Music Knows No Borders
The saying “Music knows no borders” couldn’t be more true.
Even someone who doesn’t understand English can be moved by an English song—if the rhythm resonates and the emotion is potent enough.
But piano music? That transcends boundaries entirely. Without lyrics, it communicates through raw, overwhelming feeling. Anyone with hearing would find it impossible not to be stirred by such a performance.
Whatever preconceptions the audience had, whatever biases they clung to—all were purged from their minds in an instant.
Of course, not every pianist possesses this power. If they did, everyone would be a virtuoso.
Only a true master, a legend of the keys, could achieve such artistry.
Frankly, most of the 40,000 fans at Qiao Yiyi’s concert were young, with little musical education. They couldn’t distinguish a chord from a concerto. Their criteria were simple: Does it sound good? Is the singer pretty?
That’s why they’d once obsessed over K-pop idols like Kwon Young-ran, leader of the band “Big Bang.” To them, no matter what talent Jiang Fei displayed, he’d never be worthy of their goddess Qiao Yiyi.
But then—
Beethoven’s Symphony No. 9, first movement, erupted from the stage.
The crowd froze.
These fans still knew nothing about piano technique. Yet they felt it—the emotion, the seismic impact. Some things need no expertise; they speak directly to the soul.
The sea of black (their coordinated protest) still filled the stadium, but the silence now was deafening. Forty thousand people, utterly spellbound.
No more resistance. No more flashing protest lights. Only awe.
The music seemed to channel Beethoven’s defiant spirit itself, as if the composer’s ghost had possessed the man in the tailcoat onstage. A masculine, unyielding energy radiated outward—
Men’s blood burned with adrenaline. Women’s hearts fluttered uncontrollably.
Eyes closed, the audience surrendered. Darkness became light; their very understanding of music rewritten.
Then came the second movement: brighter, propulsive, like sunlight breaking through war clouds. Faces in the crowd relaxed, as if encouraged by an unseen force. Yet beneath the triumph lingered tension—a foreshadowing, amplified by Jiang Fei’s accelerating fingers.
By the third movement’s dreamlike adagio, every listener floated in romantic reverie. The melody caressed like a lover’s whisper, dissolving gender, age, and ego.
But the fourth movement—this was the symphony’s soul. Tsunami-like chords crashed over the stadium, igniting imaginations.
Most attendees were teens who struggled to write school essays. Yet now, the music unlocked their minds. They could suddenly articulate the grandeur of mountains, the fury of oceans—
The finale wove themes from prior movements into a thunderous Ode to Joy. No choir sang, but Jiang Fei’s fingers conjured the same ecstasy. Prejudices shattered. Hearts burst open.
Boom!
Boom!!
BOOM!!!
The final notes fell. Silence.
Then—
“AAAAAHHHH—!”
The stadium erupted. Grown adults screamed like teenagers. LED protest signs dropped; former Kwon Young-ran stans tore off their fan badges.
This wasn’t just mastery. This was divine.
Compared to Jiang Fei? Their old idol might as well be a tone-deaf amateur.
“JIANG FEI! JIANG FEI!” The chant shook the rafters.
Qiao Yiyi, grinning, stepped forward with her mic: “Well? Good?”
“YES!!”
“Worth the effort?”
“WORTH IT!!”
She smirked. “Good. Because convincing this guy to perform took months of begging—”
The crowd lost it.
“TOGETHER! TOGETHER!”
“YI-FEI! YI-FEI!” (A pun mashing their names meaning “Fly Together”)
Onstage, Jiang Fei facepalmed. Fly together? More like cringe together.
