On the day the participant list was announced, Lu Zhixian was at home frying eggs.

Old Zhao sent a voice message directly.

"The list is out. Check the news."

Lu Zhixian shoveled the egg onto a plate, wiped his hands, and picked up his phone.

The top trending topic: #Xiaohua International Piano Competition Participant List Announced#

He clicked on it.

There were eighteen names on the list, representing twelve countries.

At the very top was the defending champion, Andre Koval, of Russian descent, twenty-six years old. Below him were the top seeds from various national qualifiers.

The very last one was labeled "Special Guest Contestant."

Lu Zhixian (China).

He scrolled through the comments section.

"Holy cow, he's the only one on the list who didn't come from a professional conservatory background."

"What does 'Special Guest Contestant' mean? Does it mean he got in through the back door?"

"The man got his invitation based on 'La Campanella.' If you're so good, why don't you play it?"

"Playing well doesn't mean you can compete, you know? Live performance and recording a video are two different things."

The arguments were quite evenly split.

Lu Zhixian exited Weibo and took a bite of his sandwich.

Half an hour later, the international reaction also trickled in.

Old Zhao compiled a document of screenshots and sent it to his WeChat. The title was very formal: "Summary of Overseas Public Opinion."

Lu Zhixian opened it.

The headline was in French, with a translation attached below: 'A Chinese Pop Music Producer Invited to the Xiaohua Competition—One of the Most Confusing Decisions in the Event's Forty-Year History.'

The main text mentioned his video playing 'La Campanella.' The wording was polite, but the attitude was clear: his technique was good, but the classical music arena required more than just technique.

There were hundreds of replies underneath, with a few voted to the top.

"I watched that video of his; his hand speed is indeed astonishing. But 'La Campanella' is just the most typical showpiece. Using that to judge whether someone is qualified for the Xiaohua Competition is a bit too frivolous."

"Asian contestants have always performed excellently in classical competitions, but this person has a pop music background. It's a completely different concept."

"Just wait; he'll be eliminated in the first round."

Lu Zhixian flipped through two pages and closed his tablet.

"Quite a lively debate."

He looked up toward the kitchen: "What's for lunch?"

Old Zhao sat opposite him, his expression solemn.

He had originally prepared a set of plans on "how to handle international public opinion," including whether or not to issue a statement.

It was all choked back by a single "What's for lunch?"

He opened his mouth, then closed the document.

"You really don't plan to respond? That French newspaper used the word 'circus.'"

"They were quoting a forum user, not the newspaper itself," Lu Zhixian corrected.

"But it's been reposted tens of thousands of times."

"Even if it's reposted tens of thousands of times, it's still just a post."

Old Zhao took a deep breath: "Fine. You call the shots."

Lu Zhixian took his plate to the sink and turned back to say, "Help me book a recording studio. I'm free this afternoon."

---

Three days before the competition.

An interview video began spreading on international social media.

The subject was Andre Koval.

In the studio, the host asked the question everyone wanted to know: "What is your take on this year's special guest contestant, Lu Zhixian from China?"

Koval sat in his chair, his blonde hair combed meticulously.

He thought for two seconds.

"I've seen the video of him playing 'La Campanella.'"

A pause.

"His hand speed is very fast."

Another pause.

"But on the stage of the Xiaohua Competition, there are people with fast hands every year; few of them stay."

After speaking, he looked at the host, his expression unchanged.

It was as if he were stating a fact he had already confirmed.

The video reached China, and within half an hour, it had surpassed three million views.

The comments section exploded.

"Is he saying our guy only has fast hands?"

"What he said isn't wrong, though... Just hand speed really isn't enough in a competition of that level."

"But did you notice his tone? He doesn't see Lu Zhixian as a rival at all; he doesn't care about him in the slightest."

"I want to see if he can stay this calm once they're on the competition stage."

Old Zhao played the video aloud for Lu Zhixian in the living room.

Lu Zhixian leaned against the back of his chair and watched it from beginning to end.

After watching, he put down his phone.

"He's right."

Old Zhao was stunned.

Lu Zhixian stood up: "Just having fast hands really isn't enough."

He picked up his car keys from the coffee table and walked toward the door.

"Where are you going?"

"Time to practice the piano."

