424: Chapter 424 Feelings Have Nothing to Do with Age

1:00 PM, Tsinghua and Peking University dormitory.

Lin Que pulled out that navy blue casual suit from the very bottom of his wardrobe.

It was well-tailored, and the fabric had a subtle sheen.

He straightened his collar in front of the mirror, then rolled up his sleeves a bit to reveal his forearms.

His entire aura suddenly shifted upward; he looked like a completely different person compared to his usual self in T-shirts and casual pants.

Xu Changge had just come out of the bathroom, and the towel he was using to dry his hair stopped mid-air.

He sized Lin Que up for a couple of seconds.

"What's this for?"

"Yeah, going to see a friend."

Xu Changge's gaze lingered on the suit for an extra beat.

Among the group in the training camp, aside from Zhang Yiyu occasionally dressing somewhat decently, the rest basically wore T-shirts and sweatpants.

This outfit of Lin Que's was clearly not for getting an extra meal at the cafeteria.

Xu Changge nodded and draped the towel back over the chair, asking no further questions.

Lin Que walked to the door and turned back to add, "Don't wait for me for dinner."

The door closed.

Xu Changge stood there, looking at the "Strictly No Noise" note stuck on the door, his fingers unconsciously tapping the tabletop.

He always felt that Lin Que was hiding a lot of things.

But every layer was wrapped tightly; just when you thought you saw one layer clearly, there was another underneath.

...

The taxi drove east along Chang'an Avenue, turning at a junction on the Third Ring Road and entering a wide, tree-lined boulevard.

From a distance, a silver-white building emerged from among the shadows of the trees.

Huaxia Central Concert Hall.

This behemoth, which cost billions and took six years to build, was the highest-specification and largest professional-grade hall for classical music in all of Asia.

The main hall had 2,400 seats and a surround-sound field design; the position of every rivet had been repeatedly calibrated by acoustic engineers.

In the twelve years since its completion, fewer than thirty pianists worldwide had been able to hold a solo recital in this hall.

The taxi was stopped by traffic control two hundred meters from the main entrance.

Lin Que paid the fare, got out, and walked the final stretch.

Outside the main entrance of the Central Concert Hall, three rows of media cameras were set up.

Fans holding support signs formed long queues, a scene comparable to top-tier celebrities walking the red carpet.

Lin Que didn't squeeze into the crowd; he bypassed the main entrance and walked fifty meters along the greenery by the building's outer wall.

He arrived at a side door marked "Special Guest Passage."

Two security guards in black suits stood at the door, with an electronic screen recognition gate behind them.

Lin Que took out his phone, pulled up the QR code for the VIP electronic ticket Ye Xi had sent him, and held it over the scanning area.

With a "beep," a green passage indicator popped up on the screen.

The security guard on the left glanced at the information on the gate screen, then at the excessively young face before him.

His gaze swept back and forth between Lin Que's navy blue suit and his clean white sneakers.

Special Guest Section, Area A, Row 2, Seat 8.

He knew this position all too well.

That area was filled with judges, deans and professors from music conservatories, and industry authorities specially invited by the organizers.

Those who could get a ticket for this area were either industry heavyweights or core executives of the sponsors.

The security guard retracted his gaze and stepped aside to clear the way, his tone respectful.

"Please come in, sir. Watch the steps."

Lin Que nodded and stepped into the passage.

...

Passing through a corridor covered in deep gray carpet and pushing open two soundproof doors, the internal structure of the entire concert hall unfolded before his eyes.

The 2,400 seats fanned out from the front of the stage, climbing up three tiers of stands in layers.

The dome was a single piece of curved acoustic reflector; lights shone down from the edges, casting a soft warm glow on the metal surfaces of the seat armrests.

In the center of the stage, a nine-foot Steinway grand piano stood quietly at the focus of the spotlight, its black lacquer finish polished to a mirror shine.

Most of the audience in the back rows had already entered, and the hum of low-voiced conversations blended together in the vast space.

Lin Que walked forward along the Area A passage.

