The next morning at Beijing Golden Crown Academy felt different.
Bai Xingyue walked through the wrought iron gates not as a landmark, but as a homecoming.
The buffer of wealth was still there, but it was porous, softened by genuine affection.
"Xingyue! Over here!"
He turned to see two figures waving energetically from beneath the marble colonnade.
Zhang Wei, son of a telecommunications heir, with perpetually messy hair and glasses sliding down his nose, and "Lulu" Lu Qing, whose family's pharmaceutical empire meant nothing next to her passion for avant-garde fashion, which today involved an artfully torn blazer and neon-green leggings.
These were not diplomats. They were his friends.
"You survived the weekend!" Zhang Wei clapped him on the back as they fell into step.
"I texted you about the new Star Expedition patch like eight times!"
"I was busy! Art history deep dive," Bai Xingyue said, grinning.
He had seen the texts.
Xiao Zhu had categorized them as 'low-priority social maintenance.'
"Boring!" Lulu declared, looping her arm through his.
"We're much more interesting. I need your opinion. The winter formal theme is 'Celestial Bodies.' Does this say 'distant nebula' or 'exploded craft store'?" She held up her phone to show a fabric swatch.
"It says you'll give the planning committee another heart attack," Bai Xingyue laughed, examining it with genuine interest.
"I like it. It's got character."
"See? He gets it!" Lulu beamed, as if he'd delivered a profound artistic critique.
This was his social reality.
He was popular, not because of calculated alliances, but because he was, by nature, a sun.
He listened to Zhang Wei's complicated theory about game lore with sincere curiosity.
He admired Lulu's chaotic creativity without judgment.
He remembered birthdays, asked about siblings, and shared his expensive imported snacks without a second thought.
His innocence wasn't naivety in the sense of stupidity; it was a radiant, uncynical belief in the goodness of the people around him.
"Social analysis updated: Host operates as a gravitational center in his peer group."
"Affection appears genuine, not transactional."
"This social capital is significant but rooted in a persona of accessible warmth—a direct contradiction to the target goals. Noted for future dissonance."
In World Literature, when the teacher posed a challenging question about tragic heroes, several heads instinctively turned toward Bai Xingyue.
Not because he was the smartest– he wasn't dull of course, but because he was unafraid to try, to be wrong.
"Well," he started, tapping his chin.
"If we look at Achilles, his tragedy isn't just pride, right? It's that everyone sees his glory, but he feels utterly alone in it."
"The crowd's love becomes a mirror that only shows him what he's lost."
He spoke without pretense, his perspective surprisingly empathetic.
The teacher nodded, impressed, and a wave of approval rippled through the room.
At lunch, he didn't sit at an isolated table. He was at the heart of the largest one, a kaleidoscope of the academy's elite children.
He was sharing a story about Aunty Zhang's attempt to use his gaming headset, miming her confusion with such warm humor that the whole table was in stitches.
He passed a container of exquisite, delicate peach ombre cakes from a famous patisserie his mother had ordered for him.
"Here, try these! They're too good not to share."
He was the connector.
The boy who introduced the shy scholarship student from the robotics club to the heir of the automotive dynasty because he thought they'd like the same anime.
He moved through his world with an open heart, and the world reflected that openness back to him.
"Observation: Host's 'popularity' is a function of high-status altruism and emotional permeability."
"A dangerous combination in a competitive industry. It will need to be unlearned."
After school, the dynamic shifted slightly. As they loitered by the bikes and drivers, Lulu's expression grew more serious.
"So. The art school thing. Is this… a thing-thing? Or a passing Bai Xingyue-thing?"
"It's a thing-thing," he said, his resolve firming. "I need it. For what I want to do."
Zhang Wei pushed his glasses up. "That idol dream? For real, for real? Not just going to concerts and buying all the merch?"
"For real, for real," Xingyue confirmed, his smile bright and unshadowed by doubt.
"I'm going to train properly. I'm going to debut."
His friends exchanged a look. Not of mockery, but of protective concern.
They knew his world, the one of private tutors and easy paths. They knew nothing of the cutthroat reality he aimed for.
"Just… be careful, okay?" Lulu said, punching his shoulder lightly.
"Those survival shows are brutal. People are fake. Don't let them use that big heart of yours for target practice."
