WCP 21

chapter 21

Listening to the dissonant noise echoing from beyond the stage, Song Min-woo muttered quietly to himself.

“…So, in the end, he couldn’t endure it.”

There are always performers like that in the world.
Those who mistakenly believe they don’t feel the weight of the stage.
Those who, in arrogance, are convinced that others’ playing is beneath their own. Such musicians have existed in every era.

But the reason they think they don’t feel tension or pressure on stage isn’t because they’re special.
It’s simply because they are unaware of it.

The stickiness in the air when stepping on stage, the cold gazes of the audience, the heaviness of the keys—all of that stems from nervous tension.

And the moment they become aware of it, they collapse.
Only those who face their nerves head-on can overcome them.

That is why Jung Da-yoon managed to endure that tension and finish her performance.

But what about Kang Yoon?

All his life, he arrogantly claimed he never felt nervous. And in the end, he couldn’t withstand the pressure and chose to run away.

‘Though, I did provoke him a little too.’

Now that he’s fallen apart like that, the boy only has two choices left.
Either overcome it and rise again, or give up and remain broken.

But Min-woo felt no regret.
Sooner or later, this was something the boy was bound to experience.

From here on, this will be a turning point for him.
If he rises again, he could grow into an unprecedented pianist.

After all, the performance Min-woo had heard during the preliminaries was undoubtedly that of someone with true talent.

With those thoughts, Song Min-woo left the waiting room with a faint smile of expectation.

“Hey, Song Min-woo!!”

Suddenly, Lee Ji-hye’s sharp voice called him to a halt.
Seeing her rushing toward him with an excited expression, Min-woo instinctively took a step back.

“What was that La Campanella earlier?! Don’t tell me you just rearranged it however you wanted?!”
“Rearrange? Come on. This isn’t a recital, why would I do something like that?”
“Then what was it?! At first, I thought it was just La Campanella, but by the middle it was a completely different piece!”

Apparently, Ji-hye didn’t know there was another version of La Campanella.

“The 1838 version… right?”

Before Min-woo could answer, a familiar voice replied in his place.
It was none other than Jung Da-yoon, standing quietly behind Ji-hye as if hiding.

Min-woo nodded silently.

“Yeah. That one feels more natural to me.”

The version familiar to the public is Liszt’s 1851 revised edition.
But of course, for Min-woo—or rather, Chopin—the 1838 version he had actually heard in life was more natural than the one published two years after his death.

Of course, since neither Da-yoon nor Ji-hye knew that fact, they just looked at him with curious eyes.

“But… what about Kang Yoon…?”

Da-yoon spoke, hearing the commotion of the concert hall even from the hallway.

It was an unprecedented incident—not in the preliminaries, but in the finals.
A performer had vented his frustration on the piano before finishing his piece and stormed off stage. Naturally, the whole venue was in uproar.

“…He probably won’t be able to get back on stage for a while.”

For a performer, quitting midway is the worst possible choice.
And to do so in the finals of a competition attended by the entire Korean classical community—people would not stop talking about it.

“What? Da-yoon, don’t tell me you’re actually worried about him?”
“W-well… a little…”
“Hey! Worry about the right things! After the way he treated you, why on earth are you worried about him?!”

Ji-hye shouted in frustration, and Da-yoon faltered, her voice trailing off awkwardly.

“Still…”
“Still what?”
“…I just think, I could’ve ended up like him too. So it doesn’t feel entirely good.”

Her performance had begun disastrously, but she pushed past her limits and saw it through to the end.
Kang Yoon’s had also begun poorly, but he chose to quit instead.

Since she had suffered from the crushing pressure of the stage more than anyone, she couldn’t help but understand what he must have felt.
Had things gone a little differently, she might have been the one to collapse instead.

So, silently, Da-yoon turned her gaze back toward the stage.
Perhaps competitions aren’t so much about one’s own success, but about feeling the failures of others more vividly.

Patience is always the hardest time to endure.
One minute feels like ten. The longer it drags on, the louder your heartbeat grows, and your blood turns cold.

‘It’s been a while since I felt this way.’

When had he last endured such restless waiting?
Min-woo tried to recall but it had been so long he couldn’t remember.

“Prize ceremony speeches are always so boring.”

Beside him, Ji-hye muttered in a voice heavy with boredom.
It had been half an hour since a staff member told them to wait backstage.

And for all that time, instead of awarding prizes, a woman—clearly one of the judges—had been droning on with a long speech. No wonder Ji-hye was restless.

“Professor Choi Na-rae is amazing, but… yeah, her speeches are way too long.”

Da-yoon sympathized. With more competition experience than anyone there, she seemed to know several of the judges personally.

“She’s probably the youngest of the panel, yet somehow she gives off the vibe of our school principal.”
“Ah, I know what you mean.”

Thinking back to their principal’s dreary speeches, Min-woo nodded unconsciously. The similarity was uncanny.

“Do you think she judged really strictly too? I wish she’d been a little more lenient.”
“It’s a competition. Of course she was strict.”

Leniency would disqualify her as a judge.
Judging, in any art, must be built on fairness.
Though, in art, personal taste inevitably creeps in no matter how fair it seems.

