Many years later, countless college students in Magic City would remember this story. They would think of it after stepping into society, perhaps when they themselves became husbands and fathers.
They would recall a sickly, lowly man living in a slum, standing firm while everyone else chased greed. He was poor, half-broken by illness, but he refused wealth that could have turned his life around overnight.
That year, his daughter was only four years old, and for the first time, she began to hate her father because of his choice.
Yet that man—Victor—never regretted it.
---
Charles left in despair. He carried away the contract that Victor had tossed aside, and as he walked, he couldn't get Victor's words out of his head.
"Why do you dare say this? How can you possibly believe you can raise your daughter to succeed in this harsh world?"
Charles was only nineteen at the time, a young man from a well-off family. He couldn't understand. To him, Victor's refusal was madness.
"I don't believe it. I don't believe it now, and I won't believe it in the future!" Charles declared.
As he left the filthy alleys of the slum, he passed several little boys smashing glass bottles, wild and unruly at only four or five years old. In his mind, this confirmed his belief:
"Only crime can come out of a place like this. People here think only of food, clothes, petty desires, and cheap love. Nothing higher."
---
Years blurred away, yet the image returned like an old film stripped bare by time.
Victor walked home alone that evening. Around him, middle-aged neighbors gathered, gossiping as they always did. Some had seen the viral video where Sophia's singing had stunned the internet.
"Victor, is your family moving out? Looks like your daughter is going to make it big!" one man with a heavy beard laughed.
"If it were my daughter, I'd kick her out the door and tell her to start earning money!" another bald man grinned, slapping his thigh.
Others chimed in, voices dripping with envy and greed.
Their eyes held no warmth, no genuine joy for a neighbor's child—only hunger for profit, for opportunity, for a piece of someone else's luck.
---
On stage in the present, watching this scene replayed on the giant screen, the audience shifted uncomfortably.
Professors from rich families sneered openly.
"Pathetic. They see only money."
"No wonder Sophia hated her father—growing up in that filth, surrounded by those kinds of people, she should have been ruined long ago."
One guest, Professor Su Wen, a refined man from Jinling with an entire family of educators, shook his head. "Tragic. A rotten environment breeds rotten outcomes. Even the father—Victor—must have thought the same way, deep down."
Sophia stayed silent. She imagined her father sitting among such men, nodding along. In her mind, it was easy to believe: he was tempted by money but pretended otherwise. He must have beaten the scout and refused the contract only to hide his own weakness.
In her eyes, the logic made sense.
A controlling, stubborn, hypocritical father. A man short-sighted, pedantic, and suffocating.
This image of her father had clung to her all her life, like a parasite on her bones. And as the years passed, she looked at him with colder and colder eyes.
---
But back in that moment, under the dim light of a street market, Victor stood straight. Not hunched, not ashamed. Straight as a blade.
He looked at those greedy neighbors, and then asked a single question:
"What if my child only knows this one song? What happens when the company squeezes her dry under the contract, once she can't produce more hits? What kind of life will they force on her then? She is only four years old—do you want her to live like a puppet, her whole life riding on one song?"
The men froze.
They had never thought that far ahead.
In their minds, a child was simply a tool. Use her talent now, make money, and when she burns out, so what? She's just a child—you can always have more children.
One bald man finally muttered, "You're her father. Whatever you say goes. She'll listen. That's how it should be."
Victor didn't respond. He turned and walked away quietly.
---
Behind him, whispers followed. Some men were wary of Victor. He always carried a knife when he left home, even when taking Sophia out. A quiet but dangerous aura clung to him, the kind that warned predators to keep away.
Once, a drunken thug named Da Qing had bragged about kidnapping little Sophia, calling her a "porcelain doll worth gold."
The next morning, Da Qing woke up to a nightmare: his vicious dog had been skinned alive and its pelt thrown over him. On his pillow lay a note:
"Touch my child, and next time it will be your skin."
From then on, Victor's reputation spread. Silent, cold, ruthless. No one dared lay a hand on Sophia. But the gossip never stopped.
"Fool. He's sick and dying, yet he wastes his strength raising this girl. Should've just sold her."
"Yeah, why struggle? If she became a star, she'd earn enough before fading out."
"And if not, have a few more kids. Simple."
This was the voice of the slum.
Should it be this way? Should it always be this way?
The question echoed through the arena as the audience watched. For a moment, they felt the same unease Victor must have felt then.
---
That evening, in front of Building 12, Victor returned home. His face was weary, his eyes cold. He looked at his daughter, who sat pouting in anger.
"I chased the scout away. I refused the company. I did it for your good—for your future," he said.
Sophia, only four, didn't understand. All she felt was bitterness. She stayed silent, refusing to speak to him.
Victor sighed. "I'll cook for you."
He left her bedroom calmly, but once the door closed, his body faltered. He leaned against the wall, clutching his head as pain roared from his old illness. His forehead throbbed, his vision blurred.
He staggered into the kitchen, splashed cold water on his face, and swallowed a handful of medicine.
Then, steadying himself, he began to cook.
Dinner was simple. For Sophia, he carefully prepared a proper meal. For himself, only a thin bowl of rice porridge.
This time, they didn't sit at the same table.
Two tables. Two worlds.
---
After eating, Sophia slipped onto the small balcony. The sky above was heavy and dark. She leaned against the railing, humming through her tears.
Her voice was soft, broken, but it carried into the night:
"The dark sky hangs low,
insects fly, insects fly…"
A child's song, sung alone, under a sky that felt too heavy for her little shoulders.
And in that moment, the greatest education began—not through books, not through schools, but through sacrifice, silence, and resilience.
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