The notification arrived not with a fanfare, but with a soft, pleasant chime that Bai Xingyue had come to associate with "non-critical updates."
He was in his sunroom studio, not training, but sketching—a desperate attempt to visualize "The Architecture of Absence" that didn't involve empty chairs.
His brain felt like mush.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: External Feedback Loop Engaged.]
[Your submission to 'Indie Spotlight Compilation' has received a qualifying response.]
[Accessing encrypted professional critique… Decrypting…]
Xingyue's pencil froze.
He'd almost forgotten about the melody he'd sent on a whim. A document pane shimmered into existence beside his sketchbook.
The critique was two pages long.
It was brutally technical.
It dismantled his melody's simplistic chord progression, praised the "instinctual, emotive core" of the main hook, and then eviscerated the underdeveloped bridge.
Phrases like "harmonic stasis" and "predictable resolution" were underlined.
At the very bottom, in a single line, it read: "Raw material with palpable heart.
The craftsmanship is amateur. The potential is not. Seek rigorous theory training."
It was the Professor Chen of music critiques. And it was the most valuable thing he'd ever received.
"They didn't hate it," he whispered, a disbelieving laugh bubbling up.
"They said it has heart."
"Analysis: Critique is 87% constructive. The term 'heart' is a qualitative variable of low reliability, but the identification of specific technical flaws provides a high-fidelity roadmap for improvement. This is an optimal outcome."
Xiao Zhu's voice was matter-of-fact, but it followed with a soft, popping sound, like a cork.
"To commemorate your first professional engagement, Host, I have initiated a low-priority sub-routine: Ambient Idol Trivia. Would you like to hear a fact?"
Xingyue blinked, the sting of the critique morphing into curiosity. "A fact?"
"Did you know," the system began, its tone shifting into something resembling a friendly podcast host, "that during the recording of the legendary boy group SBCC's debut track 'Event Horyzon,' the main vocalist, Kang Tae-min, stood in a bucket of ice water to achieve the signature breathless, strained emotion in the final chorus? It was technically disastrous for his cords, but aesthetically revolutionary. A fascinating case of self-sabotage in service of concept."
Bai Xingyue stared at the space where Xiao Zhu's voice originated. "That's… hardcore. And kind of stupid."
"The industry is built on such beautiful, stupid sacrifices," Xiao Zhu agreed cheerfully.
"Now, back to work. The critique identifies a weak bridge. We will begin basic song structure theory after your flexibility drills. But first, a ten-minute hydration and mental-recalibration break. My sensors indicate you are approaching diminishing returns on spatial reasoning. Look at something far away."
This was the new, strange normal.
The drill sergeant who calculated his breakdown points would, upon hitting a limit, seamlessly transform into a bizarrely attentive—and chatty—caretaker.
It was during these "off-hours" that Xiao Zhu felt most like the "bestest friend" it had once advertised itself as.
Later, after a grueling session on secondary dominant chords that made his head swim, he collapsed onto the sunroom couch.
Xiao Zhu materialized its little yellow form on the armrest, its glow a soft, warm amber instead of the usual bright gold.
"You are thinking about your friends," it stated, not as a probe, but as an observation.
"Is that a system scan?" Bai Xingyue asked, wiping his forehead with a towel.
"It is a friend scan. Your biometrics are stable. Your sigh, however, was social in nature. You have not engaged in non-essential digital socialization with Zhang Wei or Lu Qing in 48 hours. This is a deviation from your baseline."
"I've been busy," Bai Xingyue muttered, but the guilt was there.
He'd seen their memes.
He'd just been too mentally drained to formulate a funny reply.
"Counterpoint: Strategic rest includes social reconnection. It is a different form of calibration. Your 'Lulu' posted a query about absurd formal wear seventeen minutes ago. A suggested response, calibrated to your historic humor parameters: 'Wear the exploded craft store. Become the chaos you wish to see in the world.'"
A surprised laugh burst out of Bai Xingyue. It was exactly the kind of thing he'd say. "You… help me text my friends?"
"I optimize all systems, Host. Even the squishy, social ones. A depressed operator is an inefficient operator. Send the text. It will require minimal energy and yield a positive social feedback loop."
Chuckling, Bai Xingyue sent the text.
The reply was almost instantaneous—a string of crying-laughing emojis and a photo of even more fabric swatches.
The simple, warm ping of connection felt like loosening a tight knot in his chest.
"See? Social maintenance: complete. Efficiency rating: A+. Now, are you sufficiently recalibrated to lose horribly at me?"
Another window popped up—a sleek, pixelated interface for a rhythm game.
"This is a hand-eye coordination and pattern recognition exercise disguised as a diversion. I will be your opponent. I do not experience mercy."
For the next fifteen minutes, Xiao Zhu was a hilarious, trash-talking gaming buddy.
"Your reaction time is that of a sedated sloth!" it would cheer as its pixel avatar comboed into the thousands. "Ah, a lucky streak! How quaint!"
When Bai Xingyue finally managed to win a round, the system emitted a sound like a tiny, deflating balloon. "A fluke! A glorious, statistically improbable fluke! This demands a rematch!"
It was during these times that the immense, alien weirdness of his situation would hit Bai Xingyue.
He was being trained for idol superstardom by a fragment of a broken timeline that enjoyed rhythm games and texting advice.
The contrast was on full display the next day.
During a brutal afternoon dance drill where Xiao Zhu forced him to repeat a single eight-count of footwork until his ankles screamed, the system was all icy precision.
"Your left foot is drifting 2.3 centimeters off its mark. You are not tired. You are being imprecise. Again."
Later, as he soaked in a bath laced with Epsom salts (a "biological recovery protocol" insisted upon by the system), Xiao Zhu's voice piped up, now soft and conversational through the bathroom speaker.
"Query: If you could have any fictional animal as a pet, what would you choose? My data suggests a common answer is a dragon, but this is logically fraught with insurance and zoning issues."
Exhausted and floating, Bai Xingyue couldn't help but engage. "A baby sky bison," he mumbled. "From Avatar. Fluffy, can fly, good personality."
"An excellent choice. Low carbon footprint, assuming a diet of cloud berries. Personally, I am fond of the Cheshire Cat. Its relationship with objective reality is… refreshing."
It was so absurd.
Lying there, muscles dissolving in heat, discussing fictional pets with an omnipotent coaching AI. This was the duality.
The unbending, ruthless sculptor of his talent, and the oddly solicitous, quirky entity that shared his space.
The biggest test of this duality came that evening.
He was reviewing the harsh music critique again, feeling the weight of the "amateur craftsmanship" label.
The excitement had faded, leaving insecurity.
"You are misinterpreting the data," Xiao Zhu said, its voice gentle, not in the room but in his earpiece as he lay in bed.
"The critique is not a verdict. It is a map. 'Amateur' is not an identity; it is a temporary state defined by a lack of specific knowledge. You now possess a list of that knowledge. This is a gift. The girl whose dream you carry… she would have wept for such a map."
The words reframed the pain.
He wasn't being told he was bad.
He was being told how to get better. The system's sternness gave him the discipline to face the flaws.
Its off-hours kindness gave him the peace to accept them.
"Thanks, Xiao Zhu," he whispered into the dark.
"You are welcome, Host," it replied, its voice a soft, warm hum.
"Now, initiate sleep sequence. Tomorrow, we begin the study of harmonic minor scales. They are delightfully melancholic. I think you will hate them. Goodnight."
The light in his mind's eye dimmed to a soft, pulsing amber.
The stern coach was off-duty.
For now, he was just a weird, kind voice in the dark, ensuring he rested so he could be broken down and rebuilt all over again come dawn.