issue, continuing to sing and trying harder to infuse their performance with energy.

Johnny sang, "In the moment of His forgiveness."

Luther and Marshall echoed, "He made me whole."

Johnny continued, "He took away my heavy burdens. God, He gave me peace of mind."

Luther and Marshall repeated, "Peace of mind."

If one listened closely, they could detect Johnny’s voice trembling slightly. His stiff shoulders and rigid posture made his upper body appear awkward and clumsy, as if he had forgotten to remove the hanger from his shirt and was now performing with it still inside. This awkwardness seeped into his voice, making his singing sound rigid and mechanical.

It lacked vitality.

Yet Johnny himself didn’t notice. He believed everything was going as planned and that he and his two partners were doing an excellent job.

Johnny glanced at Marshall and Luther, flashing what he thought was a smile—

Except his tense lips failed to curve upward. Instead, the muscles in his face twitched, creating a bizarre expression.

Johnny tried to rally his two companions, determined to capture the essence of the music.

Johnny sang, "Satan cannot make me doubt."

Marshall and Luther replied, "I will never doubt…"

Dallas—Sam Phillips had noticed it. Even without formal training in music, he could easily pick out the flaws in the performance.

It was raw. Unpolished. Crude. Amateurish. The whole thing carried the vibe of a casual jam session for personal enjoyment.

The voices weren’t bad, necessarily. But the forced low-pitched singing betrayed obvious signs of mimicry. They were trying to use deep tones to convey depth and resonance to express emotion, but the result was flat and uninspiring.

Was it terrible?

Not quite. The pitch and rhythm were technically correct.

Was it memorable?

Not at all. It brushed past the ears without leaving any impression.

It was like a bland meal—neither satisfying nor worth discarding.

Gradually, Dallas could feel the performers’ tension. The more they tried to give a strong performance, the more they trapped themselves, until even their vocal delivery became strained. Emotional expression? Forget about it.

In the end, they simply stood there, playing it safe, delivering a rigid, controlled performance. Even calling it "singing their hearts out" would be a stretch.

The entire act felt dry—devoid of flavor, color, texture, or… emotion.

It was soporific.

This was gospel music. On any given Sunday in a church, the spirit and talent of the singers would be evident. Just about anyone there could outperform this trio.

Dallas lifted his head to glance at Anson, realizing, without intending to, that he had drifted into a daze—a sort of disillusioned trance.

The tension, the stiffness, made the whole thing feel so small.

Unconsciously, Dallas straightened his back. He couldn’t lie to himself: it wasn’t working. No matter how much he tried to avoid coming off as critical, the glaring truth was undeniable.

*A Bit of Caution, a Bit of Disappointment, a Bit of Nervousness*

Sam Phillips struggled to hide his expression, and Dallas himself didn’t even realize that he had seamlessly slipped into Sam’s role.

Everything—silent, omnipresent—formed a powerful force. Amidst curiosity and confusion, amidst waiting and observing, everyone inside and outside the recording studio had already been pulled into a whirlpool, as if time had rewound, drawing them into Johnny Cash’s world.

Before anyone realized it, the boundaries between reality and illusion, between life and cinema, had disappeared. One foot in reality and the other in drama, straddling two realms yet completely unaware of it—tension, unease, worries, hesitation—all had long dissipated, swept away by the storm.

It was that simple. No need for a snap of the fingers; the magic had already happened.

*Was this real?*

In real life, people often believe there is a clear boundary between reality and drama, life and performance.

Dallas thought so too.

A call of “action” and a call of “cut” create a boundary, marking the start and end. They leave the performing persona within the camera’s lens and carve a line through the flow of real time, ensuring that actors remain lucid and don’t lose themselves in their roles, ultimately becoming someone unable to escape their character.

But is it really that simple?

Can a beginning and an end so easily separate one’s experiences, emotions, and immersion into neat compartments?

If truly outstanding and convincing performances require complete immersion, how can one detach so easily?

Reality often isn’t that straightforward.

To immerse oneself in a role but be unable to step out of it—that’s the madness of being too deep in character.

To immerse oneself in a role but fail to commit 100%—that’s poor acting.