2:10 PM.

Lu Zhixian pushed open the door to the recording studio alone.

It was still the same studio. Still that three-million-dollar Steinway.

When the owner, Old Fang, saw him arrive, he cleared out the largest room without a word.

"Brother Fang, don't mind me."

"Sure, go ahead."

Old Fang closed the door behind him.

Lu Zhixian took off his jacket, draped it over the back of the chair, and sat at the piano.

He didn't play immediately.

His hands rested above the keys, not pressing down. His eyes were closed.

He pressed the first note.

Then the second. Then the third.

The opening of 'Ballade No. 1 in G Minor' was like a person speaking in the dark.

Not rushed, not slow, like reminiscing about something far away.

The right-hand melody rose.

It was very light, so light it almost vanished. But every note landed in the most precise position.

In the hallway, Old Fang stopped in his tracks as he passed the soundproof door.

He was holding a cup of freshly brewed coffee, which he had intended to bring inside.

Lu Zhixian sat before the piano.

His expression couldn't be seen through the glass, only his back and the movement of his fingers.

The piece entered the development section. The emotions began to surge.

The tempo quickened, becoming more and more urgent, more and more restless.

Old Fang stood in the hallway with his coffee, motionless.

He had been in this studio for over twenty years.

From the era of analog recording to digital, from vinyl records to streaming.

Thousands of musicians had played piano, sung, and recorded albums behind that glass.

He had heard too many good ones, and too many fake ones.

He could tell the difference.

The piece reached its climax; the left hand's octave strikes were dense and fierce, while the right hand's melody soared above.

It stopped.

The last few notes were each lighter and more distant than the last.

Until the final note completely dissipated.

The studio was quiet for a long time.

Lu Zhixian looked up and saw Old Fang in the hallway through the glass.

He pushed open the soundproof door and came out.

Old Fang handed him the coffee.

Lu Zhixian took it and found the cup was no longer hot. It had long since gone cold.

"Brother Fang?"

Old Fang was silent for several seconds. He shoved his hands into his pockets and looked at Lu Zhixian.

"Little Lu."

"Hmm?"

"I've heard thousands of people play piano in this studio."

He paused.

"You are the first one who made me feel like the piano was speaking."

Lu Zhixian took a sip of the cold coffee and smiled: "Brother Fang, you flatter me."

"I'm not flattering you." Old Fang's expression was more serious than his usual joking middle-aged self.

"When you go over there, don't be nervous. Just play like you did today."

A brief pause.

"It's enough."

---

Returning home that evening, Lu Zhixian opened his phone and found a WeChat message from He Zhiyuan.

It was only one sentence.

"I heard. Good luck. Every piano student in the country is watching."

Lu Zhixian looked at it for a few seconds and replied with two words.

"Rest assured."

---

The final night before departure.

Old Zhao came to Lu Zhixian's house to confirm the itinerary.

Plane tickets, hotel, competition schedule, ID—he had printed everything into hard copies, placed them in a transparent folder, and arranged them in order.

Lu Zhixian flipped through them twice and set them on the coffee table.

"Alright."

Old Zhao sat on the sofa opposite him, opening his mouth twice before closing it again.

Lu Zhixian glanced at him: "If you have something to say, say it."

Old Zhao rubbed his hands together.

"Old Lu, I know you have a good mindset and I shouldn't meddle."

He looked at Lu Zhixian.

"But this time is really different. That Andre, he's someone who truly stands at the top of the world. In the last competition's finals, his free choice piece was also a ballade, and the judges gave him a perfect score. A perfect score. Do you understand what that means?"

He paused.

"You..."

He didn't finish his sentence.

Lu Zhixian stood up from the sofa and walked to the window.

He stood there for a few seconds.

Then he turned his head and smiled.

Old Zhao was all too familiar with that smile. It was exactly the same as when he first brought out 'The String.' Exactly the same as when he sat before the piano in the music conservatory's lecture hall.

"Old Zhao."

"Yeah?"

"When have you ever seen me afraid?"

Old Zhao was stunned for a moment.

Then he also smiled.

He stood up and patted the non-existent dust off his pants.

"Alright. Then I'll move the suitcases to the car. The flight is at six tomorrow morning; don't be late."