Chapter 5
“Just now, the cadenza part… you played it exactly as it’s written on the sheet music, right?”
“?!”
Cadenza — a musical passage where the performer showcases their skills through a freer, more improvisational, and flamboyant style.
In simple terms, Liszt had expected the performer to ad-lib during this part.
It was a kind of question in itself:
“How would you play this part?”
He had inserted the cadenza to draw out a personal response from the performer.
But Ji Jaewon had done nothing more than play the notes as written.
While his cadenza was impressive, it didn’t align with the composer’s intention.
That’s what made Yoo Hyesung tilt his head in confusion.
“…Right?”
“Ah, I see… I was too busy being impressed to notice that it was straight from the score.”
The production crew was dumbfounded.
This wasn’t the reaction they were expecting.
They weren’t sure what Yoo Hyesung’s intention behind the question was—but it felt more like an observation or critique than praise.
Was this something they could even use for the broadcast?
Just as their minds were going dark—
“Oh, that was impressive.”
Fortunately, a sincere-sounding compliment followed.
Still, compared to their expectations, it felt flat.
No—rather than admiration, it sounded more like… interest.
PD Kim Kisik tried nudging for a stronger reaction, but it didn’t go beyond curiosity.
Still, something odd caught his eye—
‘…Why does his smile look like he’s proud?’
It had to be his imagination.
What reason would he have to feel proud in this situation?
Just a feeling, that’s all.
“Okay, now let’s move on. Next, we’ll listen to the piece Ji Jaewon performed in the final round…”
But could he really stay so composed after hearing this?
“Let’s listen to ‘La Chasse’ (‘The Hunt’).”
Liszt’s Transcendental Étude No. 8 — La Chasse.
It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that this piece had secured Jaewon’s victory.
The production team double-checked the fixed camera angles, making sure they had a good shot of Yoo Hyesung’s face.
They were sure he’d be amazed by this one.
“For reference, Jaewon’s ‘La Chasse’ in the final round received high praise from the critics. They said, ‘This must be how Liszt himself would have played it.’”
A clearly intentional bit of setup.
Yoo Hyesung smiled slightly.
That comment from the critics—that this was how Liszt would’ve played it—seemed to amuse him.
And then, the performance began.
“Oh.”
Finally, a reaction from Hyesung.
“This is impressive too.”
…Once again, more interest than awe.
And that was it. No further commentary followed.
Of course, he meant it. It was a performance worthy of winning.
‘Still… it’s a bit too focused on technique.’
He didn’t agree with the critics’ praise, unfortunately.
But from the composer Liszt’s perspective, the piece had been well executed.
Even that much was remarkable.
He applauded.
“….”
The staff looked a bit stunned.
The applause was slow—almost like a superior offering praise.
‘Or maybe he’s just not very expressive?’
Now that they thought about it, even when they first met, he didn’t carry the air of a typical teenager.
Maybe he was just aloof by nature.
‘Or maybe it’s because it’s not a live performance.’
No matter how amazing a performance is, if you’re watching it through a screen, the impact tends to fade.
Perhaps his real emotions would come out better during the actual filming in the studio?
‘He’s reacting… but not strongly.’
For now, they moved on to the next part of the show.
“In the upcoming studio shoot, Hyesung and Ji Jaewon will be performing the same piece side by side.”
One staff member added gently,
“So we asked them to each choose one piece. Hyesung, have you decided? Something you’re confident in—or a piece you want Jaewon to evaluate?”
Yoo Hyesung, as if he’d been waiting for this, smiled again.
“La Chasse.”
“…!”
* * *
He headed to the KBC studio with his uncle.
His uncle drove as if he were used to it, though the car wasn’t his.
It belonged to Hyesung’s father—he must’ve borrowed it again.
“You said today’s just a rehearsal before the real studio shoot, right?”
“Yes. It might take a while—are you okay with that? I thought you were busy job hunting.”
“Oh, I’m super busy.”
Got it.
Hyesung looked out the window.
“…Why are you smiling?”
He’d turned away to hide it, but apparently his cheek was still visible and gave him away.
“Do you know the misery of job hunting? No one acknowledges your effort, your family nags at you every day, and now even you’re giving me a hard time—”
“Green light.”
“Oh, right.”
The car started moving again.
He hesitated for a moment, then just said it.
“Thanks.”
“…That’s enough for me.”
“For buying me lunch today.”
“…Huh? When did I say that?”
“Aren’t you buying after the shoot? I’ll be hungry.”
“Wow. You’re a pro at this.”
His uncle chuckled.
“All right, it’s been a while—let’s eat together.”
Then muttered to himself, “The job hunter’s wallet grows thinner again…”
Wait—if he heard it, is it really muttering?
“I’ll treat next time.”
“No, …it’s fine.”
His uncle looked weirdly touched.
“Is there anywhere you want to go?”
“The place we went on the day I was discharged.”
