Regarding Hara Kei's piano skills, Tōma Yōko hadn't really taken Wasa's praise all that seriously.
As a national treasure-level pianist of Sakurajima, she had seen her fair share of prodigies and "geniuses."
Some were touted as "once-in-a-century" talents, others as "one-in-a-million" wonders—but to her, they were all just kids.
Hara Kei, she thought, was probably just the product of a daughter seeing her crush through rose-colored glasses.
But, well, it was her daughter.
This was the first time Wasa had valued a boy so highly. Although the girl was shy and insisted it was just "friendship," as a mother, Yōko could see right through it.
Even if it was a rather immature affection—at this stage, barely a "crush"—it was Wasa's first real fluttering of the heart.
Yōko couldn't sit still.
Her own luck with men had always been terrible.
No—"terrible" wasn't enough. It was more like a curse that clung to her. Before fame, she had suffered greatly in this regard, even giving birth to Wasa before marrying. After fame, even more people swarmed her for money or status.
These romantic setbacks had sharpened her technique and built her golden musical path, but Yōko did not want Wasa to walk the same road.
That's why she had rushed back to Japan, eager to meet this "Hara Kei" her daughter admired so much, to see what he was really made of.
And, so far, Hara Kei's score was remarkably high.
Appearance aside, he was mature far beyond his high school years. That calm, composed attitude earned him an extra measure of respect from Yōko.
Feeling her daughter's "luck" and growing curious about Hara Kei's piano, Yōko thought: even if he hit only half, no, thirty percent of her expectations, that would be enough to pass her inspection.
Then came the first sensation that hit her like a storm.
It wasn't a literal rain—but that was her first impression when the piano sounded.
The black grand piano erupted with furious energy. Wild notes spilled like a tempest, transforming the small basement into another world. In that realm, vengeful hornets buzzed with delight, carrying out a noble revenge.
Flight of the Bumblebee.
Yōko immediately recognized the piece.
A famous composition by Russian composer Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov, part of the opera The Tale of Tsar Saltan.
This incredibly fast and technically demanding piece was a favorite among performers seeking to show off. Yōko had played it herself many times—but even so, she listened with rapt attention.
Hara Kei didn't stick to the original structure. He improvised extensively, weaving in familiar passages and twisting them, mashing phrases together, even casually blending in other pieces—but it was still unmistakably Flight of the Bumblebee. Every change was fuel for the "F1 race car" of a performance that the piano became under his hands.
Moments seemed to stretch and compress simultaneously.
Then, the music stopped. The proud, victorious hornet had defeated its foe and departed, leaving only the performer and the enraptured listener.
Hara Kei gently stroked the keys. The Steinway responded obediently, soft and yielding, as if acknowledging him.
Compared to his own instrument, the "Blackbird"—its original label long gone, lacking some modern professional enhancements—this near-billion-yen piano felt almost intoxicating to play. Even Hara Kei felt a surge of excitement.
When he looked up, he almost jumped.
Yōko was staring at him without blinking, her narrow eyes glinting faintly green. The intensity reminded him of a demon from Journey to the West spotting Tang Seng—enough to make him a little uneasy.
Before she could speak, the sound of hurried footsteps came from above. The door opened quickly, and Wasa's face appeared, slightly out of breath, flushed, hair messy.
She dashed straight for the grand piano and spread her arms, shielding Hara Kei from Yōko's gaze.
Standing protectively, she stared at her mother like Hara Kei was a chick under the watchful eye of a hawk.
"…Coming back all this way, only to be treated like this by your daughter," Yōko said, feigning melodramatic disappointment as she dabbed at her eyes as if wiping away invisible tears.
"Don't push it," Wasa said firmly. "You old woman who likes 'older men with younger women'—I won't let you touch Hara Kei!"
"Oh," Yōko said, amused, not denying the accusation. "This is between me and Hara Kei. If anything ever happened, it would be 'consenting lovers.' What right do you have to oppose it?"
"I-I-I…" Wasa stammered, then finally said, "I'm your daughter! I will never allow you to do anything to disgrace our family!"
Yōko rolled her eyes.
The Tōma family wasn't some grand lineage. Her rise had been through talent and hard work, not inherited prestige. There was no "family honor" to insult.
But teasing further seemed likely to make Wasa explode, so it was better to stop here.
Clearing her throat, Yōko said seriously, "It's not as dirty as you think. I was just listening to Hara Kei's piano, judging whether he was worthy."
"Worthy of what?" Wasa asked warily, clearly unwilling to relax.
"Worthy of entering this villa," Yōko said with a cheerful smile. "If Hara Kei truly is a musical genius, I want to support him in return for the help he's given you. Just giving money would be too mundane."
"So what you're giving him is… the right to use this place?"
"Exactly." Yōko gestured around them.
"…So, the evaluation?" Wasa asked nervously.
"Hm. Solo technique—flawless, even by my standards," Yōko said, lifting her glass for another sip. "But I want to hear more. Something like… a piano duet." Her smile hinted at mischief.