Final day.

The sky in Vienna was overcast.

It was drizzling outside the Golden Hall, and the staff had laid down two extra layers of non-slip mats at the entrance.

There were nearly three hundred more spectators than in the first round, and the corridors were packed with people who hadn't bought tickets but refused to leave.

There were only two chairs left in the backstage lounge.

One was occupied by Andre Koval.

The other by Lu Zhixian.

The two were separated by three meters. Andre was resting with his eyes closed.

Lu Zhixian was leaning against the back of his chair, scrolling through his phone.

Old Zhao had sent him over twenty messages, all screenshots of trending topics from back home and words of encouragement from friends; he read them one by one, occasionally curling the corner of his mouth.

A staff member pushed the door open: "Mr. Koval, you are on in five minutes."

Andre opened his eyes and stood up.

He did not look at Lu Zhixian.

When he reached the door, he paused.

"What piece did you change to?" Lu Zhixian asked from behind.

Andre turned his head and said a name in English.

Lu Zhixian raised an eyebrow.

It was a sonata of extreme difficulty, with near-insane requirements for finger strength and speed; most contestants wouldn't dare touch it in an official competition.

This wasn't the piece Andre had originally registered for the finals.

He had changed it at the last minute after seeing Lu Zhixian's performance in the first round.

"Good luck," Lu Zhixian said.

Andre didn't answer and pushed the door open to leave.

The lights in the hall dimmed, leaving only a single spotlight on the piano in the center of the stage.

Andre walked out.

Today, he had changed into a dark gray suit, his hair slicked back meticulously.

The first chord of the opening slammed down, making the backstage speakers vibrate.

Old Zhao stood at the side curtain, looking out through the gap. He didn't know the name of the piece, but he could hear the intensity.

This person was giving it his all.

It wasn't the composed "I am strong, so I play steadily" style of the first round. It was about bringing everything to the table, leaving nothing in reserve.

The fast-paced passages were terrifyingly dense, yet every note was clear and distinct.

The transitions from pianissimo to fortissimo were crisp and sharp.

No one in the audience spoke.

The entire piece lasted twelve minutes.

When the final note fell, Andre's back was already soaked.

He stood up and bowed.

The applause was overwhelming.

Even more intense than the first round.

On the judges' panel, Klaus Reinhardt picked up his pen and wrote on the scorecard for a few seconds, then put the pen down and sighed softly.

Backstage, Old Zhao clenched his fists, his lips moving slightly.

He turned to look at Lu Zhixian.

Lu Zhixian sat in the chair, listening the whole time.

"This guy is truly strong," Old Zhao whispered.

Lu Zhixian nodded: "Indeed strong."

He paused for a second.

He stood up and flexed his fingers.

"My turn."

Old Zhao watched his back, his throat tightening.

Lu Zhixian walked to the side curtain entrance and looked back at Old Zhao. He smiled.

The smile was very light, but Old Zhao remembered it for a long time.

The host's voice rang out in the hall.

"The final contestant—Lu Zhixian, from China. Original piece, 'Ballade No. 1 in G Minor'."

The curtain pulled back.

Lu Zhixian walked out.

Still wearing that black shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. No suit, no tie.

Same as the first round.

But the reaction in the hall was completely different.

The moment he appeared, the noise of over two thousand people dropped to zero within three seconds.

No one needed to be reminded to be quiet.

Everyone shut their mouths on their own.

Lu Zhixian walked to the piano.

He stood beside the piano and looked at the black Steinway grand for a second.

Then he sat down.

Closed his eyes for a second.

In the domestic livestream room, the number of online viewers had exceeded five million and was still climbing. The screen was flooded with the same phrase—"It's here, it's here, it's here."

Then all the comments stopped.

Because his fingers landed on the keys.

This time, his playing wasn't as "perfect."

But it was better.

The way the melodic line unfolded under his hands had changed. It was no longer a storyteller reading every word to you, but rather him living through the story himself.

The judges' panel could hear it.

Klaus's pen hovered over the scorecard, not falling.

He was listening.

Entering the second section. The harmony darkened, the melody began to struggle.

Lu Zhixian's body leaned forward slightly. It wasn't a deliberate performance movement; when the music reached this point, he had entered it himself.

The development section.

The tempo increased. His left hand laid out a dense wave of sound in the bass register, like a tide rushing in, layer upon layer.

