Chapter 47

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Translator: 8uhl

Chapter: 47

Chapter Title: Even Calling It Evidence Now (3)

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"Go on."

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

Myeong Woo-bin stepped out of the teachers' lounge after a brief consultation with Choi Je-hun about his private lessons.

'You can do better than that.'

A short exchange, just a few words.

But within them, the one phrase Choi Je-hun had left stuck sharply in Myeong Woo-bin's memory.

'Do better.'

If he'd known how, he would've tried it ages ago. Myeong Woo-bin clicked his tongue in frustration.

The first evaluation, the second, and all the little tests in between—he'd given his all every time. What more could he possibly do here to "do better"?

He'd squeezed every last drop out of himself until nothing was left, so he had no regrets about the outcome. But dissatisfaction with the result itself was unavoidable.

96 points. If any other major's student dared complain about a score like that, they'd be seriously out of favor.

But exams were ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠ultimately relative evaluations, weren't they?

Myeong Woo-bin had placed fifth in the second evaluation, with three perfect scorers above him—not a single point deducted from any of them.

That was the concise truth.

'The weather's only nice at times like this.'

A pleasantly cool breeze brushed his face as he walked the hallway for a moment. Then, from the opposite direction, a familiar silhouette approached—a male student.

...Kwon Do-hyun.

They hadn't properly talked since the second evaluation; things had felt awkward for some reason.

"Myeong Woo-bin."

"Hey."

Their greeting wasn't exactly warm. When acquaintances crossed paths in an empty space like this, a quick nod was usually the best choice.

"Not heading home? It's Friday."

Kwon Do-hyun stopped first and spoke. A short conversation followed.

"Just meeting a teacher for a bit. What are you doing at this hour?"

"Heading to the practice room after a lesson."

"Lesson? Those don't start until after midterms."

"Teacher said to start today."

Starting lessons right on the day the survey forms went out? Was there some urgent reason to pull this guy in so fast?

'Some teacher had their eye on Kwon ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Do-hyun from the start?'

Myeong Woo-bin asked, his tone laced with curiosity.

"Which teacher? Someone I know?"

"Teacher Han Yong-seong. You know him too, right? He teaches really well."

"...What?"

His upper lip felt heavy, like a weight was hanging from it, refusing to move.

Myeong Woo-bin finally managed a reply, but his thoughts ground to a halt with a screech.

'Han Yong-seong... that Han Yong-seong?'

Myeong Woo-bin was well aware of the pianist Han Yong-seong.

His father exchanged greetings with the man from time to time, and he still vividly remembered the praise lavished on him.

And that man... had chosen Kwon Do-hyun?

'Why?'

Why Kwon Do-hyun, of all people?

'No way it's a namesake...'

The absurdity pushed Myeong Woo-bin into unrealistic fantasies.

He tried to hide his shock, but his body wouldn't cooperate.

"Oh, right. I had something to ask you."

Kwon Do-hyun's voice barely registered in Myeong Woo-bin's ears.

His mind was too preoccupied processing that Pianist Han Yong-seong had selected this guy for lessons—and so urgently, no less.

"I said I have something to ask."

"...What is it? Spit it out."

"Have you studied theory at all?"

"I covered the basics of harmony back in middle school."

"Whoa, that's insane."

Myeong Woo-bin quickly regained his composure and let out a long breath where the guy couldn't hear.

'Theory's something you can't leap ahead in with talent alone.'

It was the realm of experience and training—no shortcuts with genius boosters. Myeong Woo-bin was confident there.

Pianists didn't need to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠master theory like harmony down to the last detail, but ignoring it entirely was odd, so he'd studied diligently.

"Figures. You always answered well in theory class. You are pretty diligent."

Kwon Do-hyun smacked ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠his lips in disappointment, then started praising Myeong Woo-bin of all things.

Sensing something off, Myeong Woo-bin cautiously crossed his arms.

"So, what about you?"

"Why?"

"Did all that theory stuff actually help your playing?"

Myeong Woo-bin's thoughts were still scrambled.

The link between Han Yong-seong and Kwon Do-hyun kept churning in his head.

In the end, he twisted the question every which way, mangling it into a serpent's coil.

'Haha! What's the point of studying theory like a dog if you can't even score a perfect 100? Idiot! Puhahaha!'

Misinterpreting it that way, Myeong Woo-bin's face twisted. He immediately strode off with wide steps.

"If you're just gonna waste my time, I'm out."

"Hey, did it actually help or not?!"

Kwon Do-hyun's shout swirled behind him and faded away.

A cramped practice room. Inside, I pondered deeply.

'Did I just say something stupid to Myeong Woo-bin?'

Hi, where you headed, oh really, I just had a lesson, does theory help with actual playing?

'...Wasn't that a totally normal conversation? So mundane it was almost boring?'

No matter how I racked my brain, no answer emerged.

I was just curious if studying theory was efficient for analyzing pieces.

Why's he so prickly with me...? He took the exam scores pretty calmly when they came out.

'Doesn't seem like it's about the last test scores.'

Were there still hard feelings from early semester when we both played Mozart sonatas?

He even gave me advice right before the second evaluation. Weren't we getting along then?

'Human relationships are tricky, kid or adult.'

I didn't know. I smacked my lips and sighed.

