Chapter 80
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 80
Chapter Title: Beethoven: Born to Win (4)
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Just before his meeting with Professor Sordinang was set to take place.
Kim Yul had been intimidated by the title of "professor" due to PTSD from his past life.
But...
"Oh! You're that genius Ulysses! A pleasure to meet you! Haha, I'm truly delighted to see you in person!"
"Ah, yes... A pleasure."
"Truly, truly, I've never seen a genius like you! Did you study demon tongue separately? And come to think of it, black hair! Black hair! Are you perhaps part demon?"
"...Pure human."
"Oh! My apologies! That's even more impressive!"
Maniacal energy.
Pure admiration gleaming in his eyes... and madness.
No matter how you looked at it, an obsession with scholarship, as if born clutching scrolls of knowledge.
Even after just a brief chat, Kim Yul felt his energy draining away stickily.
But oddly, that very fact made him like the man even more.
Unfortunately, Kim Yul's advisor back then had leaned more toward "poly-professor" than true professor material.
And for the real deal of a mad undergrad and grad student that Kim Yul had been, it had left something to be desired in satisfying his academic cravings.
A man approaching scholarship with such passion had to be a good one.
With thoroughly humanities-liberal-arts thinking, Kim Yul began to warm to him bit by bit.
And so.
He pulled out the materials he had prepared to hand over to Professor Sordinang.
"Oh, ooh! Could that be?!"
At that intense reaction, Kim Yul hesitated for a moment.
But his decision was swift.
"I'm a bit embarrassed for you to see it now, so please look at it later, after we part."
Professor Sordinang, shuddering with surging academic fervor,
couldn't bring himself to open the research materials right then, despite the young man's earnest plea.
"Very well! Then, then! Us two heroes—no, you said Romance of the Three Kingdoms! Shall we talk Three Kingdoms?!"
"Gasp."
Kim Yul felt his heart pounding wildly.
For any Three Kingdoms nut, "someone to talk Three Kingdoms with me!" was one of the greatest joys life allowed...!
.
.
.
If Historie had been there, a thick, frothy Three Kingdoms discourse would have ended by now, leaving her foaming at the mouth and passed out.
"This, indeed! This is a perfect fit for 'hand talk finger fight'!"
"Haha. You're too kind."
A satisfied smile tugged at Kim Yul's lips.
Discussing Three Kingdoms with someone other than Historie or Chloe brought him immense intellectual satisfaction.
But.
"Ah! Come to think of it, you're young too! How about it? In a year, you could be appointed full professor right away. Please join our graduate school—"
"I decline."
The goodwill built through Three Kingdoms communication plummeted to zero in an instant.
.
.
.
On the way back.
Professor Sordinang immediately opened the research notebook Ulysses had given him.
And.
"Urgh, uherrheherk...!"
A massive shiver pulled at the nape of his neck.
Not only were all the research achievements painstakingly uncovered by academia neatly compiled,
but even demon tongues whose reading methods and meanings hadn't been deciphered were inferred.
Even more astonishingly.
Assuming those inferences were correct, all the previously incomprehensible sentences connected smoothly with coherent meanings...!
And moreover.
This remarkable man, the genius bestowed by the era called Ulysses,
possessed not just encyclopedic knowledge to compile demon tongues so meticulously,
but...
"Heaven heaven, earth earth, heaven-earth present state, heaven looms distant and black, earth presses yellow..."
He had gathered the demon tongues into verses like poetry,
crafting principles of the world through metaphor.
"Euh, eu, eu...!"
Professor Sordinang writhed in the street, lost in profound shivers and ecstasy.
* * *
While Professor Sordinang returned to the Republic, declared closed-door training, and holed up alone in his lab mulling over the meanings of Heavenly Demon Divine Art and Thousand Character Classic that Kim Yul had given him,
the protagonist born from Kim Yul's words on the page,
boy Beethoven, grew steadily into young Beethoven.
Gaining inspiration from his first trip to Vienna, the center of art, meeting new people,
his mother's death, and after his father—the anchor holding Beethoven back thus far—was relieved of duties, stepping up as head of the household.
Physically.
Mentally.
In the swift pacing and tempo unique to serialized novels, he honed his performance and composition skills simultaneously, earning awe and adoration from those around him in a steady progression.
Just as readers were starting to adapt to what seemed like a one-pattern development.
"France?"
"France—Isn't that Joan of Arc's country?"
"A revolution by the masses? Hah."
Changes began to stir in the era surrounding the protagonist, and as an enigmatic ideology called Enlightenment faintly took root in Beethoven's thoughts,
it was a cliché common to games and novels alike: moving from early hardship areas to higher-challenge new regions.
Like a Pokémon master resetting memories for the next sequel.
Beethoven left Bonn for Vienna.
But some sharp-tongued critics began voicing complaints about the novel's progression.
"It's just the same one-pattern plot again, right?"
"Go compose, succeed, perform, get praised. That's it. If it were a hero tale, at least each foe would differ slightly—instead, it's all just musicians."
