The moment the bow fell, the entire concert hall fell silent.
Shen Qinghuan had chosen Paganini’s Caprice No. 24 this time.
This piece is famous for being one of the most technically demanding works in violin history—alternating intervals, lightning-fast spiccato, left-hand pizzicato…
It covered virtually every virtuosic technique.
She had considered the audience’s taste.
A livestreamed variety show wasn’t a professional competition; too many people couldn’t appreciate deep, subtle emotion.
But everyone could judge whether a piece sounded good and whether the performance was difficult.
This piece would showcase her skill while giving laypeople a spectacle to enjoy.
The prelude began with a crisp, clean rapid descending scale.
Shen Qinghuan’s fingers flew across the fingerboard, every note precise as if cutting diamonds.
Then, mid-piece, her bow suddenly accelerated, urgent as a sudden thunderstorm lashing against glass.
At the judges’ table, Jiang Rong sat up straight.
She had been leaning back in her chair, twirling a pen in her hand—now the pen stopped, and her gaze locked onto the girl in the black dress on stage.
The show’s producer, who had been looking down at his phone, also raised his head at that opening run of scales.
The bullet comments started flooding in.
“Holy crap, is that hand speed even human?”
“Paganini’s Caprice? That’s not a piece just anyone can touch.”
“Where’s that person earlier who said Shen Qinghuan only knows how to act cold and aloof? Come out and say something now.”
After the first variation, Shen Qinghuan switched to left-hand pizzicato.
Her right hand held the bow suspended in midair while her left fingertips plucked rapidly at the strings, producing a string of crisp harmonics.
This was Paganini’s signature technique—the left hand had to both press and pluck the strings, demanding extraordinary finger control.
Yu Heng leaned back in his chair, sunglasses removed and held in his hand.
His expression remained cold, but his eyes never blinked as he stared at the movements of Shen Qinghuan’s left hand.
The bullet comments exploded again.
“Left-hand pizzicato? I’ve played for eight years and never mastered that.”
“Wait, her right hand didn’t move at all just now—all those notes came from her left hand?”
“The gap between genius and ordinary people just became tangible in this moment.”
In the second variation, Shen Qinghuan’s speed increased again.
This was continuous interval alternation, with fingers leaping dramatically between two strings—the slightest error would produce a stray note.
Her playing grew better and better, her right hand matching with rapid détaché strokes, the bow flying across the strings.
Jiang Rong’s fingers tapped lightly on the table, the rhythm perfectly synchronized with Shen Qinghuan’s music.
She murmured, almost inaudibly: “Talent like this…”
On the livestream’s popularity voting channel, Shen Qinghuan’s votes began to skyrocket.
The numbers jumped from tens of thousands to over a hundred thousand, then from a hundred thousand to three hundred thousand, so fast it made people’s eyes blur.
“What’s going on with these votes? Bai Anqi took forever just to reach a hundred thousand.”
“Passersby must have become fans—who wouldn’t vote after hearing that level of skill?”
“I don’t even study music and I thought it was mind-blowingly good.”
At the Su family residence, Su You, still wearing a face mask, rolled off the beauty bed and grabbed Gu Nian’s arm:
“Look, quick! How did she improve this much?!”
In the concert hall, the piece reached its third variation—the most difficult of all.
The violin bow bounced back and forth across four strings while the left hand pressed two notes simultaneously, the fingering as complex as solving a math problem.
Shen Qinghuan’s breathing remained steady, fine beads of sweat seeping from her temples, but there wasn’t the slightest deviation in the strength or angle of her wrist.
At this moment, all her pre-performance nerves had vanished; nothing remained in her eyes but the notes.
In the back rows of the plaza, several violin-major students stood up.
One person started clapping and was pulled back down by the person beside them, but the applause had already begun, scattered at first, then spreading into a wave.
At the center of the judges’ table, Jiang Rong picked up the sign from the table. She didn’t raise it—she simply set it down at her side.
It wasn’t that she didn’t want to raise it; the rules required waiting until the performance ended. The gesture itself was already an enormous endorsement.
Yu Heng finally moved.
He picked up his thermos from the table, unscrewed the lid, and took a sip of water.
His gaze remained cold, but the curve of his mouth shifted from a flat line into a barely perceptible downward bend.
Only those familiar with him knew—this was the expression he wore only when truly listening to a performance.
The bullet comments noticed.
“Did that sunglasses judge just smile?”
“Not a smile, his mouth just moved. Feels like he’s actually listening.”
“There can’t be many people Yu Heng actually listens to, right?”
At the climax, Shen Qinghuan played the final cascade of rapid descending arpeggios.
Her bow swept from the G string all the way up to the E string, like a waterfall plunging from a great height—clean and crisp, without a trace of hesitation.
As the last note fell, the bow stopped in midair.
The concert hall fell silent for a full two seconds.
Then the applause thundered.
It wasn’t polite clapping, but the heartfelt cheers of an audience that had been holding it in and could finally let it out.
Among the judges, Jiang Rong was the first to raise her sign, the green “pass” side facing up.
The producer followed, raising a green sign.
The music director raised his sign.
The other assistant director raised a sign.
Four votes.
Yu Heng looked at the sign in his hand and didn’t raise it right away.
His eyes were lowered, as if he were thinking something over.
The applause in the hall gradually died down. Everyone was watching him.
He raised his hand and flipped the sign over—green.
Five votes. A unanimous pass.
Yu Heng set down his sign, picked up the microphone on the table. His voice was still cool, but his pace slightly faster than usual:
“Your technique is fine. But you chose Paganini, which means you have a lot of confidence in yourself… Heh. Just don’t let it turn into arrogance.”
After such a high-level performance, Shen Qinghuan was in an excellent mood and couldn’t be bothered with him.
She lowered her bow and gave a slight bow. “Thank you, judges.”
Her breathing was a little uneven, but her tone was calm, composed and graceful.
The bullet comments exploded completely.
“A unanimous pass—five votes!”
“Yu Heng actually gave a pass? Isn’t he always the most savage one?”
“With skill like Shen Qinghuan’s, she could win awards at professional competitions. Coming on a variety show is just bullying.”
“I take back what I said about her being cold. That’s not cold—that’s the aura of a champion.”
“Wait, who was saying Bai Anqi would win earlier? Come out and take your beating!”
On the popularity voting channel, Shen Qinghuan’s votes surpassed Bai Anqi’s.
The numbers were still climbing—from five hundred thousand to six hundred thousand, to seven hundred thousand—without slowing down.
Jiang Rong picked up the microphone at the judges’ table and added:
“Shen Qinghuan, your playing technique is very solid, and your stage presence is excellent too.”
“I’d like to ask you a question. I heard from the staff that your previous violin was broken—is the one you’re using now borrowed?”
Shen Qinghuan nodded. “Yes.”
Jiang Rong gave her a glance, a touch more approval in her eyes: “Switching instruments at the last minute and still maintaining this level—you’ve got real mental fortitude. Congratulations on advancing.”
Shen Qinghuan bowed once more, then turned and walked off the stage.
The spotlight followed her retreating figure as the black dress vanished into the darkness behind the stage curtain.
The production crew staff rushed to spread the news—the live stream’s viewer count had just surpassed two million.