He blinked, genuinely puzzled.
"Why would they? If you work hard and are kind to people, good things happen."
Zhang Wei sighed, a fond, exasperated sound.
"Never change, Bai Xingyue. But maybe… get a little more cynical. As a treat."
They parted with plans to game online later. Bai Xingyue walked to the art district, his heart light.
Their concern was sweet, but misplaced. He believed in a simple equation: effort plus kindness equaled success.
The concept that his greatest strength—his open, trusting nature—could be a vulnerability had not yet pierced his understanding.
At home, the atmosphere had also evolved.
His father, Bai Zheng, was waiting in his private study—a room of dark wood and silent power. "Come in," he said, not looking up from a contract.
"Parental unit initiating quality check. Prepare to demonstrate progress."
Bai Xingyue stood before the massive desk, feeling like he was reporting to a benign general.
"Your mother showed me your sketches."
"The technical perspective on the architectural studies is… beautiful," his father said, finally looking up.
His gaze was doting. "What was the theme behind this?"
Xingyue hadn't thought that far.
He faltered.
"I… I was thinking about light and performance? How light defines a stage…"
His father looked at him, his facial features marred by confusion as well as false acknowledgement.
"Oh. I understand what you mean."
Then after a pause, he continued.
"However I would suggest you think more like an artist than a fan."
"'The Architecture of Absence.' Explore negative space, shadows of departed forms, structures defined by what is missing."
It was a brilliant, concise concept, a businessman's creativity.
"Build your portfolio around that."
"I've arranged for a critic from the Central Academy to consult with you on Saturdays. Use him."
It wasn't a suggestion. It was a deployment of resources.
His father; he was engineering it for maximum chance of success.
The love was real, but it was expressed through strategy and leverage.
"Strategic support acquired. This increases probability of exam success. And it was done softly." Xiao Zhu continued sarcastically.
"I could never have imagined your parents ever rebuking you, what a sight."
Bai Xingyue rolled his eyes to a complete 360 degrees but didn't refute his claim.
In the kitchen, Aunty Zhang had her own form of support.
"I cleared the small sunroom on the third floor," she whispered conspiratorially while packing his dinner.
"It's quiet, has good light in the afternoon for your drawing, and the soundproofing is… acceptable for certain other activities after hours." She winked.
She had created a secret training annex, far from the main studio and his parents' direct line of sight.
His secret world was expanding, supported by the very pillars of his gilded life.
That night, in the newly christened "sunroom studio," Xiao Zhu was more intense than ever.
The vocal exercises were longer, the corrections microscopic.
"The pitch is correct, but the timbre is too bright. You sound like a happy student. You need to sound like a promise. Darken it. Here."
After an hour, Bai Xingyue was sweating, frustrated. "I don't know how to just 'darken' it!"
"Access the first dream," Xiao Zhu instructed, its voice flat.
"Not the yearning. The cost. The shadow behind the stage light. Sing from the absence your father so cleverly named."
Bai Xingyue closed his eyes, reaching for the ghostly echo.
Not just the girl's hope, but the silence left behind.
The loneliness in the crowd's roar.
This time, when he sang, his voice wasn't bright and open.
It was warmer, layered with a subtle, mournful depth.
It was still his voice, but it had a new dimension.
[Skill Unlocked: Emotional Timbre Modulation (Lv. 0). Proficiency: 3%. You have learned to color a note with borrowed sorrow. A useful, if tragic, skill.]
After, exhausted but buzzing with that 3% progress, he lay on the sunroom floor. He opened his phone.
The fanclub chat was exploding with excitement over a rumored idol collaboration.
He scrolled, smiling, then paused.
He looked at the happy, chaotic messages from his friends in his school chat.
He felt the stern, strategic support of his father.
He saw Aunty Zhang's conspiratorial wink in his mind. He felt the ghost of a stranger's dream in his chest.
He was the beloved center of a golden world, secretly training to become something distant and untouchable.
The contradiction should have been unsettling.
To Bai Xingyue, it just felt like all the pieces of his heart were finally, beautifully, and impossibly, coming together.
"Rest period initiated," Xiao Zhu said, its glow dimming.
"Tomorrow: Continue exploiting your social capital for positive reinforcement while I continue dismantling the personality that created it."
"The path forward is paradoxical. How delightful."