425: Chapter 425 A Masterpiece

As the host's impassioned opening remarks finished echoing under the dome,

several staff members in black vests emerged from both sides of the aisles, stooping low as they walked quickly.

Holding the latest model of tablet scorers, they precisely distributed them to the invited judges and industry authorities in the first three rows.

Yan Zhenming and Liang Qiu each took one, lit up the screens, and pulled up the contestants' information interfaces.

The grand curtain slid open silently to both sides.

The female host flipped open her script, her voice steady and clear:

"Please welcome our first contestant, Zhou Kaiwen, from the Middle School Affiliated to the Central Conservatory of Music.

Competition piece—Liszt, 'La Campanella'."

The first contestant strode toward the Steinway grand piano at the center of the stage.

Liang Qiu glanced down at the contestant's profile on his tablet and gestured toward Yan Zhenming with his chin:

"He's from the Middle School Affiliated to the Magic City Academy of Arts, the technical score king of this year's regional qualifiers, and one of the favorites to win."

The boy wore an exquisite custom-made tailcoat.

He walked to the front of the stage and took a deep bow; his movement as he straightened up was so precise it seemed measured by a ruler.

After taking his seat, he adjusted the height of the piano bench and took a white square handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his hands before finally suspending them over the black and white keys.

After a half-second pause, his fingertips descended,

and the first high note rang out clearly into the hall, as if precisely struck into brilliance.

The chosen piece was Liszt's 'La Campanella'.

This piece is famous for its massive leaps and extreme technical requirements, serving as a litmus test for a pianist's fundamental skills.

The boy's fingering was incredibly flamboyant, his wrists flying over the keys to produce a dense cascade of notes.

The legato passages in the upper register unfolded in series, each note distinct and bright without being disjointed, as if every single one had been individually polished.

Reflected by the acoustic panels on the dome, the entire hall was filled to the brim with this sharp wave of sound.

From the general audience section in the back, bursts of irrepressible whispers could be heard.

To the layperson, this dazzling display of technique had the greatest visual and auditory impact.

Those high-speed running scales were enough to leave the audience in the back feeling deeply shaken.

To the right, the music critic Liang Qiu nodded repeatedly,

his finger sliding across the tablet screen as he entered a very high score in the technique column.

"His fundamentals are very solid."

Liang Qiu leaned over and lowered his voice to speak with Yan Zhenming.

"To be able to play 'La Campanella' with such clarity at this age means his technique is approaching mastery.

Look at his left-hand octave legato; it's very steady, and the tone is transparent. He'll definitely place in the top three."

Yan Zhenming only gave a single nod:

"His hands are good, but his heart is still tight."

He entered a relatively mediocre score on the tablet, his gaze still fixed on the boy on stage,

showing no great surprise, only maintaining a polite level of attention.

Over the next hour or so, several contestants took the stage one after another.

Although the difficulty levels varied, none of the contestants who had made it to the national finals were weak.

'Winter Wind', 'Appassionata', and 'Jeux d'eau' rang out in turn. High scores frequently lit up the technique column, but the expressions on the judges' panel grew increasingly indifferent.

One highly difficult piece after another was brought to the stage; every turn and every chord was as precise as a textbook.

The girl who played 'Winter Wind' handled the right-hand arpeggios flawlessly.

The boy who challenged 'Appassionata' executed the dynamics with seamless precision.

Yet, the atmosphere in the venue uncontrollably slid toward dullness.

They were too similar.

Their postures on the piano bench, the force of their fingertips falling,

even the angle at which their bodies leaned back during the climaxes—all bore the marks of repeated calibration in a practice room.

They executed every marking on the score to the extreme,

even their breathing rhythm was exactly as their instructors had taught them, yet they failed to infuse their own souls into those notes.

The people on the judges' panel showed signs of fatigue.

Several conservatory professors had already put down their tablets and were leaning back, rubbing the bridges of their noses.

Some picked up thermoses to drink water, while others looked down to check their phones.

Liang Qiu rested his tablet on his knees, took off his glasses to wipe them, and spoke with a tone of deep helplessness.

"Young people today are all trapped to death by exam-oriented rules."

He complained to Yan Zhenming, his voice tinged with the frustration of seeing someone fail to live up to expectations.

"They lock themselves in practice rooms for ten hours a day, only to end up as expensive metronomes.

Their technique is impeccable, but they lack the primal wildness to break out of the mold.

If only 'correctness' is left on stage, the audience will only feel exhausted by the end."

Yan Zhenming nodded slightly, his gaze falling on the monotonous scoring curves on the tablet; he did not disagree.

Lin Que sat between the two of them, not joining in their sighs.

