Competition Day.

Sunlight streamed through the hotel window, illuminating Lu Zhixian's face.

When Old Zhao knocked on the door, he was sitting on the edge of the bed tying his shoelaces.

"Let's go."

In the car, Old Zhao handed him a bottle of water and a bar of chocolate.

"Have a snack first; you might not have time to eat before noon once we get there."

Lu Zhixian unwrapped the chocolate and took a bite.

"What time does it start?"

"Nine o'clock. You're number eighteen, the last one. At the earliest, it won't be your turn until three in the afternoon."

"That's good, I can sleep a bit more then."

Old Zhao didn't respond. He was clutching the competition schedule, the corners of the paper already soaked with sweat.

The Golden Hall.

The lights in the side entrance corridor were dim. Lu Zhixian followed the staff to the backstage lounge and found a single-seat sofa in a corner to sit down.

The other contestants arrived one after another.

Some were walking around stretching their fingers, some were resting with their eyes closed, and others were in corners looking at sheet music on their tablets.

No one came to greet Lu Zhixian.

He didn't seek anyone out to chat either. He took out his phone, replied to a message from Lin Shiya, then scrolled through two pages of news before tucking the phone back into his pocket.

Nine o'clock sharp.

The host's voice drifted in from the front hall, announcing alternately in German and English.

The first round officially began.

---

Contestant Number One, Germanic.

The image on the monitor was very clear. A blonde man sat before the piano, his fingers descended, and the sound carried through the backstage speakers.

The beginning was very aggressive.

Dense sixteenth notes were like machine-gun fire—fast but not chaotic, every note landing solidly on the beat.

Lu Zhixian listened for a couple of phrases and looked up.

Clean playing.

Then came Number Two and Number Three, each steadier than the last.

By the time it reached Number Six, an Asian girl's Adagio section caused several contestants backstage to stop what they were doing.

The melodic line was handled beautifully, the phrasing was long and continuous, and the control during the ending was superb.

In the domestic livestream, the number of viewers had already surpassed twenty million.

The bullet comments started to shift from the initial "Go go go" and "God Lu is invincible."

"This level is way too high..."

"Every single one of them is a beast."

"Anyone here an expert? Can God Lu beat this?"

"Stop asking. If you ask, the answer is to believe in him."

"I believe, but to be honest, my palms are sweating."

Old Zhao sat on the right side of the fifth row in the audience, holding a water bottle. The bottle had already been squeezed out of shape by him.

Every few minutes, he turned his head to look toward the side wings.

He couldn't see anything.

---

The morning session ended.

All six contestants performed normally—no mistakes, no one dropping the ball.

The level was so consistently high it was frightening.

During the intermission, Old Zhao ran from the audience to the backstage to find Lu Zhixian.

Pushing open the lounge door, he saw Lu Zhixian sitting alone on the sofa with a half-finished cup of water on the small coffee table in front of him.

"How are you doing?"

"Pretty good."

"Nervous?"

"Not nervous."

Old Zhao looked into his eyes and realized those two words weren't just a brave front.

He really wasn't nervous.

"Did you... listen to those few this morning?"

"I did."

"What do you think?"

Lu Zhixian thought for a moment: "They're all quite impressive."

Old Zhao waited for a moment, but no more followed.

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Old Zhao took a deep breath and set the water bottle on the coffee table.

"Alright, you rest here. The afternoon session continues at one-thirty."

He walked to the door and looked back at Lu Zhixian once more.

Lu Zhixian's gaze was very flat. Not the kind of flatness that feigns composure, but a true silence.

It was as if that hall outside, filled with two thousand people, had nothing to do with him.

---

The afternoon session.

From Number Seven to Number Thirteen, the level remained high.

But everyone was waiting for one person.

Two-forty in the afternoon.

The host's voice rang out again.

"Contestant Number Fourteen—Andre Koval, Russian-born."

The applause from the audience was louder than for anyone before.

Andre walked out from the side wings. Wearing a black suit with a meticulously tied tie, his pace was as steady as if measured by a ruler.

He walked to the piano, gave a slight nod to the audience, and sat down.

There were no superfluous movements.

Hands fell onto the keyboard.

The moment the first note came out, the two contestants chatting quietly in the backstage lounge both shut their mouths.

A Rachmaninoff transcription.

The opening chords were like a heavy door being pushed open; the resonance of the bass range spread through the hall—thick, intense, and overwhelmingly oppressive.

Then the right-hand melody rose from above the bass.

He played with extreme stability.

Not a cautious stability, but a stability so powerful it made one breathless. Every note's intensity, duration, and timbre were perfectly controlled. Not a fraction more, not a fraction less.

Entering the cadenza passage.

The left-hand octave runs were dense and fierce, the speed pushed to the limit, yet the sound remained clear and bright. Simultaneously, the right hand made large leaps in the high-register, landing with a precision that didn't seem humanly possible.

Some people in the audience unconsciously leaned forward.

A white-haired old lady in the front row covered her mouth with both hands.

Old Zhao sat in the fifth row, his body rigid, fingers gripping the armrests tightly.

He didn't understand the technique.

But he understood the sheer force of this performance.

What do you call this?

It was total domination.

The final note fell.

Andre's hands hovered over the keys for two seconds before slowly lowering.

The hall was silent for a fleeting moment.

Then, the applause exploded.

It wasn't polite clapping. It was the kind where people bolt from their seats and clap with all their might. Someone stood up. Then more people stood up.

It lasted for nearly two minutes.

On the judges' panel, several judges looked at one another. A grey-haired man nodded slightly, a tiny curve appearing at the corner of his mouth.

In the domestic livestream.

The moment Andre finished, the bullet comments became so dense the words were illegible.

"It's over, it's over, it's over."

"This guy is way too strong."

"How can anyone win against this, brothers?"

"Go God Lu! Go God Lu! Go God Lu!"

"To be honest... something of this level is really hard to surpass."

"Is anyone else's hands shaking like mine?"

Old Zhao's face turned a shade paler.

He looked toward the side wings again.

---

Contestants Number Fifteen, Sixteen, and Seventeen.

Did they play well? Yes.

But Andre's performance just now was like a mountain weighing down on everyone's heads; no matter how well they played, it felt like struggling at the foot of that mountain.

A subtle atmosphere permeated the hall.

Some people began to talk in low voices, others were looking at their phones.

The outcome was decided.

At least, that's what most people present thought.

Three-twenty-two.

The host walked to the front of the stage for the last time.

"Contestant Number Eighteen—"

He looked down at the card in his hand.

"Lu Zhixian, China. Self-selected piece—'Ballade No. 1 in G Minor'."

The hall fell silent.

But this silence wasn't one of anticipation.

It was out of politeness.