Chapter 6 The Melancholy of the Unstruck Key

If Chengdu was a city built on the rhythmic clacking of Mahjong tiles, the Sichuan Conservatory of Music was its high-strung, over-caffeinated cousin. While the rest of the city moved at the speed of a slow-drifting jasmine leaf, the Conservatory moved at the tempo of a Presto agitato.

Lin Feng hated it. The air here was too sharp. It smelled like resin, old sheet paper, and the frantic ambition of five thousand parents who all believed their child was the next Lang Lang.

He stood in the grand hallway of the piano department at exactly 10:03 AM. He was three minutes late, which, in Lin Feng’s personal philosophy, was actually seven minutes early for someone who hadn’t wanted to wake up at all. He was wearing a beige trench coat that he’d borrowed from a client who never paid his bill, and a pair of sunglasses to shield his soul from the morning light.

“You’re late,” a voice whipped out.

Mrs. Zhao was a woman who appeared to be made entirely of sharp angles and expensive silk. She stood next to a grand piano that probably cost more than Lin Feng’s internal organs. Beside her sat Zhao Bo, a nineteen-year-old boy who had the facial expression of a bowl of plain porridge.

“I’m not late,” Lin Feng said, leaning against a marble pillar. “I was calibrating my aura. You can’t rush the ‘Face’ of a genius. It requires a specific level of atmospheric humidity.”

Mrs. Zhao huffed, her jade bracelet clinking against her wrist. “This is my son, Bo. He has won three provincial competitions. His technique is flawless. His scales are like crystal. But the judges at the National Selection Committee say he is… ’emotionally vacant.’ They say he plays like a very talented calculator.”

Lin Feng looked at Zhao Bo. The boy was currently staring at a fly on the wall with the intense neutrality of a brick.

“Bo,” Lin Feng said. “Play me something. Anything. But play it like you actually enjoy being alive.”

The boy nodded, sat at the Steinway, and launched into Chopin’s Winter Wind. It was terrifying. His fingers moved like silver lightning. Every note was perfect. Every dynamic marking was executed with surgical precision. It was the most impressive thing Lin Feng had ever heard, and it made him want to go back to sleep.

When the final chord echoed in the hall, Bo sat perfectly still, waiting for instructions.

“Technically?” Lin Feng said, cracking a sunflower seed. “Brilliant. Artistically? You have the charisma of a damp sponge. If I were a judge, I’d give you a gold medal and then immediately forget your name.”

Mrs. Zhao gasped. “That’s why you’re here! The selection is in three days. He needs to look like a master. He needs… ‘Face’.”

“He doesn’t need ‘Face,'” Lin Feng corrected, walking over to the piano. “He needs ‘Tragedy.’ In the world of high art, happiness is a liability. If you look like you’ve had a good breakfast and a full night’s sleep, people assume your music is shallow. They want to see the ‘Burden of the Muse.’ They want to see a man who is being haunted by the ghosts of dead composers.”

Lin Feng reached into his trench coat and pulled out a long, charcoal-grey cashmere scarf. He draped it around Bo’s neck, wrapping it three times until the boy’s chin was partially submerged.

“Step one: The Scarf,” Lin Feng announced. “It’s 28°C outside with 80% humidity, but you are cold. Not physically cold—spiritually cold. The music is a fire you are trying to huddle around.”

“I’m sweating,” Bo whispered.

“Good. Sweat is just ‘Passion Leakage,'” Lin Feng said. “Now, stand up. We are going to practice ‘The Approach.'”

For the next two hours, Lin Feng didn’t let Bo touch a single key. Instead, he made him walk from the wings of the stage to the piano bench over and over again.

“No! You’re walking like you’re going to buy groceries!” Lin Feng shouted, sitting in a velvet chair in the front row. “You need to walk like every step is a negotiation with gravity. Your shoulders should be slightly slumped, as if you are carrying the weight of every C-sharp ever written. When you reach the bench, don’t sit. Collapse onto it. But collapse with dignity.”

“Like this?” Bo tried to slump. He ended up looking like he had a localized spine injury.

“Close enough,” Lin Feng sighed. “Now, the most important part: ‘The Silence Before the Storm.’ Once you sit, do not play. Place your hands on your lap. Close your eyes. Tilt your head back slightly and exhale a breath so long and so weary that the judges think you’re contemplating the heat death of the universe. Only when the room is so quiet that someone’s stomach growls do you begin.”

As Bo practiced his “existential exhale,” Lin Feng’s phone buzzed. It was a video call from Wang “Little” Bao.

Lin Feng stepped into the hallway to answer. On the screen, Wang Bao was covered in what appeared to be blue paint. Behind him, the “Red Dragon” main restaurant looked like a construction zone.

“Lin Ge! It’s a disaster!” Bao yelled over the sound of a power drill. “The ‘Heritage Tech’ merger is stalling! Su Meili wants the new logo to be a minimalist, silver gavel. She says it represents ‘Justice and Efficiency.’ But my dad says if there isn’t a red dragon breathing fire on the sign, the ancestors will curse our soup base!”

