Chapter 008
The board was placed directly onto the floor.
The score still displayed: 08.
“…8 points?”
“Whoa…”
“So then, …what does this mean?”
“Uh, this wasn’t the flow we were expecting.”
I stood up, basking in the heated stares of many.
Hmm.
Pianist Ji Jaewon had technically impressive keystrokes and technique—worthy of nods of approval.
But his interpretation and emotional delivery of the piece? Frankly, it had been unsatisfying to the point of disbelief.
I walked past him and sat at the piano.
Then I adjusted the height of the bench so that the keys aligned with my upper abdomen.
Ah.
As soon as I sat here, the light strangely dazzled my eyes.
I looked up. The bright lights of the studio.
As I kept staring, the light began to blur…
And then, as the memory of when I composed this piece seeped into my mind, the blinding lights became the dawn of Budapest.
The awakening of Hungary.
It was the scene I had witnessed and the emotions I had felt while composing this piece.
My homeland, Hungary.
But at the same time, it was also a knot of complex emotions for me.
Though I was born in Hungary, Hungarian wasn’t even my mother tongue.
Because of extensive touring, I hadn’t lived in Hungary for very long.
Maybe that’s why.
I suffered from an identity crisis for a long time.
I felt more attached to Vienna and Paris than to Hungary, yet I couldn’t consider myself Austrian or French either—I could never forget Hungary.
One winter evening in Budapest, I strolled along the Danube River.
Sitting by the riverside, gazing at the rippling night waters, I fell into deep thought.
On my lap was sheet music, ready to capture my emotions.
What is my identity?
I was a foreigner.
A wanderer born in a land where even the language was unfamiliar.
Maybe this confusion was my inescapable fate.
Honestly, I still feel the same.
I’m still unsure—whether Franz Liszt became Yoo Hyesung, or Yoo Hyesung was once Franz Liszt.
That destiny continues to this day.
But the answer is simple.
I play.
In music, I become whole.
—Franz Liszt, Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2.
As long as the music plays, I am just myself.
Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2.
It is both a symphonic poem that captures the soul of a nation and a self-portrait embodying my identity.
Maybe that’s why—
Like reuniting with an old lover, my fingers naturally found their places.
With each note I played, drawers of memories came pouring open.
The modern studio gradually transformed into the nighttime streets of 19th-century Budapest.
A lonely yet weighty prelude begins.
Lassan.
The left hand paints ripples with deep chords, while the right hand draws a melody that glides above them.
I gently press the sustain pedal.
Then, like a droplet falling into still water, the note sends ripples outward.
The expanding notes fade into the depths. A lost identity.
That was the emotion I felt sitting by the Danube back then.
And now, I confess those tangled emotions through my fingers.
The sorrow-laden motifs deepen and begin variations.
Low, soft notes fog the scene like mist, while the melody in the right hand carves curves above.
I press the pedal again.
The volume rises, a cadenza purges emotion, and the modulation begins.
Friska.
The weeping minor slowly transitions into a dazzling major.
Tempo accelerates.
Volume intensifies.
Time signatures twist.
Pitch spreads dramatically.
A fierce internal debate plays out.
Each note holds my confusion and doubts about my identity.
The notes clash, push, and pull—each insisting on its stance.
Eventually, a festival of brilliant technique bursts forth.
My homeland is Hungary.
That is an undeniable truth.
But then why am I not there?
Where are my roots?
The right hand leaps to higher octaves, weaving scales from Hungarian folk melodies.
The left hand counters, hammering octaves from below.
But eventually, they meet.
In the center of the keyboard.
At that moment—
A trill erupts, tremolos rain down, and a glissando sweeps across the keyboard like the embodiment of my mental chaos.
Furious fortississimo (fff).
Crescendo of madness.
Questions explode, and a cry for answers pierces the air.
As the torrent of notes rains down, I move my fingers desperately.
I swim through the keys, chasing truth.
I press the pedal with all my strength to unleash a downpour of sound.
At last, the music peaks.
It’s not that I found the answers—
Rather, I decided to embrace all the questions.
If destiny gave me a riddle, then I simply embrace it.
Wherever I came from, wherever I go—this is the path I must walk.
Finally, the harmony begins to settle.
The hands soften, the waves of anxiety and doubt subside.
The fog lifts. My vision clears.
The red sun rises over the Danube plains.
Night has passed. Morning has come.
I walk along the river once more.
And now, my fingers gently follow the final notes.
The mad sprint becomes a Grave, leaving behind a faint afterglow.
The notes now sound lonely but calm.
I’m no longer sad.