The further forward he went, the more unfamiliar and distinguished the faces around him became.

The tailoring of the suits became more and more sophisticated, and the ladies' jewelry became more understated yet more expensive.

Reaching the second row, Lin Que glanced at the number on the back of the seat.

A-2-8.

It was the seat from Ye Xi's photo.

He sat down in the chair and leaned back slightly.

He felt the comfort of the dark red velvet cushion on the back of the chair fitting against his spine.

The aura of this area was a completely different world from the back.

Almost no one in the first three rows whispered to each other; occasionally, someone would lean over to speak.

Their voices were kept extremely low, carrying the sense of propriety cultivated by years of immersion in elegant settings.

Sitting among them, Lin Que was neither nervous nor deliberately trying to fit in.

He opened the beautifully printed competition program in his hand, his gaze falling on the list of contestants.

Youth Division Finals, twelve contestants.

Ye Xi's name was ninth in the order of appearance.

Competition piece: Rachmaninoff's "Piano Concerto No. 3," First Movement.

Lin Que closed the program and looked past the stage toward the preparation area hidden by the curtains on the left.

That should be the backstage.

He knew someone was over there, perhaps peeking through a gap in the curtain.

...

Backstage preparation area.

Ye Xi was wearing a black performance gown, her hair tied in a simple low bun.

She stood at the side of the curtain, pretending to adjust her cuffs while her eyes kept darting toward the front rows.

A-2-8.

Empty, it had been empty the whole time.

Her fingers unconsciously gripped the lace edge of her cuff.

Then, a figure appeared in that seat.

The navy blue suit, the slightly forward-leaning posture as he looked through the program, and that relaxed—almost excessively so—sitting position.

Ye Xi's fingers released the lace.

The corners of her mouth twitched upward before she pressed them back down.

As she turned to walk toward the dressing room, her steps were significantly lighter than before.

Her manager, Sister Yang, was leaning against the corridor wall, clutching a schedule.

She saw Ye Xi walking back from the curtain and looked in the direction Ye Xi had just been gazing.

The young man in the second row.

Sister Yang recognized that face.

The boy who had said "Carbohydrates are the fuel of art" in the noodle shop at No. 18 Willow Lane last time.

She glanced at Ye Xi.

Ye Xi was looking down, checking her nails, her expression calm, but the tips of her ears were tinged with a faint pink.

Sister Yang opened her mouth but ultimately said nothing.

She retracted her gaze and looked down, marking something on the schedule.

...

Front row of Area A.

There was movement in the empty seat to Lin Que's left first.

A lean, white-haired elderly man walked over; before sitting down, he straightened the front of his suit, his movements carrying a ritualistic sense etched into his bones.

The ID badge on his chest was printed with four words: Special Guest Judge.

Name: Yan Zhenming.

Vice President of the Central Conservatory of Music, one of the figures at the top of the pyramid in the field of domestic piano education.

Immediately after, the seat on the right was also taken.

The newcomer was in his early forties, wearing a pair of black-rimmed glasses.

The first thing he did after sitting down was to set his phone to silent, and the second was to open the notebook he carried and turn to a blank page.

Liang Qiu.

One of the top three music critics in the country; a music review he wrote could make a newcomer famous overnight or turn a performance into a laughingstock.

After the two sat down, they nodded to each other almost simultaneously.

"Vice President Yan."

"Mr. Liang, long time no see."

After their pleasantries, Liang Qiu habitually glanced at the center seat in the first row.

Sitting in that seat was a silver-haired old man with a straight back.

He was leafing through the contestants' information booklets, his expression serene.

Liang Qiu followed his gaze and lowered his voice:

"The old gentleman came in person today as well."

Yan Zhenming smiled and also looked over:

"With his granddaughter competing, how could the old gentleman stay away?"

After the brief exchange, both of their gazes coincidentally swept past Lin Que, who was sandwiched between them.

Too young.

In this area filled with industry authorities in their fifties and sixties, this face, not even twenty years old, was truly conspicuous.