“Bao, I’m in the middle of a Mozart-level crisis,” Lin Feng hissed. “Tell your father the dragon is still there, it’s just… ‘abstract.’ Tell him the gavel is actually the dragon’s tooth. And tell Meili the gavel is ‘organic’ because it’s made of dragon bone. Just use the word ‘Synergy’ until they both get a headache and stop talking.”

“But the paint—”

“I don’t care about the paint! Use ‘Face’ logic, Bao! A dragon is just a gavel with wings! Goodbye!”

Lin Feng hung up and rubbed his temples. The “Hotpot Wars” were getting messy, and Phase 2 hadn’t even officially started. He walked back into the rehearsal hall.

Zhao Bo was currently staring at the piano with an expression of profound, agonizing grief.

“Excellent!” Lin Feng praised. “What are you thinking about?”

“I’m thinking about the spicy rabbit heads from Chapter 5,” Bo said solemnly. “I really miss the one with the extra garlic.”

“Perfect. Keep that hunger. That is your ‘Artistic Void,'” Lin Feng said. “Now, let’s talk about ‘The Performance Face.’ When you play the fast parts, do not look at your fingers. Look at the ceiling. Look at the ceiling as if you are searching for a God who has abandoned you. When you play the slow parts, lean so close to the keys that your nose almost touches them. Whisper to the piano. Tell it your secrets. Tell it you’re sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“For being so much better than the other contestants,” Lin Feng said. “It’s the ultimate ‘Face.’ You aren’t competing; you are apologizing for your own genius.”

By the end of the session, Zhao Bo was transformed. He was a sweating, scarf-wearing, sighing wreck of a human being. He looked absolutely magnificent. He looked like a man who hadn’t seen the sun in a decade and whose only friend was a metronome.

Mrs. Zhao was weeping in the corner. “He looks… so miserable. It’s beautiful. I’ve never been prouder.”

“That’ll be 50,000 yuan,” Lin Feng said, shedding his trench coat as the humidity finally won the battle against his style. “And tell him to keep the scarf on during the interview. If the judges ask how he feels, he should just say: ‘The music says what I cannot.’ It’s a classic. Works every time.”

As Lin Feng walked out of the Conservatory, he felt the familiar pull of the Chengdu lifestyle. He needed a tea house. He needed a place where no one was playing Chopin and no one was arguing about dragon-themed gavels.

He found a small stall selling Bingfen—iced jelly with brown sugar, raisins, and sesame seeds. He sat on a plastic stool, watching the traffic flow by.

His phone buzzed again. It was a message from Su Meili.

Su Meili: The ‘Abstract Dragon-Gavel’ logo is hideous. I know you told Bao to say that. Also, the Librarian is currently parked outside the Spicy Lotus headquarters. He’s reading a book on 18th-century French poetry and three people have already asked for his autograph. You’re a menace to society, Lin Feng.

Lin Feng: I prefer the term ‘Aesthetic Stabilizer.’ Did you sign the merger?

Su Meili: We sign at noon tomorrow. I’m wearing the red blazer. If you’re not there to witness the ‘Heritage Tech’ birth, I’m suing you for breach of spiritual contract.

Lin Feng smiled. The side-romance was simmering perfectly. The “Chaos Couple” were officially becoming a “Power Couple,” even if they spent 90% of their time trying to out-maneuver each other.

But as he finished his Bingfen, a shadow fell over his table.

It was a man in a very cheap, very rumpled suit. He didn’t look like a client. He looked like a man who spent a lot of time looking at spreadsheets in a room with no windows.

“Lin Feng?” the man asked.

“I’m on a scheduled break,” Lin Feng said, not looking up. “It ends when the Mahjong players start their third round.”

“My name is Auditor Wu,” the man said, sitting down uninvited. “I’m with the Municipal Bureau of Unregulated Services. We’ve had some… interesting reports about a ‘Face-Saving Agency.’ Something about fake CEOs, billionaire librarians, and a ‘Tortured Genius’ who is actually just hungry for rabbit heads.”

Lin Feng froze, a spoonful of jelly halfway to his mouth.

“We’re interested in your tax filings, Mr. Lin. Or lack thereof,” Wu continued, tapping a folder. “It seems your ‘Social Equilibrium’ has a very high profit margin that hasn’t been shared with the city.”

Lin Feng slowly lowered his spoon. He looked at Auditor Wu. Then he looked at the exit. Then he looked at his phone.

“I see,” Lin Feng said, his deadpan voice returning with a vengeance. “Well, Mr. Wu, you’ve caught me at a very busy time. I’m currently managing a high-level merger and a national piano selection. But I think I have a ‘Face’ package that might interest you. It’s called ‘The Invisible Civil Servant.'”

“I’m not here for a package, Lin Feng. I’m here for an audit.”

“Every audit is just a negotiation in a different suit,” Lin Feng said, leaning back. “Why don’t we go find some hotpot? I know a place that’s about to have a very famous new logo. We can talk about ‘deductions’ over some spicy tripe.”

Phase 1 was officially ending. The “Freelance Fiasco” was about to collide with the “Regulatory Reality.” And as the spicy steam of Chengdu began to rise for the evening, Lin Feng realized that saving other people’s face was easy.

Saving his own? That was going to require a lot more than a cashmere scarf.

The “Hotpot Wars” of Phase 2 were no longer on the horizon. They were at the door. And they brought a clipboard.