Chapter 59: The Sanctuary of Dreams

People whispered around them, yet not a single soul stepped forward to offer assistance.

Feeling the excruciating pain of her hand being crushed and hearing the buzzing mockery in her ears, Chu Yuyao’s world narrowed to nothing but despair.

Just then, a “gentle” voice cut through the clamoring crowd.

“What are you doing?”

The crowd automatically parted, forming a path.

An elegantly composed girl slowly approached.

It was Qin Xuzhi.

The heiress of Prosperous Entertainment Group, vice president of the student council, she was the true princess of this school.

The arrogance vanished from Zhang Li’s face, and the foot she had pressed on Chu Yuyao’s hand instinctively recoiled.

“X-Xuzhi-jie…”

Without so much as a glance at them, Qin Xuzhi walked directly to Chu Yuyao and helped her to her feet.

“Yuyao, are you alright? Let me see your hand.”

She cradled Chu Yuyao’s reddened hand, her brows subtly furrowing, her face etched with “distress.”

As her gaze abruptly shifted to Zhang Li and her companions, that gentle expression had already been replaced by fury.

“Do I need to retrieve the surveillance footage and invite your parents to the school?”

Zhang Li and the other two girls turned pale, waving their hands frantically.

“No need, Sister Xuzhi, we were just playing a joke on her.”

“We were wrong, we’ll never dare to do it again!”

“Get out.”

Qin Xuzhi uttered just a single word.

The three girls, as if granted a great pardon, immediately scurried away in shame.

“It’s alright, you’re safe now.” Qin Xuzhi gently patted Chu Yuyao’s back, her voice soft. “Don’t be afraid, I’m here.”

Taking Chu Yuyao’s hand, she disregarded the stares of those around them and led her out of the cafeteria.

“Come, I’ll take you somewhere nice to eat, and you can forget all these unpleasant things.”

Led by that warm hand, Chu Yuyao felt as though she had returned from a frigid hell to the warmth of the human world.

****

At the “Sweet Time” dessert shop.

Qin Xuzhi ordered the most expensive strawberry mille-feuille and pushed it towards Chu Yuyao.

“Try it, it’s the signature dish here.”

Chu Yuyao nervously picked up her fork, taking tiny bites.

The cloying sweetness melted in her mouth, yet it couldn’t dissolve the bitterness in her heart.

“Those people were truly too much,” Qin Xuzhi remarked, stirring the coffee in front of her, as if casually. “Yuyao, your nature is simply too gentle, which is why they always pick on you.”

Chu Yuyao kept her head down, remaining silent.

“It’s a good thing I ‘happened’ to pass by today, otherwise I truly don’t know what else they might have done to you.” Qin Xuzhi sighed. “If anything like this happens again, you must tell me immediately. I’ll stand up for you, alright?”

Chu Yuyao nodded vigorously, her heart overflowing with gratitude.

Sister Xuzhi was like a deity who had descended into her life.

“Oh, right,” Qin Xuzhi said, as if remembering something, a brilliant smile blooming on her face. “The online cloud auditions I applied for passed!”

Chu Yuyao’s movements paused, and she looked up.

“Really? Congratulations, Sister Xuzhi!”

“Hehe, it was just luck,” Qin Xuzhi waved her hand, then looked at Chu Yuyao expectantly. “What about you, Yuyao? You applied too, didn’t you? Have the results come out?”

Chu Yuyao’s eyes dimmed again, and she shook her head.

“N-not yet received an email.”

“Oh, it’s alright,” Qin Xuzhi immediately offered comfort, holding her hand. “Your voice is so beautiful, you’re sure to pass.

The official review just takes time, don’t worry.”

Despite these words, Chu Yuyao couldn’t help but feel a pang of disappointment.

Sister Xuzhi was so exceptional; everything she did seemed to succeed so effortlessly.

‘While I…’

****

Night had fallen deep.

In a rental apartment within an old residential complex in Linhai City.

Chu Yuyao sat alone on the edge of her bed, a set of rudimentary recording equipment, scavenged from a second-hand market, laid out before her.

She removed her school uniform, took off her glasses, and pushed aside her heavy bangs, revealing a delicate face.

Under the dim, yellow light, she was no longer the gloomy, timid “ugly duckling” she had been during the day.

She closed her eyes, faced the microphone, and began to hum softly.

It was still that song, “Star Wish.”

Free from the day’s tension and fear, her singing was as pure as a mountain spring, yet it carried a power that pierced the soul.

Within that song lay her yearning for her idol, her fervent desire for the stage, and her silent rebellion against the injustices of reality.

When the song concluded, its lingering melody seemed to echo through the rafters.

The small rental room transformed, as if into the most magnificent hall.

Chu Yuyao opened her eyes, a blush of contentment gracing her face.

Only when she sang did she truly feel alive.

She picked up her phone and habitually opened her email.

It was still empty.

Chu Yuyao’s small frame curled up in the chair, the phone screen’s light reflecting on her pale face, and the last spark in her eyes extinguished.

The audition results for “Sing with Tian Lanxing” had vanished like a stone sinking into the sea, without even a polite “thank you for participating” rejection letter.

Her heart sank, little by little, plummeting into the cold seabed.

‘Indeed, someone like me doesn’t deserve to have dreams, do I?’

That carefully recorded a cappella video, now, seemed like a cruel joke.

Her chest felt terribly constricted, the oppression making it difficult to breathe.

Chu Yuyao grabbed her jacket and fled the suffocating rental room as if escaping.

She needed a place to hide.

****

“Flying Fish Internet Cafe.”

The murky air was thick with the smell of cigarettes, and the ceaseless clatter of keyboards merged into a noisy ocean of sound.

This place was a world away from “Sweet Time,” yet for Chu Yuyao, it was a sanctuary where she could finally breathe.

When she was in elementary school, the town’s first internet cafe opened, and her older brother would secretly save a few yuan of his pocket money to take her there on weekends, teaching her to play a game called “Battle of the Oracles.”

Those were some of the few cherished memories from her childhood.

Expertly, she opened a temporary card at the front desk, then found an empty seat in the furthest corner.

As soon as she sat down, she noticed the person next to her.

It was a pink-haired girl, who appeared several years younger than herself.

Her fingers hammered wildly on the keyboard and mouse, while she muttered, “Charge, charge, charge! What’s there to be afraid of! A bunch of cowards! Watch my moves!”

On the screen, her character, like a rampaging wild ox, charged headfirst into the opposing five players with a yell.

The outcome was without suspense.

In less than a second, the screen turned black and white.

“You have been slain.”

The system delivered its cold notification.

On the girl’s game interface, her combat record blared an abysmal 0 kills and 8 deaths.

‘So bad… it’s toe-curling.’ (TL Note: “菜得抠脚” is a slang term describing someone as extremely bad or unskilled, often humorously.)

Chu Yuyao silently grumbled to herself.

A flicker of doubt crossed her mind: did a big city like Linhai City also have illegal internet cafes where even children this young could enter?

However, she didn’t dwell on it, quickly logging into her own account and entering the familiar Oracle’s Canyon.

“Battle of the Oracles,” a global phenomenon MOBA game that had been popular for over a decade, boasted a massive player base and professional esports tournaments, representing the youth of countless young people.

As long as she immersed herself in the game, she was no longer the bullied, insecure, and timid Chu Yuyao, but a hero capable of leading her teammates to victory.

Yet, the malice of reality always refused to let her go.

“Well, well, who do we have here? Isn’t it our class’s resident jinx?”