Shen Qinghuan only remembered the end-of-month professional exam recital when she got up in the morning.
She glanced at the counselor’s reminder in the class group chat and let out an “ah.”
Jingda’s music academy was lax in management but strict in professional instruction.
What kind of university still holds monthly exams?
Then Shen Qinghuan hurried off to wash up.
Before transmigrating into the book, she had always been someone who took her craft extremely seriously—there was no way she’d fall behind in another world either!
In the practice room building, a few classmates huddled together, whispering.
“Have you ever seen Shen Qinghuan come practice? I don’t think I’ve run into her in the practice rooms even once.”
“No, her practice room has been sitting empty forever. I thought she’d dropped out.”
“Seriously? She’s supposed to perform at the monthly exam recital today, right? Can she manage without practicing?”
“She’s a genius—she’s not like us. Did you see her level at the last tour audition? What difference does practicing make?”
At two in the afternoon, the music academy’s small recital hall was packed to capacity.
The counselor’s wording had been stern: all violin majors were required to attend, five professors would grade publicly, and the results would be recorded in the annual evaluation files.
Shen Qinghuan sat in the waiting area, violin in hand, eyes closed, resting.
She wore a simple black halter-neck gown, long hair draped over her shoulders, the whole picture of cool elegance and ease.
Bai Anqi sat in the row behind her, her gaze glued to Shen Qinghuan, indescribable emotions hidden in her eyes.
After the last public relations disaster, her carefully crafted image had already cracked—but she still couldn’t accept it.
The performance order was determined by the previous month’s rankings, and the original owner, Shen Qinghuan, had ranked near the top, so she was called up quickly.
When Shen Qinghuan’s turn came, she carried her violin onto the stage.
The spotlight fell on her, and the murmurs from the audience gradually died down.
Professor Zhou sat in the center of the judges’ seats, adjusted his glasses, and waited to see how this student would perform.
Once she was in position, Shen Qinghuan announced her piece.
“Ernst’s Grand Caprice on Schubert’s ‘Erlkönig.’”
A slight hush fell over the hall.
This piece was a violin solo adapted from Schubert’s art song “Erlkönig,” and its technical difficulty was extremely high.
The entire piece requires frequent switching between four distinct timbres, representing the narrator, the father, the child, and the Erlking.
It could be said to be a supreme test of the performer’s bow control, shifting speed, and the layering of emotional expression.
Few students still in the academy would dare choose this piece on stage.
Not because they didn’t want to—because they couldn’t play it.
Professor Zhou couldn’t help asking, “Shen, are you sure?”
Shen Qinghuan nodded. “I’m sure.”
Her reason for choosing this piece was simple.
The original owner’s memories told her that she had once wanted to practice this piece, but Lin Chen had said it was “too flashy, not sincere enough.”
So the original owner had given it up.
Shen Qinghuan found it absurd. The charm of the violin lies in the perfect fusion of technique and emotion—why should she shortchange herself for someone else’s preferences?
Besides, what did Lin Chen, that lousy male lead, know about the violin?
She rested the violin on her shoulder, took a deep breath, and set the bow to the strings.
The instant the first note sounded, the entire atmosphere of the recital hall changed.
In the opening narrator section, Shen Qinghuan’s tone was steady and weighty, like someone telling an ancient, dark tale.
Then came the father’s section, the lower register rich and powerful, laced with anxiety and unease.
When she switched to the child’s high register, her tone suddenly turned sharp and terrified, as if a child were truly screaming in the night.
Then came the Erlking’s section—gentle, seductive, laced with menace, every trill sending chills down one’s spine.
The four distinct voices alternated across her strings, shifting with effortless, natural mastery.
At the climax, double stops and harmonics wove together, the bow dancing rapidly across the strings like a raging storm.
Not a single sound stirred in the concert hall; everyone held their breath.
When the final note fell, the hall stayed silent for a full three seconds.
Then applause surged like a tide, even more fervent than during the tour slot auditions the past two days.
