Chapter Seven: Discussing the Zither

Cheng Xiaoyu’s bedroom was on the second floor of the villa, at the end closest to the main entrance, directly above the billiards room that Aunt Zhou had promised would become his music studio. Once inside, Cheng Xiaoyu shed his clothes, intending to indulge in a proper bath—the cramped bathroom of the intensive care unit had never satisfied his mild obsession with cleanliness. Here, the bathroom was downright luxurious, with every conceivable amenity. He slipped into the massage-equipped tub and melted away, lying in comfort for half an hour, soaking until his skin flushed and his fingertips pruned before finally getting out.

Opposite the bathroom was the walk-in wardrobe, spacious but mostly empty, for he never cared much about fashion. Aside from pajamas and his school uniform, there were only a few tracksuits and several black T-shirts.

After drying his hair, Cheng Xiaoyu looked at his reflection and sighed; who knew when he’d be able to shed this excess weight? He pulled on a pair of blue track pants and a black T-shirt, then headed downstairs toward Su Yuxi’s piano room.

As a music director, his strengths were guitar, bass, and drums—he had even been the lead vocalist and guitarist in his own band, Roaring Bottles, whose musical style was similar to Shin Band’s: pop rock, almost bordering on power metal.

His own vocal range was bright and powerful, allowing him to sing rock ballads and anthems with ease. Yet in his heart, he favored R&B. He once devoted himself to studying Black vocal techniques and achieved some success.

In another timeline, since the 1930s, Black vocal styles had continuously merged with white music, gradually splitting by the 1990s into two schools. One retained most traditional Black characteristics—represented by artists like Brian McKnight and Bono—marked by delicate, focused vocal lines, superb alternation of closure and openness, minimal use of vibrato, and a straight, unembellished sound, avoiding the “grand and overwhelming” emotions typical of white opera.

The other school, heavily influenced by white music, was a modified Black vocal style. Its representatives were numerous—pop stars influenced by white hard rock, or cabaret singers shaped by operatic technique. They combined Black vocal cord action with white resonance and projection. This style produced enormous vocal energy, perfect for musicals and large-scale performances, and in turn, inspired a new wave of white singers.

Cheng Xiaoyu’s timbre left him suited only to the second style. At the moment, he wasn’t eager to test his current voice. Instead, he was impatient to see just how far his “otaku” piano skills had developed. In his previous life, he’d only dabbled in piano, a classical music novice who enjoyed only popular arrangements; the grand piano recitals in music halls had always seemed out of reach.

Walking into the piano room, Cheng Xiaoyu’s heart beat a little faster. He glanced around. Most of the walls were glass, but clearly not ordinary glass—three thick layers, two of them vacuum-sealed. The soundproofing would be flawless.

He closed the door. To his right, the bookshelf was packed with sheet music. He skimmed the spines: Czerny, Bach, Burgmüller, Clementi, Tchaikovsky, Mozart, Liszt, Beethoven, and Chopin—an impressive collection. He approached the white Steinway at the center, where Debussy’s “Clair de Lune” lay open, clearly Su Yuxi’s recent practice piece.

Lifting the lid, he perched on one third of the leather bench, straightened his back, set his feet near the pedals, and drew a deep breath. His right hand brushed the black and white keys, and the crisp, ringing notes echoed like steel marbles scattered on ice. The familiar dance of each note brought a profound warmth to his heart.

The piano is called the king of instruments not merely because of its size or complexity. A fine modern piano is not just a work of art but possesses an oceanic range, a purity as boundless as the sky, and the most precise, stable intonation. It encompasses the broadest register of any instrument—eighty-eight keys, each a nimble sprite with its own character. The piano’s wide range covers the entire spectrum of notes used in music, so it can easily handle more than just classical music. (Classical music’s form and harmony are complex, whereas many instruments—especially traditional ones like the guzheng—have a much narrower range, limited to five notes.) Folk songs, pop, jazz, blues—all can be played on the piano.

Not only can it stand alone; it can blend seamlessly with other instruments—be it in symphony, traditional ensembles, even rock or Beijing opera. For this reason, it truly deserves to be called the king: it can express nearly every music under the sun.

But there is another, perhaps even more important reason—it is the instrument best able to convey emotion. Joy, liveliness, excitement, sorrow, and fury: the piano can express them all, which is far more difficult for other instruments.

The piano does not demand rare genius. With enough intelligence and relentless practice, anyone can reach a decent level. Natural physical traits—especially hand size and finger length—matter more for tackling the most difficult classical pieces. But to become a true master, diligence isn’t enough: one needs musical insight, analytical skills, and a heightened sense of artistry.

