PBI 10

PBI

Posted by cinderella, Released on October 11, 2025

Chapter 10

Late evening, in his small officetel apartment.

The faint glow of the phone screen lit the room as videos of the great masters played one after another.

Do-yoon sat with his earbuds in, eyes closed, listening intently.

He needed to understand exactly what the left hand was doing—where it began, where it carried the weight.

Abstract interpretations were for listeners.
For the pianist, it had to be precise.

After a long stillness, he finally pulled the earbuds out.

“…It’s hard.”

The masters’ performances were undeniably different from his.
Their right hands were razor-sharp, but the left—
the left held the entire flow of the music together.

How does one hold the flow of a performance?

Something faint brushed at the back of his mind.

His right hand suddenly poked his side.

【Want me to tell you?】

“No. I’ll figure it out myself.”

【Suit yourself.】

The hand clambered onto a towel and lay down,
adjusting its height against the pillow—
behaving almost like a person.

As he reached to put his earbuds back in,
the hand snatched up a pen.

【Why aren’t you looking at the score?】

“I have it in my head.”

【Bullshit.】

The hand flicked a Post-it note at him and flopped back down.

“…Who did you even take after?”

He glared sideways at the rebellious hand,
then picked up his phone.

There wasn’t much point in re-reading sheet music memorized since college—
but out of respect for the craft,
he thought he should glance at it once.

“…Huh?”

His eyes widened.

There it was—something so basic,
so obvious that he had forgotten it even existed.

A single curved line.

“…A phrase.”

【I didn’t say a word, all right?】

The “secret of the left hand’s command” wasn’t anything grand at all.

Phrase —
People often call it a “slur,” but that’s not quite right.
A phrase is the breath of the music.

Like a sentence in a book—
no one reads an entire novel in one breath.
Even if they could, the listener would suffocate.

“My playing had no breath…”

He felt the flush of embarrassment crawl up his neck.
How could someone forget something as basic as phrasing
and still go searching for profound secrets?

Do-yoon leapt out of bed.

“Let’s go!”

【Where?】

“If I get it, I’ve got to practice it!”

【It’s past midnight.】

“Perfect time for snakes to come out. Move it!”

Before his right hand could complain,
he was already grabbing his coat.

<010>

Days passed in a blur.

By day, he taught students.
By night, he shut himself in the academy’s practice room like a mad scientist,
preparing for the competition.

One day, one week, two, four…
The more he practiced, the sharper the winter air became.
And by the time that chill reached its peak—
the preliminary day arrived.

Early morning.

Do-yoon stepped out of his officetel and froze.
A bus was waiting out front, full of familiar faces.

Through the window, Director Kang Mi-ryeo waved.

“Get in!”

“What—what’s this?”

“It’s the preliminaries, remember?
I thought it’d be good experience for the kids to come watch.”

“You should’ve told me if you were dragging the whole academy!”

The students’ eyes sparkled like kittens in rain boots.
Especially So-eun—she looked ready to cry if he said no.

“You’re not gonna let us watch your performance?
We were so looking forward to it.”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“Come on, hurry! We’ll be late!”

Even Yoon Ah-young joined in,
so he had no choice but to sigh and climb aboard.

As soon as he sat, she leaned toward him.

“You’re playing Chopin’s Winter Wind, right?”

“…How’d you know?”

“Please. You’ve been practicing it every night.
Everyone here knows.”

“I thought I was being quiet…”

“Show us something incredible, yeah?”

“Sure. Thanks for the pressure.”

He bowed his head with a wry smile.

The bus rumbled down the highway, laughter filling the air.
To them, it felt like a field trip.
To him, it was the calm before the storm.

After mentally going through the score for the hundredth time,
the driver’s voice broke the hum.

“We’ve arrived.”

The bus stopped in front of Mapo Art Center.
The place was already packed.

Director Kang patted his back.

“Go knock ’em dead, Kim teacher.”

“Wait—”

Yoon Ah-young grabbed his sleeve.

“Hey, everyone, let’s cheer him on!”

“Don’t you dare—people are watching—”

“One, two—!”

He plugged his ears and bolted away,
but their voices still rang out:

“Teacher, fighting!”

Laughter followed.

By the time he reached the waiting room,
he was already exhausted.

“This is chaos…”

He sat in the corner, surveying the crowd.

Most contestants seemed to know each other, chatting easily.
He didn’t recognize anyone.

He slipped in his earbuds.
The familiar notes of Winter Wind played again—
the same piece he’d rehearsed hundreds of times this month.

“Contestant number one, please prepare.”

“Yes!”

A man in a suit stood stiffly,
moving like a squeaky hinge.

Do-yoon watched him and grimaced.
That’ll be me soon.

He hadn’t felt this nervous since his Eastman audition.

“Number two, please prepare.”
“Yes!”
“Number three—”

One by one, the names were called.
Each left, and none returned.

“Number thirty-six, please prepare.”

He unplugged his earphones and rose.

“Who’s that?”
“No idea. Kinda old for a newcomer, huh?”