Some students couldn’t help standing up to clap, only to be pulled back down by those beside them—but the applause never stopped.
“That was incredible!”
“So much emotion—I actually cried listening…”
Professor Zhou set down his pen and let out a long breath.
He turned to the professor beside him and said, “It’s been twenty years since I’ve heard a student play this piece like that.”
All five professors raised their high scores in unison.
Bai Anqi sat in the waiting area, her fingers clutching the hem of her skirt.
She watched the girl on stage bathed in the spotlight, an indescribable bitterness churning in her heart.
Shen Qinghuan’s performance was too stunning—so stunning it made her feel despair.
But soon, that despair turned into unwillingness.
Bai Anqi lowered her eyes, her mind racing.
If grand, technically demanding repertoire could win over countless fans and earn the judges’ favor, then she could do it too—she would perform the same kind of piece as Shen Qinghuan!
Before going on stage, Bai Anqi deliberately approached a few classmates and teachers she was familiar with.
Head lowered, her voice was soft and sincere.
“I’ve always envied Qinghuan’s talent, and I want to work hard to catch up with her.”
“I know the gap between us is big, but I’ll keep trying.”
A senior student watching the competition patted her shoulder: “Anqi, you’ve already worked so hard.”
Bai Anqi looked up with a somewhat shy smile: “Thank you, senior. I just don’t want to be left too far behind.”
Her few words struck exactly the right note—humble yet ambitious.
Several classmates nearby looked at her with a touch more sympathy, and when they glanced toward Shen Qinghuan, their gazes grew more complicated.
Bai Anqi worked so hard, while Shen Qinghuan never practiced—so what gave her the right?
When it was Bai Anqi’s turn, she took a deep breath and carried her violin onto the stage. Under the spotlight, she tried to keep her expression composed.
“Ernst’s Grand Caprice on Schubert’s ‘Erlkönig.’”
The moment she announced the piece, the hall fell silent for an instant.
Professor Zhou’s brow furrowed slightly. He said nothing, but a flicker of disappointment clearly crossed his eyes.
Shen Qinghuan, lifting her skirt, left the stage and sat back down in her chair, feeling a bit curious herself.
In the original story, the female lead had never played this kind of piece—could she be imitating her?
No, Shen Qinghuan thought. Surely… it couldn’t be?
Bai Anqi positioned the violin on her shoulder and lowered her bow.
The opening few notes were reasonably steady.
But once she entered the father’s section, the problems began to show.
Her low register lacked depth and power; it sounded limp and weak, completely lacking the urgency and strength a father should have in a moment of crisis.
When the piece shifted into the child’s high register, Bai Anqi’s tone began to waver. Her position shifts weren’t clean, and several notes were clearly off pitch.
The Erlking’s section was even more unbearable to listen to.
By the final part, her rhythm fell apart completely, and she produced a harsh, grating noise that stood out piercingly in the silent concert hall.
Bai Anqi’s hands began to tremble, and fine beads of sweat seeped out on her forehead.
She barely managed to scrape through the final note, her bow hanging in midair, her whole body as if drained of everything.
The concert hall fell silent for a few seconds before a smattering of polite applause rang out.
It formed a stark contrast to the thunderous cheers that had greeted Shen Qinghuan’s performance just moments before.
Professor Zhou set down his pen, took off his glasses, wiped them, and put them back on.
His voice wasn’t loud, but every word was delivered with severity:
“Student Bai Anqi, your fundamentals are still not solid enough. The difficulty of this piece exceeds your current abilities.”
He looked at this student—lacking in talent, yet always diligent enough—and spoke with earnest weight:
“Deliberately imitating someone else’s style will only expose your own weaknesses. The violin isn’t something you can master through imitation. What it requires is talent and the accumulation of time.”
“You… your technique is superficial, your expression hollow, and there were multiple errors in your rhythm. To put it plainly, your foundation doesn’t match the style you chose—you’ve put the cart before the horse.”
“Go back and start over from the basic etudes.”