If Mabel Lu is willing to praise a composition, it must be something extraordinary. So, the other teachers all put aside their work and rushed over to read the essay.
The first to finish reading was the female teacher Michelle Hong, who nodded in agreement, "Not bad, this essay is indeed well written. It deserves a full score." As she spoke, her eyes swept over the rest of the test paper and suddenly froze—this student had gotten all the questions right. If the essay also received full marks, that would mean the student could get a perfect score of 150.
Feeling a bit sour, she glanced at Mr. Yan and said, "Mr. Yan, your student is really impressive. The basic questions were so difficult, yet they got them all right."
"No way."
The other teachers were skeptical as well, passing the paper around. After reading it, they couldn't help but gasp and praise the student for being so amazing—even they might not be able to get a perfect score on this test.
But William Yan, though being showered with praise, couldn’t feel happy at all. Eventually, the test paper reached his hands. One teacher asked, "Can you tell which student it is from the notes?"
The moment he saw the notes on the paper, William Yan felt as if he'd swallowed a fly. He could tell for sure—these were Ian Song's notes. The handwriting was neat and forceful, with a touch of flair. This was the only thing about Ian Song he could actually praise.
"Mr. Yan, can you tell whose it is?"
The other teachers kept asking.
"Can't tell."
William Yan replied coldly, then shoved the test paper back into the teacher’s arms and buried himself in marking. But he couldn’t calm down inside—was he really going to have to bow and admit fault to that little bastard in front of everyone? The thought twisted his face with anger.
The other teachers noticed this and found it odd—why was Mr. Yan making that face when his own student had done so well? Only Ethan Li, who knew the inside story, sighed quietly to himself.
With the monthly exam over, one worry was gone. Now it was just a matter of waiting for the results and watching William Yan apologize in front of all the students.
Walking on the way to the café, Ian Song thought to himself—it had been a while since he'd gone to the boxing gym. With a day off tomorrow, maybe he should go train. Too bad he hadn't run into Frank Zhao the last two times; otherwise, he could've sparred with him.
Frank Zhao was the owner, but he rarely came to the gym. It was managed by his senior disciple Henry He, while Frank took other disciples to work on movie sets—he was a martial arts director, and his disciples acted as stunt fighters.
As soon as Ian arrived at the café, Ingrid told him to go to the office—the boss wanted to see him.
“Ms. Su, you wanted to see me?” After spending some time together, Ian had figured out Mira Su’s personality—carefree, with a streak of girlishness. In short, she was willful.
“You haven’t played any new original pieces these last few days. Can you play one tonight?”
Mira Su said softly. Today, she wore a white shirt and dark blue jeans that perfectly showed off her figure—very eye-catching. Ian didn’t consider himself a lecher, but he couldn’t help sneaking a few more glances.
Faced with the charming Mira Su, Ian couldn’t bring himself to refuse. So he nodded and said, “Alright, I’ll play an original piece in a bit.”
Eight o'clock.
As soon as Ian Song sat down at the piano, applause broke out in the café. After these days of performing, at least ninety percent of the regulars had become his fans.
He quickly stood up, bowed to everyone, and said, “Next, I’d like to dedicate this piece, ‘Stroll in the Rain,’ to all of you. Thank you for your support—and also to my beautiful boss, for paying my salary.”
Hearing Ian’s words, many people smiled, and Mira Su, who had just come out of the office, couldn’t help but curve her lips in satisfaction, muttering, “This kid is getting slicker by the day.”
Joyful piano music flowed from Ian’s fingertips, turning into wonderful notes that slipped into everyone’s ears and hearts.
'Stroll in the Rain' is a fairly upbeat piece, like strolling on a tree-lined path, or freely walking in a gentle rain…
After listening to 'Stroll in the Rain,' Mira Su couldn’t help but smile in satisfaction. While this piece wasn’t quite as good as Ian Song’s previous three originals, it was still an excellent work. She had studied his previous three pieces—three songs, three different styles—and with this one, that made four.
Most composers have a specialty—some are good at sad songs, some at cheerful ones, some at classical, some at modern. If all four of these pieces were written by this kid himself, he’s definitely an all-around composer.
To be able to write so many pieces at such a young age and have master-level performance skills—wasn’t that a bit much? Honestly, she was a little jealous of the kid. She loved piano and piano music, but her own playing was terrible.
After the performance, when it came time to settle his pay, Mira Su handed Ian Song four hundred yuan on the spot.
“Thank you for the tip, Ms. Su.” Ian grinned. The reason he didn’t refuse was because he knew it would make her unhappy.
After a brief chat, Ian Song said goodbye and headed back to the dorm.
Passing the alley where Fiona Xiang was once kidnapped, he instinctively glanced inside—and met a pair of cold eyes.
It was a woman. The alley was too dim to see her face clearly. She was leaning against the wall, one hand clutching her abdomen, the other gripping a dagger.
“Get lost!”
Her voice was hoarse.
Ian frowned slightly but ultimately said nothing. If he guessed right, the woman was injured—he could smell a faint trace of blood. But she was clearly no ordinary person, so he didn’t bother meddling.
He’d barely walked a hundred meters when four burly men in black suits and sunglasses ran past him.
“She’s badly hurt and can’t have gone far. Search the area carefully.”
Ian paused but soon kept walking. He had a feeling these four bodyguard-like men were after the woman in the alley.
After a few more steps, Ian suddenly turned and ran back toward the alley.
By the time he reached the alley entrance, the fight was already over.
All four bodyguard men lay on the ground, their fate unknown, while the woman was half-kneeling.
Whoosh!
A sharp sound cut through the air—Ian instinctively dodged to the side, and a dagger grazed his nose. If he’d been even a bit slower, it would have hit him square in the face. Cold sweat broke out, and he felt a surge of anger.
Looking up, he saw the woman collapse after throwing the dagger, as if she’d lost consciousness.
This woman was being hunted—should I help her? But she clearly wasn’t ordinary, and helping her might bring trouble. Besides, she’d nearly killed me just now.
Conflicted, Ian debated with himself, but in the end, he decided to move the woman away from the scene.