AI 艺术: Panel description: A close-up of the ancient, twisted rose-tree under the cold, silvery moonlight. Its bark is cracked, and its thorns gleam like tiny blades. Shadows fall long and sharp across the ground, stretching toward the Nightingale, who perches on one of its trembling branches. The air feels heavy, as if nature itself is holding its breath. The Nightingale’s wings quiver slightly, and her small heart beats fast with fear and anticipation. Speech bubbles: Red Rose-tree (serious, slow, heavy voice): “There is a way… but it is terrible — far more terrible than you can imagine. You must build this rose out of music and moonlight, weaving each petal with the song of your soul. But it will not be enough — to give it life, you must stain it with your own heart’s blood. You must sing to me with your breast pressed against one of my thorns, and as you sing through the long, cold night, the thorn will pierce deeper and deeper into your heart. Only then, as the moon fades into dawn, will the rose bloom — crimson and beautiful, red as blood, red as the price of true love.” Nightingale (after a long silence, her voice soft but firm, filled with quiet courage): “So this is the price of a red rose… of true love. Yet love is greater than life itself, and what is the heart of a little bird compared to the heart of a man who longs for love?” (The Nightingale looks up at the moon, her eyes shining with both sorrow and devotion.)

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Panel description: A close-up of the ancient, twisted rose-tree under the cold, silvery moonlight. Its bark is cracked, and its thorns gleam like tiny blades. Shadows fall long and sharp across the ground, stretching toward the Nightingale, who perches on one of its trembling branches. The air feels heavy, as if nature itself is holding its breath. The Nightingale’s wings quiver slightly, and her small heart beats fast with fear and anticipation. Speech bubbles: Red Rose-tree (serious, slow, heavy voice): “There is a way… but it is terrible — far more terrible than you can imagine. You must build this rose out of music and moonlight, weaving each petal with the song of your soul. But it will not be enough — to give it life, you must stain it with your own heart’s blood. You must sing to me with your breast pressed against one of my thorns, and as you sing through the long, cold night, the thorn will pierce deeper and deeper into your heart. Only then, as the moon fades into dawn, will the rose bloom — crimson and beautiful, red as blood, red as the price of true love.” Nightingale (after a long silence, her voice soft but firm, filled with quiet courage): “So this is the price of a red rose… of true love. Yet love is greater than life itself, and what is the heart of a little bird compared to the heart of a man who longs for love?” (The Nightingale looks up at the moon, her eyes shining with both sorrow and devotion.)
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Panel description: A close-up of the ancient, twisted rose-tree under the cold, silvery moonlight. Its bark is cracked, and its thorns gleam like tiny blades. Shadows fall long and sharp across the ground, stretching toward the Nightingale, who perches on one of its trembling branches. The air feels heavy, as if nature itself is holding its breath. The Nightingale’s wings quiver slightly, and her small heart beats fast with fear and anticipation. Speech bubbles: Red Rose-tree (serious, slow, heavy voice): “There is a way… but it is terrible — far more terrible than you can imagine. You must build this rose out of music and moonlight, weaving each petal with the song of your soul. But it will not be enough — to give it life, you must stain it with your own heart’s blood. You must sing to me with your breast pressed against one of my thorns, and as you sing through the long, cold night, the thorn will pierce deeper and deeper into your heart. Only then, as the moon fades into dawn, will the rose bloom — crimson and beautiful, red as blood, red as the price of true love.” Nightingale (after a long silence, her voice soft but firm, filled with quiet courage): “So this is the price of a red rose… of true love. Yet love is greater than life itself, and what is the heart of a little bird compared to the heart of a man who longs for love?” (The Nightingale looks up at the moon, her eyes shining with both sorrow and devotion.)

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