Chapter 78: Attending an Instrumental Ensemble Class

After receiving the demo of the song, the team members buried themselves in intensive practice. Fang Xing, meanwhile, took some time to return to the school.

During this period, he often found himself thinking of the violin girl who cried so easily. The feeling was reminiscent of that song: just because I glanced at you one more time in the crowd, I could never forget your face.

People are strange like that—when their hearts are struck at a particular moment, they always want to look again.

When he reached the school, the campus radio was playing "The Wind Rises." The song truly carried the flavor of campus life and suited the conservatory perfectly, especially the line: "I once turned my youth into her, and played the brilliance of summer at my fingertips."

To avoid being recognized, Fang Xing put on a mask before entering the gate. He walked into the academic building and stood before the electronic screen on the first floor, looking up at the scrolling schedule. The screen displayed the class timetable for every classroom.

Fang Xing found the second-year orchestral department's schedule. Today, the orchestral department had an instrumental ensemble class in Room 303 on the third floor. Since it was only on the third floor, Fang Xing chose not to take the elevator and climbed the stairs instead.

Room 303 was a spacious classroom. Instrumental ensemble classes combined several majors from the orchestral department, requiring the larger space.

When Fang Xing entered Room 303, class hadn’t started yet. Only seven or eight people were scattered throughout. Some had brought their instruments, some hadn’t. The few without instruments were engrossed in their studies—their presence likely just to find a quiet place to study, not for the class.

Fang Xing moved to the corner seat in the last row. No one paid him any attention; it was as if his arrival meant nothing to them.

As class time approached, orchestral students filtered into the room and found seats. Fang Xing, not being from the orchestral department, sat quietly as well—no one would question him. Like other universities, East Sea Conservatory allowed anyone to audit classes, regardless of department.

Five minutes before class began, two girls entered, carrying instrument cases and chatting. One of them was the girl whose violin had been broken that day; Fang Xing had heard her name in group chats—Lu Xiang’er. The other girl was unfamiliar, carrying a larger instrument, likely a cello.

From his seat in the last row, Fang Xing tilted his head and gazed at Lu Xiang’er in the first row, her profile evoking a strange sense of familiarity, reminiscent of Ling’er from the drama adaptation of "Legend of Sword and Fairy."

...

Second-year students from the orchestral department gradually filled the classroom—almost eighty in total. These eighty were split into more than a dozen majors, some with only a single student.

When everyone had arrived, Fang Xing gave a rough count: the instruments were all present—violin, viola, cello, double bass, harp, clarinet, oboe, flute, saxophone, and more. The violin major had the most students, nearly twenty. The least? The tuba, represented by a lone student.

With over eighty students, the orchestral department could nearly form a complete symphony orchestra.

After the preparatory bell rang, the ensemble class teacher entered, started up the computer, and played a video—the unmistakable "Young China" performance.

The teacher announced, "This song may be performed at various galas this year, so listen carefully and familiarize yourselves with the melody."

Groans echoed through the classroom.

A student complained, "Why is it his song again? Last time we had to play 'Nocturne,' and now this."

The teacher smiled mischievously, holding up two fingers: "This is the dean’s idea. This year’s gala will definitely feature this song. Anyone who can’t play it won’t get the chance to perform. It’s not much—just two credits for performing at major galas."

"Two credits isn’t much!" The students groaned again.

A student pointed at the figure on the projection, "I remember he’s from our school, right? We’ve been tormented by him for a month. When will it end?"

The teacher shook his head, laughing, "So, why aren’t your songs tormenting others—instead, someone else’s song is tormenting you?"

"Next time we see this Fang Xing guy, we should ambush him and give him a beating," a male student joked.

Sitting in the corner of the last row, Fang Xing touched his neck, feeling a chill run down his spine.

The teacher adopted a serious tone, "Alright, let’s begin. Today’s ensemble class will focus on the first movement of Liszt’s First Piano Concerto."

After speaking, the teacher glanced toward the piano, asking, "Where’s the pianist? Didn’t the class president arrange for someone to play?"

The piano performance major was a separate department at East Sea Conservatory, not part of the orchestral department. Still, the two departments often shared classes. For today’s ensemble, since they needed to play Liszt’s First Piano Concerto, they needed a pianist from the performance department.

The class president raised his hand, "The piano department has an event today, they can’t come. I asked two senior students, but they’re busy."

"Alright," the teacher said, personally sitting at the piano, "Open your scores and let’s begin. If you don’t have a score, follow the projection."

The students began the ensemble in a scattered, uneven manner—some fast, some slow, some off beat. Without a conductor, some students missed their cues entirely.

The teacher frowned, "How is this messier than last time?"

They were only sophomores; their individual practice pieces were decent, but piano concertos rarely practiced, so without a conductor, many didn’t know when to enter.

The teacher stood, picked up a baton, and surveyed the room, "Anyone who can play piano, fill in for now. I’ll see if I can find someone."

These second-year students hadn’t mastered their own instruments yet, let alone piano. Even those who knew a little didn’t want to embarrass themselves or sacrifice their own practice.

The teacher asked twice, but no one volunteered, so he returned to the podium and pulled out his phone, hoping to contact a senior student.

Seeing no one step forward, Fang Xing hesitated, then raised his hand, "Should I give it a try?"

All the students turned to look, seeing a masked young man in the corner of the last row—his face obscured.

If he were a classmate, they’d recognize him even with a mask.

"Who is he? Which class?"

"No idea. He didn’t bring an instrument, so he’s not from our department."

The teacher, seeing someone respond, looked up and asked, "Which class are you from?"

"I’m a vocal major, but I can play piano," Fang Xing replied.

Auditing classes was common at university; teachers rarely objected.

"Come try, then. Have you played Liszt’s First Piano Concerto?" the teacher beckoned him over.

"I’ve played it a few times," Fang Xing said casually.

Actually, he was quite familiar with Liszt’s First Piano Concerto. Lang Lang and the WYN Philharmonic had performed it together to great effect, and Fang Xing had attended that concert in person.

When he sat before the piano, the teacher approached and pointed to the score taped atop the piano, "Try playing this section."

Fang Xing followed her instruction, fingers dancing across the keys, producing a melodious sound.

As he reached the third measure, the orchestral students began to whisper among themselves.

"He plays really well."

"Just ‘really well’? This is outstanding—there aren’t many in the piano department with this level."

"Indeed, he plays exceptionally. He must have started young—without ten, twenty years of training, you couldn’t achieve this."

"Didn’t he say he’s from the vocal department? How does someone from vocal play piano so well?"