To immerse oneself in a role but suddenly break out without warning—that’s an NG (no good take).

Relying solely on “action” and “cut” to divide time, feelings, and experiences is clearly insufficient.

There’s a saying: “The journey begins the moment you make the decision.”

In a sense, acting is the same. The moment you begin reading the script, the performance has already begun.

And here, now, was no different.

Long before Mangold called “action,” long before the cast and crew were ready, Anson’s demeanor and behavior had already begun to set the mood.

Dallas didn’t realize it at all.

Because of the intimidating aura associated with the name “Anson Wood,” he was unconsciously drawn into Anson’s rhythm. Before he had the chance to realize what was happening, his subconscious reflexes had taken over his mind, predisposing him to enter the character. The boundary between reality and illusion had already blurred.

The character quietly seeped into his being—so quietly that he didn’t even have time to react or realize it. Switching back and forth between tension and anxiety, he unknowingly entered the state. Somewhere between waking and dreaming, the performance naturally emerged, requiring neither thought nor embellishment.

Everything just flowed effortlessly:

A bit of regret, a touch of sorrow.

(End of Chapter)

Chapter 1288: Adapting to the Situation

A trace of regret, a tinge of pity.

Every emotion surfaced naturally, gradually immersing into the quiet atmosphere.

At this moment, he was both Dallas and Sam Phillips—

He couldn’t lie to himself. This performance, no matter how much he wanted it to work, simply didn’t.

The young man standing before him had come uninvited, carrying an air of urgency and hope.

It was clear from his shy and awkward demeanor that he wasn’t skilled at such encounters. It must have taken immense courage to take this first step: showing up and asking about Sun Records, cautiously exposing his deep yearning for a dream, laying bare his vulnerability.

This simplicity and honesty caught Sam’s attention.

After all, Sam was the same way—armed with nothing but a dream and a small recording studio. That was his whole world.

He thought he should give the young man a chance. Those bashful eyes reflected passion and sincerity, and Sam wanted to see where that might lead.

He thought he should let him keep singing, at least finish another verse. Perhaps there’d be a surprise waiting.

But…

Sam couldn’t hide his disappointment. He felt an even deeper regret than the young man before him. He sincerely wished he could discover a hidden gem.

Unfortunately, there was only one Elvis Presley, and Sun Records might never encounter a second genius.

Johnny didn’t notice.

He was entirely absorbed in his performance, so much so that he wasn’t even aware of his own nervousness. Observing Sam’s reaction? He didn’t have the bandwidth for that.

Johnny felt like he was hitting his stride.

Now, he just needed to let his voice open up, to release his emotions and sound together. After building up through the verses, the chorus was where he could truly showcase his talent.

“Everything feels so real, I just need to shout it out loud…”

Johnny wasn’t yelling mindlessly. Instead, he poured his soul into the song, swaying gently with the rhythm, trying to convey the raw emotion in the lyrics.

But to Sam—

It was uninspired.

This was textbook. Every singer believed they were “pouring their soul” into a song, but in reality, the plain delivery lacked any real emotion or soul.

Moreover, all gospel singers seemed to follow the same formula: heartfelt verses, passionate choruses. It was predictable to the point of exhaustion.

Sam could no longer hold back. He raised his hand, trying to interrupt Johnny.

But Johnny didn’t notice. His eyes were shut, lost in his own rapture. Luther and Marshall were no exception, completely immersed in their own world.

The scene was almost absurd. Sam’s lips twitched into a faint, bitter smile.

Perhaps they thought of the studio as their own front porch—guitars in hand, a bottle of beer downed, Memphis’s warm evening breeze brushing past as they hummed along. Maybe their wives and friends cheered a little, and that gave them the confidence to believe they could make a record.

“Ahem.”

Despite his reluctance, Sam cleared his throat, trying to interrupt the performance.

But it was no use. Johnny and his companions kept singing—

Flatly, lifelessly, pouring every ounce of energy into the song yet failing to ignite any spark.

“Hold on.”

“Hold on!”

Sam finally forced himself to speak up, cutting them off.

