Chapter 1
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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 1
Chapter Title: Genius
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A studio filled with the aroma of coffee. Glimpses of various awards from orchestras adorned the walls.
In the modest interior, two men sat facing each other.
"As you said, Baek Ji-ho and Lee Ha-yeon were jewels that shone on their own... Have you ever seen a true 'rough gem'?"
At the reporter's question, Choi Jae-hyung, hailed as the nation's top conductor, offered a faint smile tinged with wistful bitterness.
"I've seen a rough gem I could never find again in my lifetime."
"That makes me curious."
His gaze drifted into space, as if recalling old memories.
"It was a kid who attended the same music academy as Ji-ho and Ha-yeon. It must have been a quiet afternoon. I heard an unfamiliar melody drifting from the practice room, so I peeked in..."
The reporter's eyes sparkled with interest.
"And there was this one kid playing an incredible piece. Not a composed work or even an exercise—it was pure improvisation."
"At an age where even exercises are a struggle, an incredible improv? Is that even possible?"
"What's impossible about it? Geniuses are like that by nature."
Choi Jae-hyung closed his eyes, vividly recalling that melody once more.
"I didn't realize it at the time, but the more I thought about it, the deeper and more poignant the notes felt."
He lightly tapped his temple with his index finger.
Nearly thirty years had passed. Yet the memory lingered, sharper than ever in his mind.
The texture of those notes, their freedom—qualities even he couldn't aspire to.
The deeper his musical achievements and the title of maestro he earned, the more he realized the magnitude of the gem he'd let slip away.
"Was the kid's technique that exceptional?"
"On the contrary, her playing skill itself was rather clumsy compared to her peers. But you need to understand this."
Choi Jae-hyung lowered his voice, drawing the reporter's full attention.
"High-difficulty passages can be overcome with consistent practice to a certain extent, but a unique tone color? That's something you're born with."
"That's unfair."
"Extremely unfair."
Given the piano's nature—handling far more notes than any other instrument—differences in tone among performers are inevitable.
The infinitesimal gaps between notes, the strength of the touch, pedal usage, legato phrasing, and more. The permutations from countless sequences of notes approach infinity.
Yet that child's tone was overwhelmingly distinctive.
It rang out like a masterclass in how the piano should be played, brimming with conviction and beauty. A singular uniqueness so profound it couldn't be acquired by desire alone, impossible even to imitate.
That's how geniuses are born.
"Then why didn't you take her along too?"
"I agonized over that performance for days, but when I returned to the academy, she was already gone."
The reporter leaned back, clicking his tongue. Clearly, some foreign foundation or academy had swooped in.
"Where did she go? Germany? France? Poland?"
"She probably quit music."
"...Pardon?"
The reporter's face crumpled at the unexpected reply.
"A kid with that kind of talent—if she'd kept playing, her music would have reached everyone's ears eventually."
"Ah, right."
"Geniuses can't hide their gifts."
Bag of jewels.
It was a phrase Choi Jae-hyung always kept in mind while scouting young musicians.
Since that child never crossed his path again, she must have had circumstances forcing her to quit. The thought filled him with regret once more.
"It's greed, I know, but if I could go back, I'd grab that child's hand in an instant."
Deep remorse colored the maestro's final words.
Choi Jae-hyung considered himself a decent jeweler.
How proud he would have been if she'd passed through his hands. Even without him, if she'd followed a standard education path, what kind of pianist might she have become?
Even if just as a hobby...
The reporter, stroking his chin thoughtfully, asked flatly.
"What was the kid's name?"
Choi Jae-hyung furrowed his brow and let out a short, hollow breath.
"Damn, I can't even remember the name anymore."
For a moment, he wondered if the child he'd seen was just an illusion.
"Hey, Kwon Do-hyun."
"Yes, Section Chief."
"Anyone with common sense would have immediately reported that the buyer had been changed to a Jew, right?"
Here we go again. What was eating at him this time?
If it bugs you so much, don't be late yourself. The retort rose to the tip of my tongue, fueled by last night's drinks.
"It was a last-minute discovery... But thanks to me holding things down in advance, the outcome was good, wasn't it?"
"Hey, if salespeople only cared about results, we wouldn't bother with after-sales service. Why do we grease the Chinese with guanxi and squeeze our clients? Last time with the Chinese semiconductors, or was it the ship bookings..."
27 minutes.
That's how long I nodded mechanically.
Still, it wasn't boring.
Thump!
My right foot stamping at long intervals: the kick drum.
Clap-clap!
My palm rapidly tapping the desk: the snare.
The light resonance of the composite wood rang out brightly.
Tempo... moderato to allegro, maybe.
"Sales is like..."
Thump!
"A war without gunfire, a battlefield where a bullet could pierce your skull anytime. You listening?"
