WCP 38

chapter 38

Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 12, Movement IV. Allegro (fast).

The very word that ran through the whole sonata made Professor Han Jaeyoon momentarily lose himself.

A-flat major, lively yet tender melodies ringing out.

It was the textbook model of a Beethoven sonata, but that wasn’t the reason Han Jaeyoon was shocked.

Why does this playing style feel so familiar?

The sound clung to his ears.

Clean touch, flawless legato, and even pedal work so delicate it was almost surgical.

The style was like handling a piano as if it were a precision instrument. It was exactly like…

…Professor Ahn Kyungwon’s playing.

Breaking down light, fast-paced pieces with delicate precision—that was Ahn Kyungwon’s specialty.

Even Professor Lee Junghoon, regarded as Korea’s current number one in classical piano, and Cho Seongmin, who ranked among the world’s very top, had to admit Ahn’s superiority in fast-tempo works.

And yet he’s raising the tempo this much without a single note blurring…

It was a feat achievable only through impeccable pedaling paired with immaculate touch.

Even Professor Ahn himself seemed surprised, eyes wide at hearing his own hallmark style played back at him.

“Enough. That’s plenty, move on.”

Professor Park Junghyun’s sudden voice cut through the performance.

Why stop it in the middle, when the playing was so good?

Professor Han Jaeyoon, who had been completely absorbed in Minwoo Song’s performance, couldn’t hide his shock.

That’s just how captivating Minwoo’s Beethoven Sonata No. 12 had been.

And I’m surely not the only one who thought so.

Han cautiously glanced toward Professor Ahn.

As expected, Ahn was still dazed, unable to shake off the brief sonata he’d just heard.

Given how well he knew that style, the shock must have been even greater for him.

…And we’re supposed to cast away a student like this?

Han finally understood why Professor Park had gone so far as to manipulate things this way.

If someone like Minwoo went under Professor Lee Junghoon’s wing, the delicate balance of the faculty power struggle would collapse.

So, Han had somewhat sympathized with Park’s scheme.

But as Minwoo’s playing continued, his certainty wavered.

Now came the melody in G-sharp minor.

A tune no pianist could fail to recognize. Han froze in his seat.

Chopin’s Étude Op. 25, No. 6, “Thirds.”

One of the twin peaks of difficulty among Chopin’s études, alongside Op. 10 No. 2.

Of all pieces to choose, he picked that?

Yes, it was on the list of allowed selections, but no one expected a student would dare attempt it.

Because Étude No. 6 was nearly impossible to master perfectly at entrance-exam level.

True to its name, “Thirds,” it was written to drill right-hand thirds technique.

To the ear, it sounded deceptively light compared to other études—but in truth, it demanded two contradictory things: complete independence of the right-hand fingers, and at the same time, a seamless supporting role from the left.

Without flawless mastery, keys would slip, fingers would tangle, and tempo would collapse.

But Minwoo’s rendition?

It was spotless.

No, beyond spotless—it sounded inhuman, like a machine.

A legato running with unbroken agility, every gap filled by precise pedalwork, all while the left hand’s support remained beautifully fluid.

It was a model performance, as though Chopin himself were at the keyboard.

And then—the fingering.

…It looks familiar.

Trills played with the 24-15 fingering.

Passages where most used 12-34, 13-25, or 14-25… Minwoo opted for the rare 24-15.

Because that was Han Jaeyoon’s own fingering style.

Not only that—the way he shaped legato, the elbow position in descending chromatic scales… all of it.

It wasn’t just similar.

It was as if Minwoo had absorbed Han’s style, then evolved it into something even greater.

This wasn’t simply performance—it was as though the listener, not the pianist, were the one being judged.

This isn’t talent anymore… this is something else.

Yes, some prodigies absorb their teachers’ style like sponges.

But absorbing and improving on it? That was entirely different.

To pull that off, one would need to see through every nuance of both pianist and piece alike.

No pianist could do that.

No one—except the composer himself.

