Liszt's smile had not fully faded, and the stage was so silent that the faint crackling of candle flames could be heard.
He slowly sat down, his slender fingers tapping lightly on the piano lid, as if reminding the audience to hold their breath.
At that moment, it seemed as if the air was being drawn away, and even the crystal chandelier on the palace dome was at a standstill.
The first chord fell.
The melody pierced through the long night like lightning.
"Memories of Don Juan."
The opening melody was light, elegant, almost wanton, like a carefree dancer swaying gracefully in a splendid palace.
But the subsequent rhythms descended like a sudden storm, the left hand's bass thunderously tumbling, while the right hand's treble urgently soared.
It seemed every note was mocking, mocking those mortals who thought they could stand shoulder to shoulder with him at the piano.
Even the Red Devil couldn't help but hold his breath.