“Tch. Then I guess first place is as good as gone for me.”

Ji-hye clicked her tongue regretfully.

“Isn’t that a bit pessimistic? I think you’ve got a real shot.”
“Oh please! Who poured their very soul into La Campanella?!”

She half-jokingly grabbed Min-woo by the collar, but a stern glance from a nearby staffer forced her to lower her voice.

“…Anyway, first place is obviously yours. No question.”

Was it really?

Min-woo recalled Ji-hye’s performance of Liszt’s Ballade No. 9, S.136.
Her precision and expression were in no way inferior to La Campanella.

The harmonious balance of her melody stood out.
Balance may sound plain, but it’s what all musicians ultimately strive for.
To balance means to understand what one lacks and what is essential.

That’s how a performer continues to grow until they finally become a true pianist.

‘Funny—she doesn’t even realize it herself.’

First place would be decided by the tiniest of margins.

And as if to echo Min-woo’s thoughts, Professor Choi’s voice rang out from the stage.

“Now, we will announce the 1st place winner of the 21st Korea International Music Competition, Piano Division. We ask your understanding that the judging was delayed due to split opinions among the judges.”

At this, Ji-hye’s face went blank with surprise.

With Kang Yoon disqualified for quitting, and Da-yoon relegated to 3rd place after her shaky start, the only contenders for 1st and 2nd were Ji-hye and Min-woo.

So, if the judges’ opinions had been split, that meant their skills had been nearly equal.

“……”

Ji-hye stared blankly at Professor Choi on stage. And when their eyes seemed to meet for just a moment, she saw a faint smile on the professor’s lips. It was probably no coincidence.

“The 1st place winner of the 21st Korea International Music Competition, Piano Division is…”

30 Minutes Earlier

With all three judges gathered, Professor Choi let out a troubled sigh.

“This is a problem.”

The reason was simple: the results had turned out in a completely unexpected way, shaking the entire competition.

Out of four contestants, two of the strongest 1st and 2nd place candidates had either quit mid-performance or failed to deliver their true potential.

“Sure, anything can happen in a competition, but honestly, I’ve never seen this before.”
“Crazy, right? Who would’ve thought Kang Yoon of all people would walk off mid-performance?”
“But we all know that’s not the real issue.”

It was true the favorites hadn’t delivered.
But that wasn’t the real problem.

Kang Yoon was clearly disqualified.
Da-yoon, despite her beautiful finish, had stumbled too much early on, so 3rd place was appropriate.

The real problem lay with the two remaining contestants.

“Song Min-woo and Lee Ji-hye. Their playing styles are just too different. In terms of pure polish, Min-woo is the clear winner, but…”

Professor Choi trailed off, rubbing her temple.

Judge Jo Sung-min continued for her:

“The issue is that Min-woo’s performance only barely followed the score.”

If this had been a recital, it wouldn’t matter. In recitals, performers are free to reinterpret or adapt.

But this was a competition.
Here, accuracy outweighed expression. The score mattered more than the performer’s ideas.

“On the other hand, Ji-hye’s performance was completely faithful to the score—and yet it never felt stiff.”

Professor Lee Jung-hoon added.

Usually, strict adherence to the score buries the performer’s interpretation. But Ji-hye minimized the drawbacks and amplified her strengths.
It was the kind of performance that showed complete understanding of when to hold back and when to shine.

Thus, it was all the more difficult to compare her against Min-woo.

Min-woo’s performance was flawless but danced dangerously on the edge of deviating from the score, breathing in his own interpretation.
Ji-hye’s was utterly faithful to the score but lacked some of Min-woo’s expressive depth.

‘Really, not a dull moment these days.’

For the judges, such close calls were both a headache and a delight.

“…Honestly, I want to give it to Ji-hye.”

After long deliberation, Professor Choi cautiously voiced her opinion.

“Overall, Min-woo’s was superior, yes. But this is a competition. The fairer question is: who was more faithful to the score?”
“You admit Min-woo’s was better, but still think Ji-hye deserves it?” Jo Sung-min objected.

“Faithfulness matters here. That’s what we’re judging.”
“Ultimately, though, aren’t we judging who played better? That’s Min-woo.”
“Even if his result came from disregarding the score?”
“Now, that’s too harsh. Sure, he bent things, but he kept within the score’s general framework.”
“You talk as if the score were some kind of test paper.”

Music changes completely even if only one section is played differently.
Following part of the score isn’t the same as following the score.

But Jo Sung-min only smirked in reply.

“You know me, Professor. I’ve always liked more individualistic performers.”

Sighing, Professor Lee Jung-hoon finally interjected.

“If it’s so hard to decide, there’s another option.”
“Another option?”
“No way…”

Both Choi and Jo looked startled.

“I think both deserve first place.”

Song Min-woo and Lee Ji-hye had shown two different possibilities.

Where is classical music ultimately headed?
Is it toward endless reinterpretation into something new?
Or is it the faithful preservation of the original?

No one knows. Maybe one is correct, maybe both are.

That’s why Professor Lee didn’t want to rush to a conclusion.
Someday, he wanted to see with his own eyes what those two possibilities would bring.

His gaze brimmed with anticipation.
That future day couldn’t come soon enough.