PBI 03

Chapter 3

There was once a terrible aristocrat in the history of piano.

His name — glorious and dreadful alike — was Franz Liszt.

And his masterpiece, the Transcendental Études, remains every pianist’s nightmare.

What are the Transcendental Études, you ask?

Just by name, they sound like something requiring superhuman power — and indeed, that’s exactly what they are.

A set of studies written for Liszt himself, and only he could truly play them.
The original publication title was Études for Transcendent Technique. That says it all.

My right hand calmly scribbled on paper.

【Can’t play it?】

“I–It’s not that I can’t…”

【No. 10.】

I stared at the piano keys, an odd heaviness sinking in.

The 10th Transcendental Étude — commonly nicknamed ‘The Scrubber’ — was infamous for one reason:
in the middle section, the left and right hands overlap in a bizarre tangle of movement.
Perfect synchronization between both hands was only the beginning — the rest was pure devilry.

But hesitation lasted only a second. I straightened my back and nodded firmly.

“Fine. Let’s do it.”

My right hand rose first onto the keys. I followed, left hand trembling slightly with tension.

The performance began.

Deng—!

It didn’t last beyond a few measures.

I turned, bewildered, toward my right hand.

“…That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

【Again.】

The right hand moved back to the keyboard with stern insistence. I sighed, lifted my hands again, and began.

Deng—!

The right hand twitched irritably.

I swallowed the rising frustration. The last thing I needed was for my own hand to go on strike.

【Again.】

<003>

I rubbed my sore wrist.

Funny — this time, it was my left wrist that ached. That was new.

Never in my life did I think I’d play Liszt’s Transcendentals again.
And never — never — did I imagine my teacher would be my right hand.

I sneaked a glance at it. Was it my imagination, or did it look annoyed as I massaged the other hand?

“What are you, really?”

It couldn’t even be bothered to pick up a pen this time. Instead, it scrawled lazily on my palm:

【A hand.】

I sighed at the short, halfhearted answer.

Well, what did it matter? Knowing what it was wouldn’t change the miracle that I could play again at all.

Silence lingered for a while.

There was something I’d wanted to say — but it stuck in my throat.

“Hey.”

I lifted my hand lightly, as if greeting it.

“Let’s enter a piano competition.”

The right hand tilted toward me, as if looking at my face.

Maybe it thought I’d lost my mind — after all, I couldn’t even press a proper key just a few days ago.

Then it moved.

【Do whatever.】

“…Wait, really?”

【Heated hand massager, wrist brace, pain patches…】

It started scribbling furiously on a notepad. I peered over its shoulder, realizing those were things I needed to buy.

“Fine, fine! Write all you want! I’ll get everything for you! Oh, my precious—”

Smack!

Before I could even finish, it slapped me clean across the face.

As I rubbed my stinging cheek, it coolly returned to writing out the list.

Somewhere deep inside, an odd worry surfaced.

“…Do I come off as annoying to other people too?”

* * *

The next morning, 9 a.m.

Yawning wide enough to crack my jaw, I pushed open the academy doors.
It was early lesson day.

I was heading for the lounge to grab coffee when something on the bulletin board caught my eye.

[Cantabile Piano Academy — Annual Recital Notice]

I stopped mid-step and scanned the announcement.

“So it’s recital season again, huh…”

Recitals weren’t just for the students. Teachers, parents — everyone got judged.

How well did the teachers teach?
And how well did the students learn?

Parents didn’t listen for joy. They observed.
And when results failed to impress, students often left the academy… or gave up entirely.

It was, in every sense, a stage of judgment.

“Feeling pressured?”

Yoon Ah-young appeared beside me, wearing an awkward smile.

Strange. She’d been avoiding me all week — and now she was the one to approach.

I exhaled slowly. “Can’t really say no, can I?”

“How’s your wrist?” she asked.

Her words made me freeze.

“…How did you know about that?”

“I saw it once — through your sleeve. You didn’t seem to want to talk about it, so I pretended not to notice.”

“And now you’re suddenly asking?”

“You look like you’ve recovered.”

I blinked. What?

She smiled gently. “Actually, I came back to the academy that night — the night of the staff dinner.
I’d forgotten my wallet.”

I swallowed hard.

So she heard it.
That night’s performance — every note.

There was no point lying. But what was I supposed to say?
That my right hand had gained sentience and occasionally slapped me when it felt like it?

Yoon Ah-young closed her eyes briefly.

“You played Tempest, didn’t you? At first, I couldn’t tell who it was.
But I’ve never heard a performance like that before — not in this academy, not in my life.”

I nodded faintly.

She was right. I’d been both the player and the audience that night.
Every note had stolen my breath; the sound itself seemed to possess me.

And now she looked straight at me.

“I’m sorry.”

“Huh? For what?”

“I didn’t believe you — when you said you studied at Eastman.
Everyone knows you never play.”