Johnny froze, stunned and bewildered. Luther and Marshall, clutching their instruments, snapped out of their trance but clearly had no idea what was happening.

Johnny’s eyes began to dart wildly.

First came shock. They were just about to reach the climax of their performance—why were they being interrupted now?

Then came anxiety. Was this the end? Had he blown his only chance?

The chaotic emotions flared briefly in his pupils but didn’t have time to take root. They soon dissipated into a blank, confused expression as he stood there motionless.

Sam, however, didn’t notice—or perhaps he didn’t have the luxury to care.

If he felt guilty every time he rejected a hopeful auditioning singer, this business wouldn’t survive.

Despite the regret and frustration, Sam had to be honest.

“I hate to interrupt, but… do you have any other songs?”

Silence. Complete stillness.

Luther and Marshall exchanged puzzled glances before finally looking to Johnny.

Johnny remained frozen in place. Time had moved forward, but his thoughts lingered in the past: What had just happened? Why was their performance interrupted?

This was supposed to be the highlight, the climax, wasn’t it?

The air grew stiff and settled into a heavy silence.

Dallas appeared slightly uneasy. He finally noticed the gaze directly in front of him—a rigid, unwavering stare fixed on him, as if it could pierce through all his thoughts. It made him feel slightly embarrassed.

A hint of nervousness. A trace of unease.

But not the kind that stems from fear or retreat; rather, it was the kind that arises right before ripping off a bandage.

Dallas knew he had to act decisively—quick, precise, and relentless. Long-term pain was worse than short-term discomfort.

Taking a deep breath, Sam avoided Johnny’s gaze. His eyes flicked to Luther and then to Marshall, both of whom seemed at a loss, unwilling even to meet Johnny’s eyes.

Helplessly, Sam returned his attention to Johnny. The breath that had been stuck in his throat finally escaped in a soft sigh.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t sell gospel songs anymore.”

“I just can’t.”

The bandage was ripped off.

Sam began gathering his things. There was no reason to continue this audition.

The air remained still, the only sound coming from the rustling of papers.

At last, Johnny’s soul caught up with the flow of time and returned to his body. His brain processed the reality, the shock and surprise colliding within him—nervousness, anger, confusion, and bewilderment swirling together in a chaotic mix.

Johnny finally found his voice.

“So, that’s it?”

Even those words felt weightless, devoid of any force, like a drifting leaf struggling to find its center of gravity in the breeze.

Johnny could feel his vocal cords vibrating, but it was as though he were speaking in space—

Without air, sound cannot travel.

So there was vibration but no sound. Johnny wasn’t sure if the other person had heard him, nor did he know how to express himself.

All he could do was fix his eyes on Sam, trying to convey his feelings through his gaze.

Unwavering. Intense.

Sam felt the heat of that stare. His movements paused as he packed his things. Reluctantly, he looked up, his eyes meeting Johnny’s.

Stubbornness. Determination. Naivety. Immaturity.

At that moment, Sam sat on a high stool while Johnny stood tall. His posture, initially stiff and slightly hunched from nervousness, straightened completely. With his upright stance, confident air, and strikingly handsome face, Johnny resembled a towering pine tree, standing firm and resolute, looking down at Sam from above.

From below, Sam could clearly see the unpolished purity in those eyes, brimming with an untainted sense of wonder.

Sam thought for a moment and slightly raised his chin. Despite still being at a disadvantage, he silently shifted the dynamics, taking control of the situation.

What should he say?

“I don’t record things that don’t sell, Mr. Cash.”

No preamble. Straight to the point.

“Songs like these gospel ones? They just don’t sell.”

The words, though plain, were sharp and powerful, striking with such force that Johnny’s pride and confidence were shattered in an instant.

(End of Chapter)

Chapter 1289: A Genuine Display of Emotion

“I don’t record things that won’t sell, Mr. Cash. Gospel songs like this simply don’t sell.”

Johnny’s cheeks instantly flushed red, his ears following suit. Without even realizing it, he lifted his chin, trying to meet Sam’s gaze with an authoritative glare.

Johnny challenged him, his tone carrying a spark of anger, “Is the problem with the gospel songs, or with the way I sing them?”