He sat as steady as a bell, his navy blue suit exuding a composed texture in the dimly lit area.

His gaze crossed the dull stage and cast toward the dark shadows in the rear flank.

Lin Que understood the 'wildness' they spoke of.

It wasn't playing randomly, but rather someone who, after truly experiencing internal struggle, still dared to surrender themselves to the music.

He had said before that feeling has nothing to do with age.

If a person has never faced the desolation of their own heart alone in the middle of the night,

or struggled desperately under harsh rules, they will never be able to play with the kind of power that breaks through the framework.

It's true for writing, and it's the same for music.

True weight cannot be supported by technique alone.

And what Lin Que was waiting for was precisely that person who dared to throw themselves into the storm.

The stage lights brightened again, and the host walked to the microphone in her high heels.

She glanced at the script in her hand, her voice carrying a trace of irrepressible excitement, her tone half an octave higher than before.

"Next, please welcome our ninth contestant, Ye Xi."

"Competition piece: Rachmaninoff, 'Piano Concerto No. 3 in D Minor', First Movement."

As 'Ye Xi' and 'Rach 3' fell upon the hall simultaneously, the previously sluggish audience instantly woke up.

A specific area on the third floor erupted in loud cheers and applause;

it was the fan club Ye Xi had amassed from past competitions.

Several young girls held up glowing support signs with her name on them, waving them excitedly.

But in the professional audience section on the second floor, a wave of incredulous whispers spread.

"How is she going to handle the cadenza of the first movement?"

"Rachmaninoff's hands could span thirteen intervals; how old is she?"

"Choosing this piece... if she makes one mistake, it'll be hard to recover."

From the shadows at the side of the stage, a tall figure slowly emerged.

Ye Xi held the hem of her dark long dress, her steps steady.

The spotlight hit her, making the dark silver threads on her skirt shimmer with glints of light.

The cut of the dress was very form-fitting, outlining her upright back.

As soon as she stepped into the light, her gaze bypassed the front row and landed on the spot she had long since committed to memory.

The young man in the navy blue suit was sitting there quietly.

Lin Que met her gaze and gave a slight nod.

Ye Xi's eyelashes fluttered.

She withdrew her gaze, straightened her back, and confidently scanned all two thousand four hundred seats in the hall.

She walked to the black Steinway piano, placed a hand over her heart, and gave a slight bow to the audience.

The moment she straightened up, her aura completely transformed.

The girl who would send emojis on WeChat and squint her eyes while laughing at a barbecue stall

now had her back straight and her chin slightly tucked, her gaze so calm that one didn't dare look down on her.

This state of being as still as water carried a sense of pressure that didn't match her age,

causing the judges in the front row to sit up straighter involuntarily.

It was the posture of someone truly prepared to go to battle.

Yan Zhenming and Liang Qiu's brows furrowed simultaneously.

They held their scorers, their eyes fixed intently on the girl on stage.

As industry authorities, they naturally recognized this genius girl from a musical family.

Ye Xi's public competition record was so impressive it was beyond reproach,

but in the official arena of the youth category, she had never touched Rach 3.

Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No. 3 exerts an incredibly terrifying drain on the performer's physical strength and emotions.

It tests hand conditions, physical reserves, control,

and whether the performer can withstand the layered, escalating mental pressure within the piece.

Having a youth category contestant choose it for the finals was almost equivalent to voluntarily exposing all their weaknesses to the judges.

"It's too risky."

Liang Qiu put his glasses back on, his finger scraping hard twice against the edge of the tablet.

"She might be able to tough it out technically, but the emotional depth definitely won't hold up.

The kind of despair and confrontation in this piece is something she simply cannot experience at her age.

Forcing it will only turn into soulless piano-banging, turning a masterpiece into a boring etude."

Yan Zhenming lowered his voice, his gaze falling on the silver-haired old man in the center of the first row:

"How could Elder Ye let her have her way this time..."

Ye Xi settled onto the piano bench.

She didn't put her hands on the keys immediately; instead, she closed her eyes and let out a long, heavy breath.

Her chest rose and fell slightly.

Three seconds later, she opened her eyes again and looked up.

Her gaze passed through the main stage lights, over Yan Zhenming and Liang Qiu, and landed once more on that corner.

Lin Que didn't look away, watching her with a calm gaze and a serene expression.

That assurance was slight, yet enough for her to confirm that she was not alone in this adventure.

Ye Xi withdrew her gaze.

Her fingers rose, suspended above the black and white keys.

The entire hall of two thousand four hundred people fell into absolute silence at this moment.

Liang Qiu held his breath, already anticipating a beautiful but thin opening in his mind.

The next second, her fingertips descended.

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