Humans need positive feedback.
Or, if you wanted to put it more poetically—people crave recognition and reward.
You put in effort, you get results, you feel happiness.
That's the natural, linear flow of things.
But once that flow gets interrupted—once effort stops leading to reward—people get discouraged.
That's why so many people hate studying. It's not just that it's boring; it's that progress feels invisible, like all that effort is for nothing. That frustration builds up quietly until it turns into resentment.
It's only human.
And Yukinoshita Yukino was no exception.
"Am I really the kind of person who trusts others that easily?"
She asked herself that question countless times—between piano practice sessions, when her fingers ached and refused to move, when she pushed through the pain to write notes and finish her homework.
She and Hara Kei had only met a few times. They weren't even friends—just "people who know each other's names."So how could she trust him this much?
Resting her cheek near the keys, she saw her faint reflection in the polished surface of the piano. Yukinoshita quietly studied that blurred image—then suddenly, she understood something.
When she was a child, she'd once read a poem by a famous Chinese poet. One line had left an indelible mark on her:
"Raising my cup to invite the moon, and with my shadow, we become three."
At the time, she'd thought the words sounded elegant and romantic.
Now, years later, she realized the truth hidden inside that beauty—
Loneliness.
"If I've worked this hard," she murmured with a small, deliberate smile, "and I still can't win, then I'm definitely making you pay for it."
As for what kind of "payment" she meant—Yukinoshita hadn't quite decided yet.
But soon, that wouldn't matter anymore.
Touma Kazusa rose from her seat, stepping away from the keyboard with her usual grace.
Yukinoshita glanced toward the now-empty piano bench, her heart thumping faster. Her lips were dry. Her palms, faintly slick with nervous sweat.
Just then, a steady hand landed on her shoulder. A calm, confident voice spoke beside her ear.
"Relax. Do exactly what I taught you—and you'll win."
Out of the corner of her eye, Yukinoshita looked up at Hara Kei. He was smiling at her, quiet but reassuring.
She took several deep breaths, then stood, walked to the piano, and sat down.
Her gaze fixed on the black-and-white keys. She placed her trembling hands over them, and in her mind, she heard a familiar male voice counting softly:
"Four, nine, thirteen… five and eight…"
It was Hara Kei's method—his unorthodox system of memorization.
For someone like Yukinoshita, who had no formal piano training, he'd gone with the most brutally simple approach possible.
The keyboard she'd practiced on had been marked with numbers in permanent marker—each number corresponding to a key's position. Her "sheet music" wasn't a written score at all, but a recording of Kei's own playing. The duration her finger stayed on each numbered key was based on how long his note lasted in the recording.
It was like playing a rhythm game, really.
Of course, "piano skills" developed through such a crude method could hardly compare to those of someone like Touma Kazusa, a trained pianist.
If Kazusa's earlier performance had been the full moon, then Yukinoshita's was a flickering firefly—dim, fragile, uncertain.
And yet… her notes were perfectly accurate.
Not beautiful—but flawless.
Just like her life.
Kazusa closed her eyes, letting the sound flow into her heart.
She hadn't forgotten the words of encouragement Yukinoshita had once spoken to her. And now, hearing this earnest playing, she realized—the girl had truly meant it.
But that wasn't enough. Not yet.
With such a clumsy, mechanical technique, it should be impossible to climb over that final, insurmountable wall of the piece.
Kazusa waited silently for that part to arrive.
And then—Yukinoshita reached it.
And without the slightest hesitation… continued.
"Wha—?"
Kazusa's eyes flew open. Her expression twisted into one of pure disbelief, as if she'd just seen a rabbit checking its watch.
Her surprise was only natural—because the notes Yukinoshita played didn't match the ones that should have been there.
That was Hara Kei's strategy—the secret weapon that made him confident Yukinoshita could actually finish the piece.
He called it—
"Switching layers."
As mentioned before, the instrument Kei had built wasn't just a keyboard—it was a two-layer electronic synthesizer.
That alone wasn't strange; dual-layer keyboards were common, their expanded range allowing for more complex arrangements.
But Kei's composition didn't require that second layer at all.
When Kazusa had performed earlier, she hadn't touched the upper keys once—because doing so would mean she'd made a mistake. That was what her musical instincts told her.
But now, Yukinoshita's fingers danced across the other layer—producing notes completely outside Kazusa's understanding.
To anyone trained in piano, the logic was obvious:To the right of D is always Re, and then Mi.That's the way music worked. That's what every pianist knew.
But this wasn't a piano.
A keyboard doesn't create sound by striking strings—it's powered by circuit boards and data. Each key is simply assigned a sound. The note "D" plays the "D" tone only because someone programmed it that way.
Nothing more.
And Yukinoshita, being a complete amateur, didn't understand the system well enough to be limited by it.
Which meant—she was free.
The sheet music was inhumanly complex?Then just change the sound mapping.
She didn't even know what the "correct" key order was supposed to be—so what did it matter?
That was the "solution" Hara Kei had given her.
And with that ingenious workaround, Yukinoshita played straight through the passage that had made every pianist despair—as if it were nothing at all.
When the last note faded into silence, the classroom fell still.
Three minutes, twenty-six seconds.1,578 notes.
Every single one correct.
That meant only one thing—
Yukinoshita Yukino had won.
The country girl Cinderella, aided by a mischievous (possibly evil) sorcerer, had just defeated the Snow White of the piano world.
Ha. What kind of ridiculous fairy tale was this?
"I lost," Kazusa said at last, exhaling deeply. There was no bitterness in her voice—only calm acceptance. "As promised, I'll return to the Strings Club. The club's vote—"
"Wait."
A crisp male voice cut through her words. Hara Kei, who'd remained quiet until now, finally spoke.
"When did we ever make that promise?"
"Eh?"
Kazusa blinked, confused. She searched her memory carefully… and realized he was right. They'd only discussed what her forfeit would be if she lost. Nothing about the others.
"But… didn't Yukinoshita want—"
"We do need the Strings Club's vote," Kei said, standing up and pulling a pair of headphones from his bag. "But both Yukino and I agreed—if we have to force you back through a competition like this, then it's meaningless."
He handed her the headphones, smiling faintly.
"I want you to go back there because you want to."
Yukinoshita stepped down from the piano bench. The performance had clearly drained her; her legs trembled slightly, her breath uneven. But she stood firmly beside Kei, silent but resolute.
"That's impossible," Kazusa muttered, stunned.
"Of course it's possible." Kei's smile widened just a bit. "It's actually pretty simple."
He gestured toward the keyboard, preparing to switch it into another mode.
"You just have to become a fan."
"A… fan? Of who?" Kazusa blinked, bewildered.
"Who else?" Kei grinned. "Same as us—become a fan of Touma Kazusa."