I gave a dry laugh. “If you’d believed me, that would’ve been weird.”

I hesitated, then ventured carefully, “Could you… keep it to yourself?”

“Of course.”

“You’re not even going to ask why?”

“You’ve kept it secret this long. I’m sure you have a reason.
If it were something I should know, you’d have told me already.”

She bowed politely. “I’ve got a lesson now!”

“Ah, sure. Good luck.”

As she walked off, I scratched my head, watching her leave.

Could I really trust her? Maybe. She didn’t seem the type to gossip.

“Well, if it gets out… it gets out.”

* * *

“Let’s wrap up for today.”

“I’ll stay and practice a little longer.”

Choi So-eun’s expression darkened as she stared at her sheet music.

“Mom said she’s coming to the recital.”

“That’s great. She’ll finally get to see you—”

“She’ll just tell me to quit piano and study instead.”

Her lips pressed tight.

“You’re seventeen, right?”

“Yes.”

“Still plenty of time before college. Don’t stress so much. You’ve been working hard.”

“I don’t have talent.”

“…Come again?”

“When I saw you play that night,” she whispered, “I realized — no matter how much I practice, I’ll never play like you.”

I stared at her, startled.

So-eun was always quiet, almost shy. I never imagined she was carrying that kind of despair.

But the truth? Even I couldn’t play like that.
Not like him — my right hand. That damned genius.

Even if I trained for life, I’d never reach that level.

So-eun’s voice trembled. “It’s all because of Dad.”

“Your father?”

“He got transferred out here. I was studying piano in Seoul…
Kids there are already past Black Keys, playing Pathetique and The Chase!”

“That’s impressive.”

“Of course it is! Kids in Seoul are insane!”

“Got any videos?”

She blinked, confused, but unlocked her phone and played one.

A small studio appeared on screen. The teacher nodded, and the performance began.

Dan—daradan—!

Chopin’s The Chase.

I watched in silence.

The longer it went on, the more my jaw dropped — and the darker So-eun’s face grew.

“Wow…”

“Good, right?”

“Good? They suck.”

Her eyes went wide. Mine too — at my own bluntness.

“The rhythm’s dragging all over, no concept of phrasing, no dynamic control —
this isn’t a chase, it’s a panic. At my old school, professors would throw you out for that.”

She blinked. “What school did you go to?”

Oops.

“Uh… far away. Doesn’t matter. Want to hear what real ‘Chase’ sounds like?”

“Yes!”

Her face brightened instantly.

I spread my right hand dramatically before her.

“So-eun, my right hand is possessed by a demon.”

“…What?”

“The Piano Demon. Ask nicely, or it might flick your forehead.”

So-eun giggled, clearly thinking it was a joke.

“Please, Piano Demon!”

Good. Now don’t you dare refuse me, I thought.

The right hand twitched, then descended to the keys.

“Alright then— ow!”

It twisted hard against my thigh.

“Teacher? Are you okay?”

“Ha… ha, yeah. Just… stretching.”

It never misses a chance to mess with me.

Then the hand glided onto the keyboard. So-eun flipped through her music bag.

“I’ll get the score—”

“No need.”

I knew The Chase by heart — to the bone.

I inhaled deeply.

And the studio filled with fire.

Chopin’s “The Chase.”

Not a name given by Chopin, but by listeners — for the way its furious tempo evoked pursuit and flight.

A chase across the keys.
Right hand the hunter, left hand the hunted.

My right hand blazed across the keyboard, leaving my left scrambling just to survive.
Each run, each leap — impossibly sharp.
Even the pedal needed split-second precision to match its madness.

The performance was breathless, devastating, transcendent.

When I’d studied at Eastman, I’d attended every recital by the top pianists — but I’d never heard this.

And the most absurd part?

Even now, the right hand was holding back.

If it wanted, it could devour my left whole.

Still — I wouldn’t let it.

I chased it with everything I had.

A final chord thundered through the room.

Silence fell.

Panting, I wiped the sweat from my forehead — almost with my right hand, then stopped myself.
If I stained it, it might just tear out my hair in front of the student.

So-eun could only stare, wide-eyed.

“See the difference?”

“…No.”

“You will, one day. Just keep practicing. You’ll get there.”

Her smile returned — small, but genuine.

Good. The shadow in her voice had lifted.

Knock knock.

As I packed up, Yoon Ah-young peeked into the room.

“Still not done?”

“Just finished.”

“Then hurry! Everyone’s gathering in the director’s office.”

“What’s up?”

“We’re picking the performers for the recital!”

Right — even the teachers had to earn their spots.

The recital wasn’t only about the students proving themselves.
Teachers, too, were tested — their performance representing the academy’s pride and credibility.

I grabbed my notes and pen and followed her out.

“Wonder who’ll make the stage this year…”