Cheng Xiaoyu had no intention of becoming a master. His short-term goal was to use the piano to get into the Shanghai Theatre Academy; his long-term goal was to play something as challenging as “Reminiscences of Don Juan” just to show off.

Debussy’s “Clair de Lune” is considered a Grade 9 piece—hard, but not insurmountable. To play it well, technical proficiency isn’t the highest barrier; expressing its delicate touch, tonal nuance, and subtle dynamic control is what sets it apart, elevating it to a performance-level piece. Cheng Xiaoyu’s natural gifts were excellent: large palms, long fingers—beautiful hands, though above them were two plump, fair, lotus-root-like arms, pleasant in their own right.

Now, Cheng Xiaoyu could play “Clair de Lune” flawlessly from memory, despite not being intimately familiar with it—a feat the old Cheng Xiaoyu could never have managed. Years of piano since age four, guitar since twelve, and his experience as a music director had fused into something greater than the sum of its parts. His musical intuition and memory had soared, and his ears had evolved to a monitoring-grade sensitivity—a priceless asset for any musician.

However, after so long away from the piano, his hands felt stiff, unable yet to portray the hush of midnight or the pure, silvery moonlight. Mastering a piece like “Clair de Lune” required not just endless practice, but an ear for the nuances of dynamic expression; the essence was in keeping the fingers close to the keys, sometimes lifting them only halfway, to create a seamless, unbroken sound—subtle melodic lines, barely audible against a tranquil backdrop.

Cheng Xiaoyu’s true advantage was knowing exactly where he fell short and what needed improvement—a golden-finger skill, invaluable and rare. This thrilled him more than playing “Clair de Lune” smoothly.

As soon as he finished, it was as if he’d entered his favorite game, challenging himself at ever-higher levels: from Chopin’s “Revolutionary Étude” to Beethoven’s “Pathétique Sonata,” then to Liszt’s transcendent “Mazeppa,” pushing his fingers to their limits.

Completely absorbed, Cheng Xiaoyu lost all sense of time, immersed in his own world. Only when he stumbled through the final notes of “Harmonies du Soir”—not the hardest of Liszt’s études, but the most physically exhausting—did he feel as if he’d shattered the void and soared into the moonlight. Drenched in sweat, he felt whole—no longer plagued by doubts of split personality, but flooded with joy, as if he’d climbed from Gold to Platinum to Diamond in League of Legends. He never noticed his sister, Su Yuxi, quietly entering as he played the last note of “Harmonies du Soir.”

Cheng Xiaoyu was still unaware that the one person in this house he least dared to offend was now standing silently behind him. He twisted his plump waist and began to play “Cloud Ocean under Moonlight” from Castle in the Sky. Having just tested his classical piano skills, he was now curious whether his music director’s abilities could adapt to the piano as well. As a music director, Cheng Xiaoyu had only played the guitar arrangement of this piece; the guitar and piano versions were entirely different. Still, he’d heard the piano rendition and decided to improvise his own arrangement.

“Cloud Ocean under Moonlight” by Joe Hisaishi is a classic, one of the most beautiful pieces in popular piano music, though technically it’s not difficult. Cheng Xiaoyu played it to relax his nerves, and so played with particular ease.

He closed his eyes; his hands danced effortlessly across the keys. As the gentle melody floated from the piano, it was as if his thoughts soared into a sky draped in pale blue velvet; a melancholy girl played her flute in the breeze, while a lost child gazed at the bright moon, unable to find the way home. The slow sorrow was so profound, so intoxicating. In a flawless four-minute journey, the music transported him across the stars and the sea, through a solitary voyage.

Cheng Xiaoyu exhaled, deeply satisfied with the result. But before he could savor the aftertaste, a burst of applause shattered the silence.

Startled, Cheng Xiaoyu leapt to his feet, his sudden movement making the bench scrape loudly across the floor.

He turned. The setting sun slipped into the glass bay window, spilling orange light across the piano room and dazzling his eyes. He saw Su Yuxi’s tall silhouette—and beyond her, the white lace curtains billowed, as if a breeze had swept through, lifting her dark blue hair.

“What’s the name of that piece?” she asked him—the first words she’d ever spoken to him.

“Castle in the Sky. A piece about dreams and destruction.” That was the first thing he ever said to her.

And so, the drifting sunlight came to rest. In the cold embers of dusk, he looked into a pair of eyes that shook his soul.

For no reason, a thought crossed his mind: today, the wind is so boisterous!