Clap-clap!
The steady beat evoked a waltz. My favorite was Shostakovich's, a brilliant 3/4 time just like this.
No, sir. Yes, sir. I'm sorry.
Throwing in responses here and there made it feel like a rhythm game—actually kind of fun.
"How many years have you been a senior associate? Still can't handle things properly? Huh?"
What? Even if the section chief was a virtuoso human metronome, this was too much.
HR mentioned offhand his performance reviews were mediocre. Peer evaluations probably average at best.
"Take care on your way home, sir. Thanks for your hard work."
So why the hell was my spine bending at ninety degrees?
I snuck a glance and flipped him the bird discreetly. Pathetic that this was my utmost rebellion.
"Ah... fuck."
A zombie-like mutter escaped me. At the office, my mouth was either cursing or chewing a cigarette out of habit.
Am I gonna start swearing in meetings too?
I hate even thinking about work after clocking out...
With that thought, heading home felt all the more miserable.
Back home, I yanked off my suffocating tie and collapsed onto the sofa.
"Play something random from the playlist."
The AI speaker responded, queuing up a track at random.
Not mocking anyone, but the opening bars had me chuckling instantly.
A melody even classical ignoramuses knew: Da-da-da DUM!
Beethoven Symphony No.5, the so-called Fate Symphony.
It felt eerily like a declaration that this wretched life was my fate.
At least if it followed the Fate Symphony, there was hope. The finale of the fourth movement ended in victory.
How many movements had my life played through? Definitely not the finale.
At least the music slaps.
The tempo slows gradually between themes.
Adagio, then the oboe cadenza. The bassoons lead into a new theme.
Kleiber recording, right? Good call buying it.
The second movement hit different today.
I didn't listen to Beethoven symphonies often—they could feel stuffy—but occasionally, they stabbed right to the heart.
The woodwind theme seeped into my ears. Amid the swirling variations, my fingers tapped the beat unconsciously.
The languid tempo shifting between andante and adagio brought on drowsiness.
Da-da-da DUM!
As the famous phrase went, the horns truly conjured an "elephant dance."
The piece had slipped into the third movement before I knew it.
Ate samgyeopsal today—can't just crash without brushing my teeth.
Need to wrap up the report, check the German textile order volume and container schedule...
Memories slid away like flipping calendar pages, receding to the back of my mind.
Screw it.
I closed my eyes just like that.
Da-da-da DUM!
"What's your hobby?"
"I enjoy classical music. Kinda old-fashioned?"
"Whoa, cool! Do you play any instruments?"
"No talent for that."
"To the cheering public, thank you from this distant foreign land."
"I'll make sure to show my best at the homecoming concert. Thank you again!"
"Plays well, as always."
"Come to think of it, you and Baek Ji-ho..."
"Still on about ancient history? I don't even remember."
What was this? A dream?
"Manager Kim, please cut me some slack. For old times' sake, please..."
"Dad, I'm quitting piano."
"No, piano's just not fun anymore."
"For real."
Irregular shards of memory, like glass fragments, emerged and scattered like variations on a theme.
The snot-nosed elementary days when the "kid" label felt awkward. The day the wooden front door turned into a rusty iron gate. The day I got the acceptance from KR International. The day I watched Baek Ji-ho's homecoming concert.
I drifted through time bent like a bow for hours, who knows.
As the prickling unease on my nape faded...
"Gasp...!"
I jolted awake, gasping for air. Bright LED lights hit my eyes first, reflecting off a glossy grand piano.
The model from my childhood?
An item from when we were well-off shimmered before me.
This was bizarre.
In this surreal situation, my eyes locked first on the smartphone.
As I reached for the phone on the table...
"Son?"
A familiar face appeared through the cautiously opened door.
"...Dad?"
"Yeah, it's Dad. If you're sleepy, go crash in your room. Why here?"
My father. A dapper version from his younger days.
No trace of the gaunt man who'd toiled at sea after the business failed.
"Why do you look so young?"
Dad shook his head with a pitiful look.
"This kid must've been dreaming. I'm forty-seven now. Pretty young for a dad, huh?"
"Forty-seven? Since when?"
"Oh? Forgetting your old man's age now? That's why raising kids is pointless..."
Dad wasn't the only odd thing. I belatedly examined my body.
No way, me too?
Petite frame. Soft arms and legs without any heft. A youthful voice untouched by nicotine and tar.
Everything felt off; I couldn't make sense of it.
"Kid, your dad shelled out big to send you to arts high. You should be practicing your ass off instead of wasting time. First semester starts soon."
"...Arts high?"
"Yeah."
My head was a jumble. I shot back immediately.
"I'm going to arts high?"
"Yeah."
"No, I'm not?"
"Yes, you are?"
Something was seriously wrong.