I have accepted it.
The vague borders of my identity no longer matter.
I am simply me.
Thus, I reconcile with myself.
I wandered, yes, but I was never lost.
Music is my everything—my source and my essence.
No more hesitation. No more confusion.
I pour every anguish and struggle into the notes and play.
“Whew…”
A drop of sweat falls.
It seeps between the keys.
Overwhelmed with emotion, I lift my hands off the keyboard.
I stood up.
Turned around.
And, well—obviously—
“….”
“….”
Everyone was staring at me in utter shock.
…Insane.
Ji Jaewon was dumbfounded.
He couldn’t think at all.
His mind had gone blank.
He just… didn’t understand.
Is this… a prank?
That YouTube link his manager had sent him a while back flashed in his mind.
He hadn’t watched it, but from the thumbnail, it looked like a hidden camera prank.
So was this absurd situation also some kind of joke?
No… that can’t be right.
He’d heard the performance from right behind.
He’d seen the sound bloom from those hands.
That piano—Steinway’s grand model—had no remote function.
He had just played it himself, so there was no doubt.
Fine. Even if, for argument’s sake, Steinway had installed remote functionality just for this broadcast—
…Then who?
He, Ji Jaewon, who never lost in Liszt pieces, was sitting right here. Who could’ve played like that?
While his thoughts spiraled, Hyesung sat across from him.
Their eyes met, and Ji Jaewon quickly looked down.
He didn’t know why he avoided the gaze just now—
No, he did know.
It was shame. Embarrassment.
He felt so small, having been so full of himself.
His neck burned like it had a steaming towel on it.
Then he noticed the pristine white score board on his lap.
Ah, the score.
He had to grade it. It was his turn now.
With determination, he gripped the board marker—
But…
His hand trembled uncontrollably.
The shock had reached his fingers. He couldn’t steady himself.
Get it together, Ji Jaewon.
Honestly, his pride had taken a huge hit.
Especially when he saw Hyesung had written 80 for him.
The legendary judges gave him 90s for Hungarian Rhapsody No.2—but this kid? Dared to rate it 80?
And when Hyesung flipped the board to reveal 08, he was sure:
Ah. The kid’s nuts.
He wasn’t even mad. Just dumbfounded.
He had planned to give Hyesung a brutal review in return.
To snap him out of whatever delusion he was in.
For the sake of good TV, and to reclaim his dignity as a working pianist, he’d even considered giving a zero.
He had planned all that…
But now, his hand wouldn’t stop trembling.
He couldn’t bring himself to give a score below 8—his pride wouldn’t allow him to look that petty.
But scoring above 80?
He couldn’t accept the reality that this young boy had played at a level higher than him.
His ears understood, but his brain still resisted.
He was the Liszt competition winner, after all…
The marker hovered in midair—
Then something flashed in his peripheral vision.
A message from the production team appeared on the teleprompter:
[Jaewon! It’s not your turn to score yet!]
…Right.
The format was: Hyesung would grade Hungarian Rhapsody, and Ji Jaewon would grade Wilde Jagd (Hunting).
The producers had emphasized this before the shoot, but he’d been so rattled that he’d forgotten.
Yeah, Hunting.
Recalling the piece snapped him out of it.
The one praised by critics: “This is how Liszt would have played it if he were alive.”
This one—
I must win this one.
If this aired as is… he was screwed.
Everything he’d built would collapse.
With that resolve, he looked across at Hyesung—
The boy smiled back with his signature bright eyes.
“It’s your turn to play now, Hyesung.”
Hyesung smiled again, pure as ever.
Originally, there was supposed to be a short chat before the next performance—
But Ji Jaewon didn’t have time for that now.
“I’m looking forward to it.”
“Mm, alright.”
“…”
What kind of answer is that? Was that a yes or no?
Ji Jaewon stared blankly at the boy approaching the piano.
He sat down.
No need to adjust the bench.
Since he’d just played, he could go right into it.
He rolled his neck.
Lifted and dropped his shoulders a few times.
Then he began rotating them one by one—like a hunter limbering up before a hunt.
Then suddenly, Hyesung turned his head.
Their eyes met.
Why? What?
“……?”
Then the boy smiled softly—
And turned back to the piano.
“……!”
Even before his gaze touched the keys,
His ten fingers landed exactly where they needed to be—like the score was burned into his memory.
—Franz Liszt, Transcendental Étude No. 8 “Wilde Jagd (Hunting)”.
As the deep tones echoed from the lower keys, like a hunting horn—
Everyone in the room became the hunted.
The hunt… had begun.