Yan Zhenming's gaze rested on Lin Que for less than a second before he looked away.

Based on his years of experience in the circle, these young faces appearing in the core area...

...were mostly the children or nephews of some sponsor or high-level organizer, using their connections to come and experience the atmosphere.

No need for words; just maintain a polite distance.

Liang Qiu did take an extra look, his gaze sweeping from Lin Que's suit collar to his fingers flipping through the competition program, and then he likewise retracted his gaze.

Neither of them took the initiative to strike up a conversation.

Nor did Lin Que take the initiative to speak.

The quiet air flowed between the three for half a minute.

Liang Qiu broke the silence first.

He leaned over and lowered his voice to chat with Yan Zhenming.

"Vice President Yan, have you seen the repertoire list for today's contestants?"

"I glanced at it."

Yan Zhenming's voice carried the steadiness cultivated from years of teaching.

"Overall, it's a bit conservative; most chose Chopin and Liszt. It's safe enough, but hard to stand out."

"There is one that isn't conservative, though." Liang Qiu pushed up his glasses.

"Are you referring to that Rach 3?"

Yan Zhenming's brow furrowed slightly.

"Yes."

Liang Qiu closed the program, rested it on his knees, and shook his head.

"It really is too risky.

The technical threshold of Rach 3 is right there.

In the first movement alone, just that opening thematic statement with the octave leaps in the left hand can weed out more than half of the contestants.

Not to mention the cadenza in the middle; the density and the complexity of the dynamic changes are at a top-tier difficulty even in the adult professional division.

Choosing this for the youth division... finger mechanics being unable to keep up is one thing, but the key is the emotional depth.

Rachmaninoff was going through a severe creative crisis when he wrote this piece; the struggle, the conflict, and the final self-reconciliation in the music...

...without enough life experience, it's very hard to sustain."

Liang Qiu nodded in agreement:

"Technically, they might pass, but emotionally, it will likely stay on the surface.

When a youth contestant touches Rach 3, the judges' bench won't give extra points for courage; they'll only deduct points for the level of completion."

The two were deeply engaged in conversation, completely forgetting there was someone sitting between them.

"Not necessarily."

The voice wasn't loud, but in the gaps of the two experts' lowered conversation, it came through clearly.

Yan Zhenming and Liang Qiu's conversation broke off simultaneously.

They turned their heads and looked at the young man in the middle.

Lin Que's gaze was fixed forward on the Steinway on stage, his posture relaxed.

"The technical threshold and life experience you two just mentioned are both correct."

He paused, seemingly weighing his words.

"I usually like to write, and I've discovered something while writing—"

"—some feelings have nothing to do with age, and nothing to do with how much one has experienced.

It only has to do with whether a person has truly felt it."

"For someone who has truly felt it, they don't need to think when expressing themselves; their hands will move on their own."

"I suspect playing the piano might be the same."

The front row was silent for three seconds.

Yan Zhenming took off his reading glasses and looked at Lin Que directly for the first time.

Liang Qiu's hand holding the pen hovered over the notebook, not a single word landing on the page.

The gazes of both men changed almost simultaneously.

That change was subtle; it went from polite neglect to a scrutinizing look.

Yan Zhenming took off his reading glasses and looked at Lin Que directly for the first time.

Liang Qiu's hand holding the pen hovered over the notebook; just as he was about to ask further, the lights dimmed.

All 2,400 ceiling lights in the main hall went out at once, and a spotlight projected down from the dome, precisely pinning the black Steinway in the center of the stage.

The hum of the entire audience fell into a dead silence within three seconds.

A female host in a long black dress walked out from the side wings.

The sound of her high heels hitting the wooden floor was amplified by the microphones and sent throughout the entire hall.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the National Finals of the 16th Xinghai Cup National Piano Competition, Youth Division."

Thunderous applause broke out.

The host bowed slightly and, after the applause died down, continued speaking.

"Tonight, twelve young pianists who have emerged from more than 2,300 contestants nationwide..."

"...will accept their final judgment through musical notes on this stage."

...