The crack in his world widened from a hairline fracture into a tangible gap, and it was his own reflection that did it.
Xiao Zhu had issued a new kind of challenge: "Produce a three-minute performance piece."
"Integrate one vocal skill, one dance skill, and the 'physical storytelling' you observed."
"Record it."
"Then, we will analyze it as if you are a contestant on a survival show."
For a week, Xingyue lived in the sunroom studio.
He cobbled together a short, original melody inspired by the hopeful chord progressions he loved in DAI6's songs.
He choreographed a simple but expressive sequence trying to channel the narrative feeling of STEEZ, using his body to convey someone reaching for and missing a fading light.
He practiced until the moves were muscle memory and the notes were steady.
He set up his phone to record.
He performed.
He poured in all the earnest effort, the new technical control, the flicker of borrowed emotion from the "first dream."
He felt good. It was the best thing he'd ever done.
He played it back.
The boy on the screen was… fine.
Technically, there were no major mistakes.
His pitch was mostly stable. His moves were clean.
But watching it felt like drinking flat soda.
The spark, the danger, the captivating intensity he analyzed in his favorite idols—it was utterly absent.
The performance was polite.
It was housed in a perfect, soundproof room with no audience but a camera.
It had no stakes, no friction, and therefore, no life.
"Analysis complete," Xiao Zhu stated, its voice devoid of its usual playful or stern tones. It was purely clinical.
"Technical Score: 7/10. Artistic Impact Score: 2/10."
"Diagnosis: The performance suffers from profound environmental sterility."
"You have no peers to measure against, no harsh eyes to judge you, no competitive pressure to sharpen your instincts."
"You are a beautifully crafted sword that has never struck another blade. You are becoming proficient in a vacuum."
The words landed with the weight of truth.
The 2/10 for artistic impact felt like a physical slap.
He'd worked so hard.
But Xiao Zhu was right. Who was this performance for? The plush walls?
"What do I do?" he asked, his voice small.
"You require a crucible, particularly a region where there are a lot of aspiring artists like you," Xiao Zhu stated, the clarified, "an art school."
"An art school is not merely an academic change."
"It is your first crucible."
"Shared studios. Peer comparison."
"Teachers who do not fear your father's name. It is the necessary friction to create a spark anyone would want to watch."
The logic was irrefutable.
But the thought of demanding such a change from his parents, of leaving the safe harbor of his private tutors and this mansion, filled him with a deep, anxious dread.
He wasn't a rebel.
He loved his parents.
The idea of causing them worry, of insisting on a path that looked harder and riskier from the outside, felt like an act of ingratitude.
The trigger came from an unexpected direction: his old vocal coach, Mr. Feng.
At his weekly lesson, flush with the frustration from Xiao Zhu's critique, Xingyue decided to test the sterile environment theory.
He sang the original melody he'd composed, injecting the supported breath and emotional timbre he'd been drilling.
Mr. Feng listened, then clapped lightly.
"Very nice, Xingyue! A pretty little tune. Your voice is so naturally sweet."
It was the same empty praise.
But this time, Xingyue pressed.
"Thank you. But… where are the weaknesses? The pitch drift in the bridge? The lack of dynamic contrast?"
Mr. Feng waved a dismissive hand, smiling indulgently.
"Why focus on weaknesses? Art is about joy! You have a gift. Don't over-complicate it with criticism."
In that moment, Xingyue saw the gilded cage for what it was.
It wasn't just comfort; it was a conspiracy of positive reinforcement designed to keep him placid and unchallenged.
His parents' love had built it.
Mr. Feng was paid to maintain it.
And if he stayed, he would remain a 2/10 in artistic impact forever, no matter how high his technical score climbed.
He left the lesson feeling sick.
He didn't go home.
He walked, ending up at a small, independent live house tucked in an alley.
A flyer advertised an "Open Mic: Original Music Night."
The space was dark, sticky-floored, and smelled of beer and ambition.
He stood at the back as a nervous girl with a guitar took the stage.
Her voice shook.
She missed a chord.
The small crowd was quiet, then offered polite, real applause.
The next performer, a guy with a keyboard, was confident but derivative.
The crowd murmured, engaged, critical in a way that was alive.
No one was there to protect their feelings.
They were there to be seen, for better or worse.
This was the friction.
This was the crucible.
"Data point confirmed," Xiao Zhu whispered in his earpiece.
"Observe the authenticity of the feedback, even in failure."
"This is nutrient-rich soil."
"Your current environment is hydroponic—controlled, clean, and incapable of producing strong roots."
That night, the confrontation began not with a bang, but with a quiet question."
He found his mother arranging flowers in the sunroom—his secret training space.
She looked peaceful... content.
"Mom," he said, leaning against the doorframe.
"What would you have done if your parents had said your paintings were just 'pretty' and never told you how to make them better?"
She looked up, surprised. "Why do you ask, baobao?"
"I just… I think I need someone to tell me how to be better. Really tell me. Not just that I'm good."
Her smile became wistful. "I had a teacher at university. She was ruthless."
"She made me re-paint the same still-life ten times until I cried. I hated her." She trimmed a stem.
"She was the only reason I ever improved."
He took a deep breath.
"I think I need a teacher who might make me cry."
The flower in her hand stilled.
She looked at him, really looked, and for the first time, she didn't see her cheerful little boy.
It was like she was only really seeing him now.
She saw a young man with a shadow of determination in eyes that were usually just bright.
The mother in her wanted to banish that shadow, to promise him everything would always be easy.
The artist in her recognized it.
She didn't agree.
But she didn't dismiss him. "I will speak with your father," was all she said.
The battle lines were drawn not in anger, but in the silent, terrifying space between protection and preparation.
Bai Xingyue, the momma's boy, had just fired the first, quiet shot across the bow of his own gilded life.
He didn't want to give them trouble.
But he finally wanted something more than their peace of mind—he wanted his own growth, even if it was painful for them all to watch.
And he had the data, the 2/10 score, and the echo of real, unvarnished applause in a dirty bar to back him up.