WCP 37

chapter 37

With a light touch, a melody in E-flat major resonated throughout the examination hall.

It was the fourth movement of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 13, “Sonata quasi una Fantasia.” Allegro vivace (very fast and brilliant).

A lively trill led by the left hand, followed by a legato accompanied by a crescendo.

Just like the essence of the entire fourth movement, the performance surged forward like a train thundering along the tracks.

Within only five measures, the melody shifted from piano to forte—an absolute whirlwind.

Even if the melody softened, the tempo never faltered for a single moment.

“Get lost!”

There was no room to yield to the phantom-like La Campanella.

If even a single second of the tempo were lost, it would be devoured by its own speed.

Once a locomotive sets off, it doesn’t stop until it reaches its destination.

It just runs—runs relentlessly.

Passing stations, forests, bridges, and then tunnels.

Fueled by sheer stubbornness.

A determination never to fall behind, a belief that it must prove itself.

“I’ll follow you all the way…!”

My performance was flawless.

Just as his performance wasn’t wrong.

We only pursued different goals.

So now, it’s time to shake off this tiresome La Campanella.

All that could be seen were the black and white keys.

Eyes fixed straight ahead, charging forward—there was no place for a La Campanella that belonged to anyone else.

[~~~!!]

At the climax of the continuing crescendo, a sforzando rang out.

Then came a long fermata.

The locomotive that had been charging forward at full speed decelerated without warning.

As if finally returning from a dark tunnel into the light.

Even the passage of time seemed to slow along with the fermata.

Tempo I, Andante (slightly slower).

The fourth movement, which had started as Allegro vivace, returned to the tempo of the first movement.

And what followed was a slow, yet steadfast melody.

It may slow, but it will never stop.

The performance, like a gentle declaration, captured all the passing scenery within its calm melody.

The gravel along the tracks, the squirrels climbing the trees, even the distant terminus—all of it.

The performance approached its finale.

Within the andante, Kang Yoon mulled over this fact and repeated it to himself.

“So quietly… damn quiet.”

Even in the slowed tempo, the hallucinations of La Campanella were no longer audible.

…And all that struggle had been for something like this.

There had been no grand reason for not being able to shake off Song Min-woo’s La Campanella.

It was just an illusion.

He had mistakenly believed that the performance that broke him was correct,

and that his own performance, which had been broken, was wrong—such a ridiculous misunderstanding.

Even though nothing in the world is ever completely right.

Both were correct.

The only difference was how far ahead one was.

Yes. Song Min-woo was simply a little ahead of me.

Then what I must do is clear.

Catch up.

Run and run until I surpass him, until I get ahead.

And this Sonata No. 13 was the starting point.

[-!!!]

The previously decelerated performance surged forward once again.

Attacca—moving directly into the next movement without pause.

What awaited beyond was Presto (very fast).

With only twenty measures remaining, the performance accelerated wildly, burning through the finale.

And just like that, the train reached its terminus.

With a vow to catch up, no matter what.

Beyond the wall came the harmonies of E-flat major.

Listening to the end of the performance that seemed to give everything, Song Min-woo quietly smiled.

“So he did it after all.”

It was somewhat expected, but he had never imagined it would break through the wall head-on.

The wall that had blocked Kang Yoon during the last competition.

Its name wasn’t La Campanella, nor was it Song Min-woo himself.

It was doubt.

The wall that had tormented Kang Yoon so much was “doubt.”

Doubt about the path he wished to take, and the anxiety that came with it.

For a genius who had never once questioned himself, it was a wall higher than anything else.

Once he realized that even his seemingly flawless performance was not perfect, doubt chained itself and gnawed at him relentlessly.

Many had crumbled that way.

Even in the 19th century, filled with famed musicians, countless talents had collapsed under that wall.

“In the end, the only way to overcome it is to accept that your performance is not perfect.”

There is no perfectly correct performance in the world.

It’s only a question of how close to perfection it comes.

The greats were merely closer to perfection than others.

Essentially, one cannot say their performance was “right.”

And that applies to every pianist’s performance.

Kang Yoon’s, Song Min-woo’s, even Chopin’s—

None of their performances can be definitively called correct.

Thus, a pianist must acknowledge:

The path he wants to walk.

And his own imperfection along that path.

“What are you smiling at? Creepy.”

“Just… piano is fun, I guess.”

Was he unconsciously grinning?