He heard every word.

Ignoring them, he followed the staff out.

Behind the curtain, contestant thirty-five was finishing.

“When you’re ready, just bow and begin,” said the attendant.

“Thank you.”

He bowed and stepped onto the stage.

“Next, contestant thirty-six.”

A dry swallow.
He walked out and bowed toward the judges—
then froze.

“…Yang Se-jin?”

Sitting dead center among the judges
was his old friend—and rival.

Yang Se-jin’s eyes widened in equal shock.

One of the judges frowned.
“Is there a problem?”

“N-no, sir.”

Do-yoon stumbled to the piano and sat.

For a moment, his chest tightened.

We used to shine together…
But now?

One of them had become a world-famous judge.
The other—a broken pianist being judged.

Just as that bitterness began to spread—

“Straighten your shoulders, Kim Do-yoon!”

“Teacher! Fighting!”

“Waaah!”

Their voices—bright, loud, unashamed.

The judges scowled; a staffer rushed in, panicked.

“Please keep quiet.”

“Ah, sorry! Kids, hush!”

“But you shouted first, Ms. Yoon—”

“Shh!”

Yoon Ah-young shamelessly covered So-eun’s mouth.

Do-yoon couldn’t help but chuckle.

Right. Getting sentimental now would be pathetic.
It’s been years since that injury.

He placed his hands on the keys.

At the cue, he pressed down.

Ddan— Ddanddan— Ddan— Daradan—

The bright, cheerful melody filled the hall.

Mozart’s Piano Sonata No. 16.

Simple, elegant, perfectly structured—
the epitome of classical purity.

In other words,

“The kind of piece you’d hear at a children’s competition.”

“…Isn’t that the Mozart Sonata No.16?”
“What the— Is he kidding?”

The judges exchanged baffled looks.

Who in their right mind would pick such a basic piece
for a major competition?

He had thought the same—
until he’d heard his right hand play it.

A masterpiece is a masterpiece for a reason.
Even when simple in form,
its depth is unfathomable.

Ddan— Daradan—

His right hand danced across the keys,
each note as clear as crystal.

The melody washed over the hall like clean spring water.

Even the judges’ expressions began to change.

“…It’s pleasant.”
“Indeed. Solid fundamentals.”
“Especially that right hand—it’s like he’s got a metronome built in.”

different-!

The final note rang true.

A perfect appetizer.

He drew a slow breath.

Then—

Dandadan—

The hall hushed.

The opening flurry of Winter Wind filled the air.

One of the judges murmured, half laughing:

“Mozart 16… and now Winter Wind?”

The sound of ice shattering.

Chopin’s Étude Op.25 No.11 — Winter Wind.

A piece that exposes every flaw—
and exalts every brilliance.

One judge swallowed hard.

Who is this guy?

The air seemed to split.
Each flurry of notes was like snow swirling in a storm,
each flake perfect, unique.

So cold it burned—
so beautiful it hurt.

Even Chopin himself, resurrected,
might not have played it like this.

The judges stared, speechless.

That right-hand rotation… it’s like a wheel turning.

And the phrasing—how can anyone phrase like that?

In the audience, even the academy teachers were transfixed.

Director Kang covered her mouth.
“W-was Do-yoon always that good?”

Yoon Ah-young exhaled deeply.
The hall itself seemed frozen solid.

“That’s… not just skill,” she whispered.
“That’s something else.”

Everyone held their breath.
Everyone—except one.

Yang Se-jin ground his teeth.

What the hell are you?

When he’d heard Do-yoon’s Moonlight Sonata,
he’d dismissed it as a trick of memory.
A man with a shattered wrist couldn’t possibly play like that.

He had wanted to doubt his own ears.

But now?
How could he?

He had heard hundreds of Winter Winds
from pianists all over the world—
but this…

Do-yoon’s performance soared beyond them all.

The rotation of his right hand.
The phrasing and melody of his left.
The precision, as if an invisible metronome guided him.

And the focus—
the terrifying, absolute focus.

One judge whispered, dropping his pen:

“He’s playing like a madman…”

Yes.
Kim Do-yoon was possessed.

He smiled, grimaced,
laughed like a man intoxicated by sound.

It was madness and beauty intertwined.

Eyes closed,
he let the storm carry him.

Even with eyes shut,
the right hand raced flawlessly across the keys—
each note precise, perfect.

The judges exchanged low murmurs.

“Thought he was crazy with that Mozart stunt—
turns out he really is crazy.”
“He’s no amateur.”
“Korea might just have birthed a genius.”
“Se-jin, you’d better watch out.”

Yang Se-jin’s lips stiffened.

“…Yeah.”

A thought he didn’t want clawed its way up.

If Kim Do-yoon had entered the Tchaikovsky Competition…
If he had played like this…

Crack—!

His pen snapped, ink splattering.

He could fool everyone else,
but not himself.

If Kim Do-yoon had been there,
Yang Se-jin would have been nothing but second place.

The music surged to its end—
a storm both excruciating and divine.