"Hara Kei, you just said it yourself, didn't you?" Kazusa Touma narrowed her eyes. "Yukinoshita-san only praised me because she doesn't really understand piano. Then why don't I hear the opinion of a so-called 'professional' like you?"
What kind of professional are you supposed to be? Kazusa wanted to snap back instantly. I've never even heard your name in the piano world. But her lips refused to move—as though sealed with glue.
Her lips were frozen, but her heart wasn't. It pounded violently, almost painfully, to the point where she wondered if it still belonged to her.
Kazusa Touma needed affirmation.
At St. Eden Academy, the top clubs were driven by ruthless ambition. To them, honor was everything. Only through achievements could they secure increased funding from the Student Council, better practice rooms, and countless privileges.
So, after losing her ability to compete for those honors—after falling from grace—Kazusa's situation had become unbearable.
Unable to stand the suffocating atmosphere, she'd quit the String Club, ignoring her captain's desperate pleas to stay.
She had turned to her mother, Youko Touma, for advice. But instead of taking her side, her mother had merely said—
"Think for yourself."
What does that even mean? Does she think my playing isn't good enough, too?
And so, Kazusa had sunk deeper and deeper into the quicksand of self-doubt.
Kazusa Touma had no friends.
Partly because of her personality, but mostly because she'd given everything to music. She'd always admired her mother—wanted to become a world-class pianist just like her.
Now, both her idol and her dream felt like they had betrayed her.
Just when she was drowning in that endless darkness, a clear, bright voice reached her—like sunlight piercing through storm clouds.
"Kazusa Touma plays the best."
To someone trapped in a pit of despair, those words were salvation.
But sunlight alone wasn't enough to pull her out. What she needed was something stronger, something powerful enough to lift her completely.
"I want to hear Touma-san's piano."
"…"
"…"
"...That's it?"
"That's it."
Kazusa clenched her teeth. "Wait, that's your big 'professional' critique? Where's the music theory? The phrasing analysis? Your thoughts on tone, vibrato, or dynamics?" She glared at Hara Kei, her anger flaring.
"You've heard enough of that already, haven't you?" Hara Kei replied calmly, utterly unfazed by her fury. His voice carried a kind of easy confidence, as though everything was already going according to plan. "To me, there are only two kinds of music in this world—music you want to hear again, and music you don't. Yours, Touma-san, belongs to the first."
"…Well, thanks for the compliment," she said through gritted teeth. "Now, can you give me back my tuning tools? I'd like to go home."
"And what about the competition?"
"Why should I agree to something like that?" she snorted softly. "What do I even get out of it if I win?"
Deep down, she appreciated their intentions—but she didn't believe these two could actually help her. Rather than waste their time, she'd rather cut it off now before it became meaningless.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Yukinoshita Yukino's stiff, unresponsive fingers—and a flicker of guilt crossed her expression.
"There are benefits, of course," Hara Kei said, a mysterious smile forming on his lips. "For example, what if I said I could give you a piano that never produces noise or distortion again? You were tuning your instrument for that exact reason, weren't you?"
"!!!"
It wasn't only Kazusa who froze. Even Yukino, who had been silently watching the situation unfold, looked stunned. She turned to Hara Kei.
"But, Hara Kei-kun," she said in disbelief, "didn't you say that even Beethoven couldn't solve that problem?"
"Beethoven couldn't," Hara Kei said with a shrug, "but that doesn't mean I can't. I told you already—I'm a professional."
"…Are you seriously saying you're better than Beethoven?" Kazusa blurted.
"Well," Hara Kei said, smiling with that infuriatingly confident air, "he was an eighteenth-century man. We're in the twenty-first now."
What is he even talking about? Kazusa thought. The noise wasn't some abstract concept—it was a structural flaw of the instrument itself. As long as it was still a piano, you couldn't just make it disappear. What did "the modern era" have to do with it?
She glared at him, waiting for an explanation. But Hara Kei only smiled faintly and said nothing more.
"Words are cheap," Kazusa said finally. "What if I win, and you can't produce this miracle piano?"
"Then you can submit this."
Hara Kei reached into his desk and handed her a sheet of paper.
Kazusa took it suspiciously—and then froze. Her eyes widened in disbelief.
At the top of the page were the bold, unmistakable words:
Withdrawal Application Form.
Kazusa had been admitted to St. Eden's High School Division through direct recommendation. She didn't need anyone to explain the weight this document carried.
Getting into St. Eden Academy means securing a ticket to a successful life.
She didn't fully agree with that saying—but there was truth in it.
And yet, this withdrawal form already had Hara Kei's name signed neatly at the bottom. If she submitted it to the office, he'd be expelled without question.
Even Yukinoshita Yukino was stunned speechless by the sight of it.
Before either of them could speak, Hara Kei's voice cut through the silence.
"Don't misunderstand. I have no intention of leaving St. Eden," he said, his voice firm and serious now, stripped of all his earlier playfulness. "I'm showing you this because it proves one thing—"
He looked straight at Kazusa, eyes filled with unwavering confidence.
"—I can actually do it."
Time froze. The classroom was silent, save for the sound of sunlight filtering through the windows. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
After a long moment—
"…Three days later. Here, right?" Kazusa said quietly. She folded the paper neatly and slipped it into her pocket. It was clear she'd accepted the challenge.
Yukinoshita and Hara Kei nodded.
"What piece are we playing?" she asked, turning to Hara Kei. "Beethoven? Chopin? Liszt?"
"None of those," Hara Kei said. "It's a piece I wrote."
"I figured." Kazusa didn't even flinch. "So that's why you gave up the right to choose the judge—you've hidden your trick inside the composition itself, haven't you?" She didn't sound worried. If anything, she seemed amused. "Let's hear it, then."
"It's on my laptop. I didn't bring it today. I can email it to you if that's fine."
"Fine." Kazusa took out a pen from her pocket and scribbled her email address on a scrap of paper. "Three days from now, then. Make sure your 'piano' is ready."
Without another word, she turned and walked out, graceful and composed as ever.
But Kazusa Touma didn't wait until the weekend.
The very next day, she came looking for Hara Kei—and she was absolutely furious.