After the lesson with Teacher Han Yong-seong, past-life thoughts had bubbled up, making me curious about Myeong Woo-bin. But getting close to him properly might take time.

Sigh after sigh escaped me, then my pocket phone buzzed.

Out of nowhere, Lee Seong-hyuk sent a selfie.

Behind him flashing a thumbs-up, two girls were passed out on the desk.

The irony hit hard: reference books piled sky-high next to their corpse-like slumber.

Lee Seong-hyuk's curiosity was in overdrive—hard to rein in. Meeting him today would definitely kill my practice time.

I confirmed his disappointed last message and pocketed the phone.

Fridays had some leeway, so maybe grab dinner later and tackle homework.

'Find my own evidence in the piece...'

First, listen to a standard performance to refresh my feel for it.

I'd kinda trash-talked Rafal during the lesson without meaning to, so I felt a bit guilty. Rafal's recording it was.

I didn't close my eyes like usual. I followed the score visually with the performance.

'Right, this is the piece.'

From the G-G-G opening to the passionate coda, not a single moment failed to thrill.

But now wasn't the time to get swept up in emotion. I flipped to the end to scope my focus area.

'How do other pianists interpret the coda usually?'

Not planning to copy my lesson performance exactly. Categorizing and analyzing might be more efficient.

'Explosive and macho vibe, faithfully following the score with a shattering edge, or suppressing the sudden mood shift as much as possible.'

Three main categories, roughly.

Approach theoretically first. I recalled the broad types and spread out the three-page score, staring hard.

'Black as hell.'

Tough at a glance. Notes crammed in relentlessly.

That left-hand octave run-up chord sequence would be tricky to play.

Melody's a variation on the main theme? Vague and fragmented—ambiguous.

Last bar, F-Mi-Do-La sequence—you'd fumble what to hit even while playing it.

Hmm...

"Should I search online?"

Theory was impossible solo. Fingers on keys, sounds—they kept popping up, breaking concentration.

"Highlight the hidden melody in the mid-range and the left hand's progression meaningfully..."

"In this contrapuntal-heavy section, the arpeggiated figures leap upward dramatically..."

What the hell were they even saying?

Fun just talking in their insider lingo?

"Music theory book?"

...

Dissonance this, compound techniques that, yadda yadda—

Unintended sighs leaked out nonstop.

I thumped the glossy textbook in frustration.

"Ah... whatever."

I swept all the papers off the music stand and mini desk.

Then just played Ballade No.4 from the top, going with my gut.

'Heh, fun.'

A leisurely weekend.

Major performance exams might pin prep students down, but midterms? No way to keep arts high kids at school.

I chuckled and pocketed my phone, leaving the cafeteria.

Weekends meant no reservations needed for practice rooms—bliss. There were plenty anyway, rarely full, but without booking, spots got snatched, a hassle. Plus, any room on 5th or 6th floor worked.

'Maybe skim the textbook tonight too.'

Ambling down the practice room hall, checking empties, a familiar name caught my eye.

Seol Yu-jin.

The nameplate hung on a door.

'Right, she said no lessons.'

Skipping school ones too? Hope she's studying well.

I peeked through the window at her profile.

'Plays with real passion.'

Usually indifferent to everything but her playing, then she ignites like her soul's on fire.

'Bet Seol Yu-jin hasn't touched theory.'

Her sharp, animalistic instinct style. How does she analyze pieces and apply them? Curious.

She seemed brimming with conviction in her music... what was her evidence?

As I kept peeking and mulling, her fingers suddenly stopped.

Then she marched over boldly. Too fast—no time to react.

The door flew open.

"Kwon Do-hyun, you pervert?"

Seol Yu-jin gripped the handle, full body in view.

'...How'd she know it was me again?'

I stepped back; she advanced two. Her up-down glare was no joke.

"No, just passing by and happened to glance..."

Wait, this line felt familiar. Didn't Lee Ha-yeon say it to me?

A spark in my jumbled head. I grabbed the outer handle.

"Hey, didn't you challenge me to a matchup?"

"...?"

Her confident brows twitched.

"I won that."

"Dunno, did I?"

"Me, 100. You, 98."

I waved my idle hand expectantly. Pay up for starting it.

Her face darkened; eyes rolled.

Suddenly, stone-faced.

She gripped the handle tight, eyes steely.

"I."

The hinge creaked—

"Never."

Her face half-hidden. Door closing.

"Had such a bet."

...Why close now?

I jammed my foot in.

"Hey, you cheater!"

I yanked hard; fierce resistance.

Why's she so strong?

"Let go! What matchup? You a kid? So childish!"

"You crazy..."

Shameless to the bone. Ice cream or what?

"Keep it up, I'll call 119!"

"Isn't it 112? Call! Fraud's a crime, you'll see!"

"Urk..."

Tug-of-war on the door for dozens of seconds.

Suddenly, the room behind us burst open.

"Hey! What's your deal? Practice rooms on weekends mean you can yell?!"

Whipping around, a presumed senior in a deep hat cap raged. I'd yelled too loud in the heat.

"No respect for third-years? Help us out!"

"Sorry..."

Damn her. I bowed double, apologizing for both.

Then, click—the door shut.

'...'

What now? Practice rooms can't lock from inside anyway.