WCP 34

chapter 34

A cold breeze tickled his nose.

The soft texture of the seat, the sharp smell of disinfectant, and the noise buzzing loudly around his ears.

“So noisy…I could die…”

His head throbbed unbearably. It felt as if something had struck it. Kang Yoon squinted his eyes open, hazily aware of his surroundings.

“Why does my head hurt like this again?”

It was as if he had been hit in the back of the head by something.

…Come to think of it, he vaguely remembered colliding with something right before losing consciousness.

He remembered following the address his grandfather had given him.

“What happened after that?”

He had a vague feeling of something unpleasant but couldn’t remember clearly. Only a faint, irritating melody lingered in his ears.

“Damn it, this is annoying.”

Frustrated, Kang Yoon muttered a low curse.

And perhaps someone had overheard it. A grating voice echoed back to him.

“Still got a rag in your mouth, huh.”

“…?!”

Startled, Kang Yoon quickly sat up and looked to the side.

What met his gaze was a face he could never forget.

“You son of a…!”

In an instant, the fog in his memory lifted, and the events leading up to that moment became clear.

‘Right. I went to the address my grandfather gave me, and I heard his performance…!’

The melody that had tormented him since the competition—the same one that echoed in his ears no matter when—had finally played before him, and anger surged within him.

What happened after that needed no explanation. Half-crazed, he had burst into the shop, grabbing Song Minwoo by the collar… and then his memory cut off.

Now, with all memories restored, Kang Yoon tried once more to grab Song Minwoo by the collar—the moment he had missed before fainting—completely oblivious to the IV drip in his arm.

[Whoosh—]

“???”

Forcibly removing an IV is something that only happens in dramas or movies. It’s impossible to pull it out without causing immense harm.

Fortunately, Kang Yoon wasn’t trying to pull it out, so a disaster was avoided. There was no blood spraying, but the pain remained unbearable.

“Ah!”

“Calm down, will you? Has no one taught you manners?”

Song Minwoo scolded him with a tone of disbelief.

‘That bastard…!’

Kang Yoon wanted to curse endlessly, but the pain rendered him speechless. He could only move his lips, glaring at Song Minwoo with murderous intent.

“You’re lucky someone didn’t get killed, you know.”

With a single remark, Song Minwoo quietly adjusted the IV back into place.

“…What did you do to me?”

“If you’re asking why you ended up in the hospital, that’s not my fault.”

“I’m not talking about that, I’m talking about La Campanella, you bastard!”

Ever since the competition, Kang Yoon had wanted to ask about La Campanella, the melody that never left his ears.

“What about La Campanella?”

“Are you kidding me right now…!”

“Don’t pick on the wrong person. Whatever issues you have, it has nothing to do with my La Campanella.”

Song Minwoo’s cold tone cut him off.

“You just couldn’t let go of your pride. You fell because you were arrogant, and you don’t know how to rise again because you’re conceited.”

A chillingly calm remark. So infuriating that Kang Yoon wanted to punch him, yet he couldn’t respond.

‘I fell because I couldn’t let go of my pride?’

He had never been obsessed with pride. He had only looked down on those he considered foolish: the idiots who gave up in preliminaries, Lee Ji-hye who acted above her skill, Jeong Da-yoon who always made mistakes from nervousness…

He had never justified his actions with pride.

“You’ve always thought your performance was flawless. That’s why you’ve never been nervous on stage.”

As if Song Minwoo had been observing him all along. Kang Yoon clenched his brow, suppressing his anger.

“Seeing that look of disbelief, I suppose you’ll suffer a bit longer.”

With a sigh, Song Minwoo quietly stood up.

Damn, who does he think he is…

He didn’t need advice from a peer, much less one who wasn’t his grandfather.

…Yet, for some reason, Song Minwoo’s words lingered in his mind. Kang Yoon bit his nails in frustration, left alone in the ER, with his problems only more tangled.

The next morning, after all the commotion had passed, Song Minwoo came to Mr. Yoon Jong-su’s shop again, sighing deeply.

“Why the sigh? It’s tiring to watch.”

“I’m just lamenting the time that’s been wasted.”

If not for yesterday, he could have practiced piano all afternoon. But Kang Yoon’s sudden intrusion had scattered all that time like dust.

With only nine days left until the first practical evaluation, even half a day was precious.

“Don’t be dramatic. You practiced until 10 PM last night after coming back from the ER. How is that wasted?”

“Of course it’s wasted. If it weren’t for Kang Yoon, I could have practiced two more hours.”

Two hours would have been enough to master a decent etude. Yet that time was lost to ambulances and chaos—what a tragedy.

“Kang Yoon… So that’s Seo-jun’s grandson?”

“You know him?”

“Not personally, but his grandfather’s a regular at my shop. So I’ve heard of the name.”

Mr. Yoon smiled, amused.

“Seems like he was up to something, sending his grandson to stir things up, knowing you frequent my shop.”

So the chaos had been orchestrated by Kang Yoon’s grandfather—perhaps to provoke his grandson by making him meet Song Minwoo.

“That brat… He’s got the same temper as his grandfather.”

Song Minwoo squeezed his eyes shut, imagining the old man. Whoever that was, I must never meet them.

One Kang Yoon was already enough.

He sat at the grand piano to practice.

No more distractions.

If he let his mind wander, he might lose another precious practice session like yesterday. He placed his hands on the keys.

[~~~~]

A D# minor melody began with the left hand.

The fast, firm notes of the left hand were immediately joined by the right.

Etude, Op. 8 No. 12—Patetico, Etude in D# Minor.

Composed by Russian pianist Alexander Scriabin (born 1872), this was the 12th etude of Op. 8. A practice piece with a mysterious, beautiful atmosphere, but far from easy.

The left hand had jumps as difficult as Liszt’s Tremolo. Heavy chords leaped relentlessly, with modulations continuing in D# minor into the midsection. One tiny lapse would cause mistakes.

[~~~~!]

No matter how many times he played it, it remained a mysterious piece.

A Russian etude decades after his death somehow evoked nostalgia, like the scent of an etude he composed in his youth. Song Minwoo played, intensifying his fortissimo.

Yet the storm subsided briefly, as if it had hit a mountain and became a gentle west wind.

The dramatic contrasts, rare in etudes, followed an A-B-A structure: A, then B, returning to A. The music surged again, grander than before.

“…What luck.”

Had he not been given this chance, had he closed his eyes in 1849, he would never have heard this piece. Now, he was not just hearing it—he was playing it.

He played, fueled by joy and passion, driving the music to a magnificent conclusion.

“…As expected.”

Still no good. Despite intensive left-hand practice, noticeable mistakes persisted. Jumps within a fourth or fifth were fine, but octaves and beyond caused errors. Repeated practice didn’t solve it—it wasn’t a technical issue.

‘Still misaligned.’

The gap between mind and body persisted. Despite relentless practice, his body hadn’t fully adjusted.

Compared to his Chopin days, his arm and hand dimensions were slightly different, causing hesitation during leaps.

So how to fix this?

“Time to try a brute-force method.”

Song Minwoo took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and continued playing.

[~~~~]

For skilled pianists, playing with eyes closed isn’t extraordinary—it’s often for show, mostly involving quick scales without large leaps.

But what about pieces demanding constant, challenging jumps?

[~!]

A jarring dissonance struck his ears. A leap misaligned by a third. He had closed his eyes before fully mastering the piece—an expected result.

Yet he smiled.

“This should do it.”

Sometimes, the brute-force method is the answer. Song Minwoo realized once again.