Song Min-woo looked around as Ji-hye whispered with a puzzled expression.

Students tapped on scores with earphones in, trying to memorize every piece before entering the hall.

And Song Min-woo was no exception.

He traced melodies in his head while moving his fingers as if the phone screen were sheet music.

The only difference was that his gaze was fixed on the phone, not the score.

Was it strange to stare at a phone instead of memorizing another measure?

Noticing the gazes, Song Min-woo smiled faintly.

“They all seem bothered by me.”

Understandable, as it must look like he was slacking off.

“Next, Song Min-woo, please enter.”

A rustling from inside the hall, then the door opened, and Kang Yoon emerged.

“….”

“….”

Their eyes met for less than a second.

“…Tch.”

A sound filled with a mix of emotions.

Clicking his tongue, Kang Yoon walked away without a word, and Song Min-woo smiled faintly at his back.

“Maybe that’s just his way of showing something.”

It could be a misunderstanding, but his glance had seemed somewhat favorable.

“No need to thank him. I didn’t do anything.”

Kang Yoon could rise again solely because of his own skill.

“Then now it’s my turn.”

It’s my turn to prove myself.

To those eager to see me fail, I have no choice but to show them.

That I am a pianist.

And that they are pianists, too.

A mindset unchanged in both my past life and this one.

Embodying that mindset, Song Min-woo stepped forward.

Into the lion’s den ahead.

The boy Kang Yoon, notorious in a bad sense as the star of the Korea International Music Competition.

Only a month ago, the classical world was in uproar over how this genius had collapsed mid-performance.

Even geniuses cannot always be perfect.

No matter how much effort is poured in, mistakes are bound to emerge.

And the more gifted, the more critical the mistakes.

As a third-year professor, how many such students had I seen?

Even after the performance ended, Beethoven’s Sonata No. 13 left a lingering impression.

Professor Han Jae-yoon, who was amazed by the passionate fourth movement, had to choke back the words he desperately wanted to say.

“My worries were unfounded.”

The more talented, the more painful the mistakes—but Kang Yoon was different.

Even though thought irrecoverable, he proved himself today.

Talent alone is not everything.

“…But Professor Park doesn’t look too happy, does he?”

Until recently, he had seemed supportive of Kang Yoon.

Rumor had it he was rejected by Professor Kang Seo-jun, likely the reason.

“Of course, he’s a crafty fox—so meticulous with the kids.”

Well, it wasn’t my place to complain.

After all, why was I sitting here next to Professor Park today?

Wasn’t it to squash a budding talent while it was still a sapling?

“Next, Song Min-woo, please enter.”

With a dry voice, the professor called the name of his victim, and the door opened, revealing a boy.

Song Min-woo, who had emerged like a comet at the Korea International Music Competition and seized first place unexpectedly,

And even caught the attention of Zimmermann—one of the hottest topics in the piano world.

‘Do they really need to go this far just to curb Professor Lee Jung-hoon’s influence…’

Unconsciously avoiding eye contact with Song Min-woo—perhaps for that reason.

‘Looks like Professor Ahn feels the same.’

Seeing Professor Ahn, who had joined the political game following Professor Park, smile wryly, Professor Han Jae-yoon also smiled bitterly.

Initially, it was just minor defiance.

Two years ago, he had sided with Professor Kim Jung-tae to oppose Professor Lee’s disregard for talented students.

It was meant to give those overlooked talents a chance to shine.

But now?

Wasn’t he trying to crush a fledgling talent again?

“Tch, kids these days are so slow.”

Professor Park muttered as Song Min-woo adjusted his chair.

Exposing his hostility openly, it seemed Professor Park had no trace of doubt or hesitation.

‘If he’s going to fail anyway, might as well get him out before Professor Park bites at him more.’

With that in mind, Professor Han Jae-yoon spoke dryly.

“Once you’re ready, start. Song Min-woo.”

“Yes.”

Nodding calmly, Song Min-woo placed his hands on the keys.

‘Maybe I’ll stop after a minute or so.’

Even if the intention was to fail him, they couldn’t completely ignore the performance.

But there was no need to let him play the entire piece just to toy with hope.

So stopping at an appropriate point would suffice…

[~~~~]

“…!!”

A lively, light A-flat major melody cut through Professor Han Jae-yoon’s thoughts.

‘This is…’

A melody that felt strangely familiar.

Unable to ignore it, he instinctively lifted his head, drawn like a moth to a flame.