"Hmm... Parents as shackles—does that mirror the author's life—Gurk! Urk! Urk!"
"You bastards hitting pad-lip? Get out!"
"Out of the salon now! You're banished!"
"You fucking bastards, flapping your mouths from some safe spot! What if Ulysses stops new symphonies? You taking responsibility?"
"I withdraw support for Ulysses starting now. From today, I merge with Ulysses as one. Attacks on Ulysses are attacks on me...!"
"You plebs who don't know art's etiquette, strutting like you can read! Go listen to Mozart! Free concert in the plaza tonight!"
Of course, self-purification happened too.
Among musicians,
especially pianists, Ulysses began to be revered.
Naturally, the odds of one person—let alone a novelist who seemed untrained in music—creating all this were slim.
So they speculated it drew from some ill-fated musician born in the wrong era, or a master demanding anonymity as Beethoven's motif.
Who cared, anyway.
The scores were cheap, and the music delicious.
Five stars. Will rebuy for sure.
But from a technical novel standpoint,
it was true the one-pattern repetition had reached a point.
"Hmm..."
Even in the eyes of Poppi, who was evolving from a stray mutt, that trait was faintly visible.
"But it's Kim Yul!"
Still unwilling to abandon faith in Kim Yul, Esthea rose at dawn—unusually diligent for a dragon—to buy Novelpia from the newsstand.
Skipping the 1st and 2nd place novels,
she started with 'Beethoven,' sadly lingering in 3rd.
…….
…….
Algergrund District.
In a shabby attic room.
Beethoven composed scores by the light of a single candle.
A chill that fogged breath swept the room, but it wasn't enough to halt his musical inspiration.
Of course, this result wouldn't satisfy his master either.
Did his master even intend to teach him properly?
His first true teacher,
Haydn, immortal in music circles, but musical genius and teaching prowess were separate.
Above all...
The passion burning in his chest even now.
This flame that seemed eternal—not only did it fail to blaze brighter,
but even after accepting him as disciple, scant attention was paid.
- This just needs a bit of fixing.
- Hmm? This piece has quite a few errors.
Even scanning scores dashed off in youthful zeal, responses were lukewarm; errors pointed out not by the master, but by Teacher Schenk.
Beethoven tossed down his pen like a spear and rubbed his numb hands.
The cold felt especially biting today.
Then.
Thud thud thud—
"Anyone home?"
At the unfamiliar footsteps and knocking,
Beethoven opened the door, wariness sharpening his gaze.
There stood...
"Are you Ludwig van Beethoven?"
A butler in splendid livery.
Attire from another world, fitting noble salons where Beethoven occasionally performed—not this moldy little attic.
The butler's eyes scanned Beethoven up and down.
In stark contrast: tousled hair, frayed clothes, provincial accent, not-tall stature.
With a faintly condescending gaze, the butler tossed over a perfunctorily sealed envelope.
"Tonight, a concert at Count von Schönborn's mansion. Can you participate?"
Beethoven read the look too,
and his temperament wasn't mild enough to stomach such disdain.
Backing from a count or whatever.
He had no desire to bow to this insolent attitude.
As Beethoven slammed the door—
the butler smirked, blocking the gap.
"Haydn's disciple is hot-tempered, they say—and it's true."
Beethoven gnashed his teeth to restrain a punch.
Whatever.
"Tonight's concert is a piano competition. Word you're Mozart's successor genius—pianists eager to see if you can even touch his shadow await."
Seeing Beethoven's eyes flicker,
the butler took it for fear.
And swallowed inner disappointment.
"Scared? No need to come. Plenty think you'll run anyway. Well then."
As he turned—
"Wait."
Beethoven flung the door wide with a growl.
A feral vitality spread from him, like a starving beast scenting blood after ages.
"I was just curious about Vienna's pianists' skills. Perfect timing. Give me a moment to prepare?"
At the reversed momentum,
the butler finally smiled in satisfaction, bowing politely.
"Then, we take your participation in the piano competition, Mr. Ludwig van Beethoven. Carriage is ready—shall we depart now?"
At the sudden shift,
Beethoven realized he'd been tested.
But it didn't matter.
Piano competition.
Given instant themes, how creatively and brilliantly could one improvise or vary,
or sight-read opponents' scores perfectly, or surpass originals with bold inspiration.
He'd heard tales, but first real chance.
"A moment to fix my wig and attire."
"Of course."
Suddenly, Beethoven recalled Lorhen's voice, from their big fight before leaving Bonn.
- Maintain dignity everywhere, Beethoven. People ignore not your talent, but your appearance.
It had happened just now too.
His slovenly look wouldn't reflect a respectable musician.
But Beethoven's conviction held firm.
Only music.
Only music was truth.
Thus.
To Vienna's pianists, flashy but unable to match Mozart's toes,
a chance to show true music.
"Wheee!"
Esthea burst into satisfied laughter.
And with it.
"Ooooh, a piano competition...!"
Like finding a new toy,
Esthea's vertically slit pupils sparkled.