“…Are you insane?”
They arrived at the parking lot and entered the station.
As they headed to the lobby, his uncle seemed to remember something.
“Oh yeah—during today’s shoot, are you gonna talk about that?”
That?
Hyesung blinked, not following. His uncle mimed sleeping with a hand to his ear.
Ah. The coma.
Hyesung shrugged.
“There’s no need.”
It wasn’t complicated.
He didn’t want to look weak. Like when he got a nosebleed before and dealt with it quietly—same reason.
He just didn’t want pity.
Nor did he want to draw extra attention to his “genius” because of it.
‘No need for that.’
There was already enough weight in just delivering his music.
“What I want to convey is not the story of the performer, but the story of the performance.”
After he said this, his uncle opened his mouth wide.
Totally in awe.
“God, that was so cringe.”
“……”
“You didn’t skip puberty during your coma—you aged into it.”
…When he first woke up, he was crying like a baby. Now he was cracking jokes?
Well, anyway—
They reached the lobby and were greeted by the staff.
They took the elevator up to the meeting room.
“Oh, you’re here.”
“Have a seat here.”
PD Kim Kisik greeted them warmly. Several other staff were also present.
Then the person sitting beside him spoke up.
An older man.
After a short introduction, it turned out he was the chief conductor of the KBC Symphony Orchestra.
“I’m Choi Gukhwan, the conductor.”
He was serving as a consultant and judge for The Classic.
The meeting began.
Nothing out of the ordinary. Just a rundown of Act 1, and that Act 2 was still in planning.
They changed locations after about 30 minutes.
To The Classic’s dedicated studio—for a rehearsal.
‘Oh.’
It was more spacious than expected, and a grand piano sat elegantly on the platform.
What kind of sound would that piano make? How would its keys feel?
He was extremely curious—itching to play it.
‘Right.’
Suddenly, he felt sixteen again.
More precisely, his heart had started to race.
Though his mind held mature memories of a past life, his body was unmistakably that of a boy.
‘Actually, that’s not bad.’
He smiled quietly to himself.
While lost in thought—
“…That’s the end of the explanation.”
He’d barely heard the assistant’s last words.
But it wasn’t anything important.
What was important—
“Then now…”
—was this. The performance.
He could feel warmth from behind.
Conductor Choi was smiling and gesturing toward the piano.
No cameras were rolling. Just a practice run to get a feel for the setup.
But camera or not, it didn’t matter.
The moment he sat at the piano—
“……”
—was always a moment of thrill.
He stretched out his hands, laid them on the keys like cutting fabric, and began to warm up.
Faster. Stronger.
He poured the techniques he carried over from his past life into the keys.
As time passed, murmurs filled the studio.
But they were soon drowned out—by the sound of the piano.
When he finally lifted his hands, they felt lighter.
Warm-up complete.
“Wow, with that kind of tempo, how is he so accurate…”
“That wasn’t just a warm-up, right? It was really nice to listen to.”
“…Honestly, I thought that was the actual performance.”
Then came the clear voices of astonishment.
Looking around, he saw dazed expressions.
“…Wait, that wasn’t a piece?”
PD Kim Kisik asked blankly.
Beside him, conductor Choi’s eye wrinkles deepened in surprise.
“I was just loosening my fingers. Playing randomly.”
“To say that was random? That’s almost too modest.”
This time, the conductor gave a helpless chuckle.
He then began talking about Franz Liszt, and Hyesung generally agreed.
In all of musical history, when it came to improvisation, Beethoven, Bach, Mozart—all were famous.
But Liszt had surpassed even them in his unparalleled ability to improvise.
He was truly in a league of his own.
“Contemporary musicians who heard Liszt’s improvisation said it was like their minds went blank just watching.”
Conductor Choi nodded.
“After hearing your improvisation, Hyesung… I think I understand what they meant.”
Hmm. Not quite.
Because that wasn’t an improvisation.
That was just a warm-up.
Hyesung knew the truth.
When people heard his real improvisation, they didn’t even speak.
They just stared, dazed—utterly blank.
That’s what it meant to have your mind go empty.
So, no—they didn’t understand yet.
“I’ll start now.”
He planned to make them understand properly.
* * *
PD Kim Kisik had been wondering.
That day, when he visited Hyesung’s home for the interview—
“Just now, the cadenza part… you played it exactly as it’s written on the sheet music, right?”
What had he meant by that?
‘Why ask that?’
After all, playing a written cadenza exactly as is isn’t particularly strange.
Cadenza passages were originally meant to be improvised—to showcase the performer’s creativity.
But in modern times, most pianists preferred to follow the written score precisely, especially in competitions.
That minimized errors and maximized performance quality.
“I’ll start now.”
But when Yoo Hyesung began playing—
“Is this… an improvisation?”
PD Kim Kisik finally realized.
What that question had really meant.
Ah.
So that’s what it was.
He was disappointed.