Unless the boy was Chopin reborn.

“Stop!!”

Professor Park Junghyun’s shout rang out again, this time filled with irritation.

He had lost his composure, patience running dry.

“Professor Ahn, Professor Han. You’ve heard enough. Let’s move on.”

“…My apologies.”

There was no excuse.

They had been entranced, listening with vacant eyes.

As Park pressed the issue, Han spoke cautiously.

“But, Professor Park… wouldn’t it be better to hear a little more?”

“Do you have spare time, Professor Han? We’re already pressed for it. Is his playing that much to your liking?”

“N-no, it’s not that, but still…”

A shame.

No—more than a shame.

Rejecting this student would be a loss to Korea’s entire piano world.

That’s how far beyond “genius” Minwoo’s performance went.

“Shall I move on to the next piece?”

To their surprise, Minwoo himself cut in.

Unruffled, urging the professors forward—hardly the attitude of a student being evaluated.

More like a professor evaluating them.

“…Begin.”

Park forced himself to maintain a mask of authority, but his patience was already frayed to the limit.

And yet, nothing could halt Minwoo’s next performance.

The hall trembled as a D-sharp minor melody thundered forth.

The left-hand fortepiano struck—and the entire room froze in awe.

How had things come to this?

The plan was supposed to be simple.

To check Professor Lee Junghoon’s influence, they only needed to fail a single student.

No way out for Minwoo.

Genius or not, he was still just a student.

And students cannot defy the examiners.

No matter how well he played, they could simply mark him “fail.”

And yet… why can’t I stop this Étude?

That heart-rending D-sharp minor.

The left-hand chords repeating, building the intensity.

Scriabin’s Étude Op. 8, No. 12.

A masterpiece transcending mere “study piece.”

Dense, crushing left-hand chords, perilous leaps prone to misfires—no ordinary student could hope to handle it.

And this is supposed to be a high schooler’s playing?

Ridiculous.

Impossible, unless he had sold his left hand to the devil.

Yet here it was: leaps flying across octaves without a single slip.

The sorrowful D-sharp minor shifted into a plaintive A minor.

As if accepting tragedy. Melting fury into pure emotion.

Arpeggios dripping with longing.

What was he pouring into the keys to draw out such feeling? Park could not fathom it.

This monstrous brat…

And it wasn’t just emotion.

Beethoven, Chopin, Scriabin—all flawlessly played.

And worse:

He’s even mimicking my own style now…!

Delays inserted for suspense, crescendos stretched just so for deeper sorrow, left-hand leaps hurled without hesitation yet never unstable.

As if deliberately showing off that he could replicate Park’s methods—then refine them further.

The meaning was clear.

This student was declaring to the professors:

“If you think you can still drag me down after hearing this, then go ahead. Try.”

How he knew their scheme didn’t matter.

What mattered was that they could do nothing now but sit and listen.

Damn it all…

Snow whirled.

Falling from the sky, blanketing the world in cold white.

The melody carried the harshness of winter.

A cruel season, a final season.

Winter was death to life.

Blizzards tore skin, frozen earth bore no grass.

And yet Scriabin’s 12th Étude spoke of life’s resilience—life pushing through the merciless season, stubbornly surviving.

So, who was winter? And who was the sprouting seed?

In the allegory of the piece, Park could no longer cling to pride.

By now, there was no denying it.

Failing Minwoo simply to hinder Lee Junghoon would be no different from killing the goose that lays golden eggs.

From the start, Park had been wrong.

He should not have tried to drag Minwoo down.

He should have sought to recruit him.

With talent beyond even “genius,” Minwoo could shape not only Korea’s music scene but the world stage.

And then—

The sorrowful melody surged again toward passion.

D-sharp minor fortissimo, thunderous chords colliding and breaking apart.

Desperate, urgent, unrelenting.

Pouring grief into fire, transmuting tragedy into raw sound.

And at last—

The performance ended.

Completely.

Without a single misstep.