Sam could feel the heat of Johnny’s fury, but it didn’t faze him. “Both,” he replied coolly.

Johnny: …

The clash of wills made Johnny pause, his mind cooling just a little. “Fine. Then tell me, what’s wrong with the way I sing?”

Sam hesitated for a moment, his gaze steady on Johnny. Deliberately slowing his speech, he pronounced each word with precision, “I. Don’t. Believe. You.”

Dallas, who had been observing the exchange, felt a mixture of excitement and disbelief, bordering on euphoria.

This is madness. Absolute madness. How could he dare to speak to Anson like this? Even though there was no overt arrogance in Sam’s tone, the condescension in his words was impossible to miss.

Mad or not, Dallas had a gut feeling that this was the right approach. The words etched deep in his mind spilled out naturally.

Sam, seated firmly in his chair, didn’t lean forward or retreat. He faced Johnny’s fiery gaze with an unyielding calm.

Johnny tilted his chin higher, his eyelids slightly lowered to shield the storm of emotions brewing in his eyes. The more furious he became, the calmer he appeared. His voice, stripped of warmth or inflection, carried a sharp, cutting edge as he asked a question that dripped with quiet contempt.

“Are you saying I don’t believe in God?”

This was a matter of principle and faith. To Johnny, the polished man before him was challenging his very core.

The icy tone in Johnny’s voice made the two men behind him realize the situation was spiraling out of control.

Luther stepped in, his voice tight, “JR, let it go. Let’s leave.”

Johnny Cash, born “J.R. Cash,” had parents who were too uneducated to come up with a proper name. They simply gave him initials, with the “R” added only to complement the “J” and avoid a single-letter name. It wasn’t an abbreviation of anything.

When he enlisted in the military, they required a proper name, so he chose “Johnny Cash.”

Still, his closest friends, or those who sought to calm him down, would often call him “JR” to evoke memories of his childhood.

Unfortunately, it didn’t work this time.

JR refused to be pacified, shaking off Luther and Marshall’s attempts to stop him.

“No. I want to know.”

His eyes were filled with sincerity and gravity.

“So, we come here, perform for a minute, and then he tells me I don’t believe in God?”

His anger was building, flames licking higher and higher.

But Sam didn’t back down. Instead, he let a faint smirk cross his lips, a touch of mockery dancing at the corners. “You know exactly what I mean.”

“This kind of song—we’ve heard it hundreds of times before... just like that... and exactly the way you just sang it.”

His drawn-out words were deliberately grating, carrying an air of judgment from on high.

Johnny froze: …

He couldn’t argue.

But he had to argue.

Clenching his teeth tightly, Johnny hissed, “You’re saying we’re not allowed to sing with emotion—‘bring it home,’ is that it?”

Sam chuckled, the sound laced with derision. “Sing with emotion…” He repeated the phrase mockingly, letting the sarcasm drip from his lips. “Sing with emotion?” He chuckled harder, his amusement growing. “Let’s talk about what it means to sing with emotion.”

Abruptly, the laughter stopped.

Sam remained seated, making no move to rise, yet his presence filled the room. From that position, he still managed to look down at Johnny.

“Imagine you’ve just been hit by a truck. You’re lying in a ditch, barely clinging to life. You only have time to sing one last song. One song for people to remember you by before you return to dust. One song to tell God what your life felt like. One song to sum up your entire existence.”

“Tell me. Would it be the song you just sang?”

“Like the songs we hear all day on the radio—those by Jimmy Davis? Delivered with a calm tone, as if that’s supposed to convey honesty, and yet all it does is shout forced emotion?”

“Or would you sing something else entirely?”

Each word was sharp, deliberate, and mocking. Sam’s rhetoric struck with the precision of a scalpel.

He didn’t hold back.

Sam’s pace was unhurried, his tone unrelenting as he spoke each word while locking eyes with Johnny.

And then, in Johnny’s dark, soulful eyes, Sam saw it—an unguarded flicker of pain and inner turmoil. It vanished almost instantly, replaced by a mask of defiance.

Sam paused for a moment, considering.

“Something real? Something that’s actually yours?”

