At 2:30 pm,

The atmosphere at the Yiyuanlou Conference Center was even more somber than in the morning.

If the morning lectures were a "battle of wits,"

That afternoon's internal performance exchange was nothing short of a "physical battle."

On the stage, the nine-foot Steinway grand piano stands at the golden ratio point.

The piano lid was raised high.

Under the stage lights, the black lacquer surface reflected a cold light.

The first three rows of seats were filled with provincial leaders and experts.

And the school leaders and all the teachers of the music teaching and research group of Jiangcheng No.1 Middle School.

Behind them were the selected art students and representatives from each class.

Hundreds of people were crammed into an enclosed space.

The air was not circulating, and the stuffy heat from the heating made one's chest feel tight.

Liu Hui was the first to go on stage and chose "The Butterfly Lovers".

It must be said that, as the arts and culture committee member, her basic skills are impeccable.

The fingering was precise, the rhythm was steady, and the pedal switching was clean and crisp.

When the music ended, she rose gracefully, awaiting praise.

Professor Yu Yan simply adjusted his glasses, his tone indifferent:

"There were no wrong notes; it was perfect."

But classmate, you played "The Butterfly Lovers," a piece about life and death.

In your piano playing, all I heard was 'careful', the cautiousness of being afraid of playing a single wrong note.

You portrayed Zhu Yingtai as a refined young lady, but you've forgotten that she was a virtuous woman who dared to jump into a grave.

This comment is harsher than an insult.

Liu Hui's face turned pale instantly. This kind of "perfect mediocrity" was the most fatal.

This comment was like a bucket of cold water, extinguishing most of the enthusiasm at the scene.

The light in Liu Hui's eyes dimmed instantly, and she even felt like crying.

The next few students were not spared either.

Yu Yan's comments were sharp and unsparing, covering everything from key pressure to pedal timing.

They thoroughly criticized these top students who were usually pampered.

The atmosphere at the scene plummeted to freezing point.

Everyone realized that this professor from Nanjing,

She didn't come to merely offer empty praise of the master; she came with a microscope.

"Thank you all for your wonderful performances. Finally, please welcome Ye Xi to perform for us."

The host's voice broke the silence.

The once lifeless audience seats instantly became restless.

The students, who had been slumped in their chairs, sat up straight, craning their necks.

Ye Xi walked onto the stage.

She changed into a pair of black flat shoes, taking small but steady steps.

The spotlight shone on her, and her little black dress gleamed coldly.

She walked to the piano bench and sat down, not rushing to put her hands on it.

Instead, he quietly lowered his head and looked at the black and white piano keys.

At that moment, what flashed through her mind was neither the sheet music nor her father's stern teachings.

Instead, it was the jar of pickled garlic with a garlicky flavor in the break room.

It was Lin Que's comment that "the insults were very vulgar."

It's the soul in "Ghost Detective" that refuses to reincarnate because of its obsession.

She took a deep breath.

It was as if she was trying to squeeze the obedient "Ye Xi" out of her body through her breathing.

The murmurs that had been going on instantly vanished.

Only the occasional faint crackling of electrical current from the speakers echoed in the empty hall.

Lin Que stood in the shadows of the side curtain, arms crossed.

Others saw an unattainable piano goddess, but he saw...

She was that rebellious girl who stuffed all her dissatisfaction with the rules into a jar of pickled garlic.

Ye Xi raised her hand.

There were no fancy starting moves; both hands fell heavily.

"Clang—clang—clang—"

The famous chordal opening of Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No. 2, like the tolling of heavy bells,

It struck everyone's heart again and again.

It's not beautiful, it's heavy.

Yu Yan, sitting in the first row, suddenly opened his eyes wide.

The body, which was originally leaning back in the chair, suddenly leaned forward.

Something's not right about this force.

In the past, when Ye Xi played this piece, the beginning was always handled too smoothly.

They tried to use techniques to cover up that heaviness.

But today, she tore off that smooth, rounded skin.

The music suddenly quickened.

The originally somber tolling of the bell turned into a violent storm.

Ye Xi's fingers danced across the piano keys, her body no longer maintaining its elegant and upright posture.

Strands of hair clung to his cheeks, and sweat dripped from his chin onto the piano keys.