The melody in his right hand rode the waves, was beaten down, and then climbed back up.

In the first row of the audience, a middle-aged man in a gray trench coat had covered his mouth with his hand at some point.

His companion wanted to pat his shoulder, but retracted his hand halfway.

The climax.

Lu Zhixian's fingers erupted completely on the keys.

Octave strikes rushed up from the lowest notes, the sound rolling through the dome of the Golden Hall.

The melody in his right hand turned into a snapping line, reaching frantically toward the heights.

Every time it reached, it shattered a little. Then reached again. Then shattered again.

In front of the backstage monitor, Andre sat there alone.

There was no expression on his face.

But the fingers resting on his knees tightened very, very slowly.

Mikhail stood three steps away, watching the monitor screen. He had lived for sixty-seven years and coached four world-class contestants.

His lips moved, but he made no sound.

But if anyone could read lips, they would see him say one word.

"Genius."

The coda.

The storm had passed.

The melody returned to the initial narrative theme.

Still those same few notes.

But this time it sounded like someone in a very, very distant place, looking back for one last glance.

No more struggling, no more shouting.

Just watching quietly.

Then turning around and moving forward.

The last two notes.

One soft. One even softer.

Disappeared.

Lu Zhixian's fingers left the keys and fell back to his knees.

The Golden Hall.

Silence.

Five seconds.

Sixty-one million people were online in the domestic livestream room. The comment section was completely blank.

Ten seconds.

In the very center of the judges' panel.

An eighty-two-year-old man, a lifetime judge of the competition, who had sat there all day, listening from the first contestant to the last, without saying a word or changing his expression once.

He stood up.

Very slowly. His left hand braced against the chair's armrest, pushing his body up.

He started to applaud.

Klaus next to him was stunned for a second. Then he also stood up.

Then all the judges stood up, almost at the same time.

Seven judges.

All stood and applauded.

The audience exploded.

Applause and cheers surged from all directions.

A woman with an Asian face in a third-floor box was filming with her phone, her hands shaking violently, the image completely blurry.

The applause lasted for over three minutes.

No one sat down.

Lu Zhixian stood up and bowed toward the audience.

Straightened up, turned around, and walked back to the side curtain.

The result was without any suspense.

A unanimous full score. Champion.

On the awards podium, when the organizing committee chairman handed the trophy to Lu Zhixian, he said something in German. The interpreter relayed it: "This is the best year in thirty-eight years."

Andre stood to the side, holding the runner-up trophy in his hand.

After the award ceremony, the photographer called for the two to stand together for photos.

Andre cooperated and stood in place; after the photo was taken, the photographer signaled they were done.

Andre didn't leave.

He turned, faced Lu Zhixian, and extended his right hand.

The conversations in the hall died down.

Andre stared at Lu Zhixian for two seconds, then spoke.

It was Chinese.

Word by word, the pronunciation wasn't very standard, but every word was articulated with great earnestness.

"You, very strong."

Lu Zhixian looked at him.

Then he extended his hand and shook it.

"You too."

The shutter sounds went crazy. Dozens of cameras clicked simultaneously, the flashes merging into a sheet of white light.

After the competition.

A reporter raised their hand to ask: "Mr. Lu, you are a singer, a music producer, a guitarist, and now the champion of an international piano competition. How do you define your identity?"

Lu Zhixian held the microphone and tilted his head.

Thought for a second.

"Someone who makes music."

Laughter and applause rang out together.

Flight back home.

The lights in business class were dimmed to the lowest setting. Old Zhao was asleep in the seat next to him, hugging the hard case containing the trophy in his arms, the two seatbelts tied tightly around the case, more attentive to it than to himself.

Lu Zhixian leaned against the porthole, scrolling through his phone.

The trending list was filled with his name.

#Lu Zhixian Chopin Competition Champion#

#Andre Speaks Chinese After Competition#

#Lu Zhixian Identity Definition#

#Ballade Becomes Legendary#

He Zhiyuan posted on Moments, no picture, just four words: "I share in the honor."

The comments below exploded, he didn't reply to a single one.

Lu Zhixian scrolled and saw Jiang Cheng had reposted the competition video.

The caption had only one sentence.

"One yuan, it was worth it for this lifetime."

Lu Zhixian stared at this sentence for a few seconds.

Smiled.