"Because I’m telling you now, that is the kind of music truly worth yearning for—that is the kind of music that can genuinely save a soul. This has nothing to do with believing in God, Mr. Cash. What truly matters is whether you believe in yourself."

Some instinct told Sam: he believed in the kid standing before him.

Whether it was the last time he had volunteered himself or this very moment, Sam could see something in his eyes—a spark, a passion.

It was genuine, yet fragile.

It was urgent, yet intense.

It was nothing more than an intangible intuition, but Sam wanted to believe it.

Sam gazed at Johnny, simply and silently, his expression calm, sincere, and open.

Under Sam’s steady gaze, Johnny’s stubbornness and anger began to fade imperceptibly. His proud chin, held high moments ago, slowly lowered until it rested against his chest. He seemed almost defeated, awkwardly avoiding Sam’s eyes, too ashamed to meet them.

He closed his eyes, his brow furrowed with the subtle pull of pain and struggle.

The entire room fell into absolute silence. At some point, no one had spoken, and even the sound of a heartbeat seemed to vanish.

Hunter’s eyes were fixed on the monitor, watching the handsome face on the screen. The restraint, the struggle, the inner conflict—all of it flitted by in an instant, carefully concealed within the tension of a furrowed brow. And yet, in that fleeting moment of revelation, the raw and intricate emotions that escaped were achingly real.

This, this was Johnny Cash.

Those who truly understood Johnny’s music knew that he wasn’t perfect—not only imperfect but riddled with wounds, scars, and flaws.

In the 1950s and 1960s, before paparazzi had taken root and when news traveled slowly, singers stood resplendent on stage. People rarely caught a glimpse of their offstage lives.

But Johnny Cash was different.

Not because he flaunted his private life or broadcast it to the world, but because his music inadvertently exposed his truth. The fragility, the scars, the pain, the struggle—it was all there, woven into the melodies, profoundly authentic.

And that’s precisely why Johnny Cash’s music possessed the power to stir hearts and strike souls—

He was never perfect.

Later, as media became more pervasive, the world saw the battered and bruised Johnny Cash in all his vulnerability. Yet, they were not surprised.

Nor did they reject him.

On the contrary, this was their Johnny—a raw, vulnerable man who was imperfect but had always strived to persevere. He was the Man in Black they had come to admire.

It wasn’t until this moment, staring at the monitor, that Hunter finally saw the true Johnny Cash he had always envisioned.

(End of Chapter)

Chapter 1290: Narrating Through Song

Johnny Cash always carried the weight of his cross, stumbling under its burden. From his father’s abuse to his mother’s quiet endurance, and Vivian’s pain, the struggles and curses bound his soul. He couldn’t face himself, refused to confront his own truths, and even loathed the real Johnny he saw within.

From the gazes of those closest to him, Johnny saw himself as weak and cowardly, inept and clumsy. They didn’t even need words; a single look could strip him of all his defenses, exposing his most tender and fragile wounds, each one aching and raw.

Even with Vivian, it was the same.

Vivian had always known about Johnny’s musical dreams. She didn’t oppose them, but she didn’t actively support them either. At times, she’d gently encourage him to create music. At other times, the harshness of their financial struggles plunged her into despair. Occasionally, she thought Johnny’s amateur music with his friends had no future at all.

At her core, Vivian was a traditional woman. She longed for a stable, peaceful life and hoped Johnny could provide a steady income. Despite being consumed by pain and torment, she tried to learn patience and understanding toward Johnny. Yet, she never truly understood him.

Vivian’s struggle mirrored Johnny’s own.

Both were gentle souls, yet their gentleness often caused them to unintentionally hurt each other.

Johnny couldn’t meet Vivian’s gaze. He feared the disappointment and struggle reflected in her eyes, along with the image of a useless version of himself.

In Vivian’s presence, Johnny always performed gospel music, never revealing that he composed other types of songs.

His joys and sorrows, his vulnerabilities and wounds, his pain and inner turmoil—all poured into the notes and melodies, flowing from the depths of his soul.

But he didn’t dare to show them. He buried and concealed them carefully, hiding another secret within his dream of music.

Even Johnny himself couldn’t face it.

