"How did you survive?"
The question hung unspoken in Sophia's heart.
On stage, her long dress swayed lightly in the evening air. The sunset burned across the stadium, yet her presence remained untouchable, like a being not stained by the dust of the world.
But within her—curiosity gnawed.
Since childhood, she had known her father was gravely ill. She had seen him ask for money again and again, surviving year after year despite the doctor's verdict that his time was short.
How had he endured those years in between—the long, twisting years of pain?
---
Yet, at this moment, it did not matter.
For Sophia, this was about release—an outpouring of everything locked inside for years.
She looked into the sea of faces, her tone steady, her eyes cold.
"I never understood," she said, "why you rejected my hobbies. Why you hated even the books I chose. Why you sneered when I said I wanted to write."
Her voice grew sharper.
"When I was six, you were already sick. You started smashing things, dropping things, raging through nightmares. That was my family—a shattered one. A shitty family."
Her words froze the air.
The vast gym fell silent.
Even Clara White, seated on the show floor, felt her heart ache for the girl. Through Sophia's words, she could almost picture the oppressive weight of that home.
Though Clara still believed Victor possessed hidden depths, she couldn't deny the truth: pain and illness could twist a person into madness.
"Poor child," Clara whispered to herself. "He was sick… perhaps too sick to ever be a father."
---
Beside her, Charles nodded gravely.
He too understood. Illness corrodes patience; pressure shatters temper. A man crushed by disease and poverty could hardly carry life's burdens without breaking.
In such a home, wasn't it natural for cracks—emotional outbursts, mental disorder—to erupt?
---
The audience erupted in murmurs.
Contestants and their children gasped, unable to fathom such an upbringing. The idea of rising brightly from such a pit seemed impossible.
One of them, Ethan, son of a former contestant, blurted out:
"She's unbelievable. To grow up in that… and still become this?"
---
The cameras caught everything.
Sophia stood radiant, while in the last row of the stadium, Victor sat quietly. His arms had grown weak. His fingers trembled.
He felt it—the slow leaking away of his life force.
By all rights, he should have died fifteen years ago.
His body was worn thin from endless survival. His spirit, once an iron wall, was beginning to crack.
Now, as misunderstanding after misunderstanding echoed around him, Victor's ears no longer picked up the words clearly. The applause, the accusations, the noise—all faded.
Only his white hair, his wrinkled skin, and the fire-like ache in his chest reminded him: his belief was collapsing.
---
He shivered in the summer heat, his body curling inward as though in winter frost.
Alone. Cold.
Since Sophia's birth, he had lived in shadow. He had worked through every trade imaginable, dragging his broken body through one endless night after another. He had raised her without complaint, even as his illness consumed him.
But he wondered now—when she left home, when she grew up and rose to the stars—would she ever look back at him?
Would she remember the man who made himself her enemy to forge her strength?
Or would he simply fade into the dark?
---
Meanwhile, online, the show had detonated across the world.
The blockbuster from Magic City, Happy Family, spread like wildfire.
Clips of Sophia's childhood—her journey through poverty, her self-discipline, her blazing rise—were replayed again and again.
Young people loved watching the rise of a superstar.
Older viewers admired the shaping of a child's character.
The comparisons between her family and the families of other contestants fascinated audiences.
Soon, Happy Family was trending on Douyin, Weibo, Toutiao, Twitter, Facebook, YouTube—everywhere.
---
On Station B, videos exploded in popularity.
One popular edit stitched Sophia's childhood moments together—her first spark of genius, her life in the slums, her determination to shine, visiting her mother's grave, walking home with classmates from wealthy families, the seaside inspiration.
The captions read:
"She was born with light, grew under the scorching sun, and now stands in the sky, never to fall again."
"When someone is truly extraordinary, they cannot help but shine."
"Have you ever seen such a child? At five, she surpassed most people's entire lifetime."
The comments overflowed with awe.
---
But then came another video.
This one showed Victor.
The edits were brutal:
Victor slapping Lily in the slum dispute.
Victor collapsing unconscious in a dirty alley.
Victor's diagnosis in a dingy hospital.
Victor working endless jobs—courier, cook, factory worker, waiter, construction hand.
Victor arriving home on his battered electric bike, his face gray with exhaustion.
Victor tightening a rope around his head to dull the headaches.
Victor carrying a bottle of liquor, scowling, mocking his daughter.
The text overlay read:
"Is the sky always dark?"
The contrast was devastating.
---
When this video circulated, the internet fell into silence.
Even die-hard fans couldn't laugh.
They didn't know how to process it.
How could such a father and such a daughter exist in the same story? How could they belong to the same family?
Some sighed. Others grew complicated.
"Victor… maybe he was fine at first, but later, wasn't he mentally broken? Wouldn't that scar a child forever?"
"His life was hell, no doubt. But children really are a burden when you're drowning like that."
The debate raged on, no one sure where to stand.
---
And in the shadows of the stadium, Victor trembled.
His heart asked silently:
If my belief collapses…
will she ever come to see me?
---
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