Until now.

Standing before Sam, Johnny felt naked for the first time—

Music truly was the window to the soul. Someone could indeed see through his struggles and hidden truths in an instant.

Johnny lowered his eyes, avoiding Sam’s gaze like a child caught doing something wrong.

After a moment of inner turmoil, Johnny cautiously raised his head again, looking at Sam, and spoke hesitantly.

“I wrote a few songs when I was serving in the Air Force…”

His voice was soft, almost mumbling. Realizing his awkwardness, Johnny raised his voice deliberately, adopting a slightly defiant tone.

“Do you have a problem with the Air Force?”

Sam raised an eyebrow slightly, responding without hesitation, “No.”

Johnny recognized the immaturity of his remark, softening his tone. “I do.”

Sam froze, caught off guard. Johnny had issues with the Air Force? Was he joking?

Sam studied Johnny’s expression closely.

In Johnny’s eyes, he saw a faint but resolute glimmer. Though introverted and reserved, that glimmer hinted at a deeply buried strength—resilient and fervent.

Unconsciously, Sam straightened his posture, his interest growing.

Johnny’s friends, however, didn’t share the same sentiment.

“JR, no matter what you sing, we’ve never heard it.”

“So… what do we do?”

Johnny didn’t respond. Lost in thought, he fixed his gaze on Sam. Without accompaniment or fanfare, he began to hum softly.

“I hear the train a-comin’, it’s rolling ’round the bend.”

His voice was light and tender, with a faint tremor that revealed both hesitation and vulnerability, yet it carried an undeniable conviction.

“And I ain’t seen the sunshine since I don’t know when. I’m stuck in Folsom Prison, and time keeps draggin’ on.”

Sam froze, unable to react immediately, captivated by Johnny’s trembling notes filled with emotion.

Not just Sam—Luther and Marshall felt it too. The raw power of Johnny’s emotion lingered in his quivering tone.

Unconsciously, one reached out toward an imaginary ray of sunlight, only to find empty air. Closing his fingers, he grasped nothing but a cool void. Looking up abruptly, he found himself in a black hole where time and space dissolved into nothingness.

What kind of song was this?

“Folsom Prison Blues.”

Hunter recognized the melody instantly. Even without accompaniment, the sorrow, fragility, and desolation in Johnny’s voice struck deeply.

This wasn’t a song Johnny had composed while in prison. Its inspiration came from a film he watched during his Air Force service.

Folsom Prison, a maximum-security facility in California, was infamous for its inhumane treatment of inmates before reforms in 1944. The film’s story provoked deep reflection in Johnny.

Against this backdrop, Johnny wrote the song from a first-person perspective.

Evidently, Johnny had never shared this song publicly. He feared revealing his inner thoughts, worried about exposing his true self. His reflections, his depths, and his soul had long been hidden behind his silence and awkwardness.

Until now.

If this was the end of his life, if he lay dying in a gutter, if this was his final testimony before God, the first melody that came to mind would be this one.

Cautiously, with a hint of timidity and hesitation, Johnny lowered his gaze and softly sang, not daring to look at Sam or anyone else. He simply immersed himself in his own thoughts.

“But that train keeps a-rollin’, on down to San Antone.”

The notes flowed gracefully, loosening as they carried on.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—not happiness or joy, but a sense of liberation. The heavy clouds overhead began to part as the diluted sunlight peeked through.

Johnny Cash’s song, though heavy in theme, was presented with a light-hearted touch. Regret and sorrow mingled with a playful rhythm, soaring freely within a blend of swing and country styles.

However, in the first verse of his performance, Johnny carried an overwhelming mix of emotions, reflecting unease and apprehension.

Until now.

As he sang on, his confidence returned, and his voice steadied. He fully immersed himself in the performance.

Then, his fingers touched the guitar strings and plucked gently—

A variation.

The rhythm and tone shifted. Though the sky remained overcast with a gentle drizzle, sunlight pierced the clouds persistently. The gray chaos of the world gradually gave way to golden streaks of light. Even the rain seemed less dismal.

The atmosphere became subtle and layered.

All eyes fell on Johnny Cash.

(End of Chapter)