Just as the commotion—a mixture of complaining, anticipation, and numbness—began to heat up, and some audience members in the front rows started trying to shout for the staff—
Several beams from emergency flashlights cut through the darkness on the side of the stage.
A few figures wearing reflective vests and hard hats trotted up to the edge of the stage carrying toolboxes. They began performing emergency checks and operations on the extinguished main screen and the control console.
Their movements were hurried but professional. Flashlight beams danced around, illuminating the silhouettes of messy cables and equipment on the stage.
But even more conspicuous was the reflective text on their backs: [Sapphire Pearl Engineering Dept].
"It really is an accident!"
"I knew it! Power outage!"
"Can it even be fixed? How long do we have to wait?"
"Refund! I want a refund!"
Seeing the maintenance crew appear shattered the last remnants of fantasy.
The complaints instantly amplified, mixed with scattered shouts of dissatisfaction.
The eyes of the expectant audience members dimmed, and the "muddle along" faction furrowed their brows.
At this moment, the entire venue was shrouded in a low-pressure system of disappointment and anxiety. Conversely, those who had held onto their cynicism from the start wore confident expressions that screamed, See? I told you so.
It was as if predicting this disappointment was a testament to their wisdom.
It felt like several agonizing hours had passed, though in reality, it was likely only three or four minutes...
Just as the dissatisfaction was about to reach a breaking point, and even the calmest people began checking their watches frequently...
Zzt...
HUMM—
After a burst of static, the massive circular main screen in the center of the stage suddenly lit up again, illuminating the bewildered faces of the emergency maintenance workers.
Mirroring the confusion on the workers' faces was the image displayed on the screen.
It wasn't a grandiose VCR intro, nor was it dazzling special effects. It wasn't even any visual element related to the "Starry Sea Dreams" concert.
The screen was dominated by a cartoon-style digital alarm clock.
A round face, two hands shaped like cat ears, ticking away second by second, displaying the current time.
"Isn't that the same alarm clock Yun Mengxi uses?" A hardcore fan recognized it instantly.
And the line of playful, handwritten text below the clock confirmed their guess.
"Sleep five more minutes~"
This image, so slice-of-life it bordered on childish, formed an absurd contrast with the tense atmosphere of thousands of people waiting in the venue.
The audience fell into a stunned silence.
Immediately afterward, the camera angle wobbled slightly, then began to move up and pull back.
A face suddenly burst into the frame.
It was Yun Mengxi.
Because she was too close to the lens, her face suffered a slight fisheye distortion—her forehead and chin were slightly elongated, her cheeks looked puffy, her eyes appeared huge and round, and her lips were pursed.
This accidental "meme face" effect, paired with her expression—which looked as if she had just woken up but also carried a hint of dazed, pranksterish cunning—instantly washed away the negative emotions caused by the accident moments earlier.
"Pfft—!" Someone in the audience couldn't help but laugh first, triggering a wave of suppressed chuckles and gasps.
"It's Mengxi!"
"What is she doing?!"
"Is this a livestream?!"
As if to confirm the guess, almost simultaneously, countless phones, tablets inside and outside the venue, and even some public display screens in the city squares that hadn't been shut down yet, popped up a notification from a mainstream streaming platform:
[Breaking! Yun Mengxi Personal Livestream Started! Location Unknown!]
Driven by curiosity, everyone clicked the link—whether it was the anxious audience inside the venue, the people staying home, or those still idling on the streets.
The image stabilized.
Yun Mengxi seemed to have adjusted the camera's position, setting it to her front-right side.
Now, the lens showed her profile and upper body.
She was draped in a soft, thick, off-white long down jacket. The zipper was only halfway up, revealing the hem of a gorgeous, sequined gown underneath.
Her hair hadn't been styled for the stage; it hung down smoothly, with a few strands gently brushing her cheek in the night breeze.
And her background was no longer a familiar rehearsal hall or backstage area.
Past her silhouette, one could clearly see the edge of an open rooftop, and in the distance, the uneven, glittering—yet sparser than usual—city skyline.
The world under the twilight was already darkening, but the embers of the sun still stained the horizon.
The wind on the roof seemed strong, constantly fluttering the fur on her hood and her hair.
She sat casually on a concrete slab, likely the base of a ventilation unit. Aside from the lightning rod, nothing in the building was higher than her.
Her legs dangled over the edge, swinging gently, her hand still holding the phone displaying the cartoon alarm clock.
In the profile view caught by the camera, people could see a smile on her lips—a mix of mischief, tranquility, and some deeper meaning.
Inside the Pearl of Sapphire, the massive circular screen was simultaneously broadcasting this high-definition livestream.
Every audience member looked up, dumbfounded at this completely unexpected "opening."
No lights, no music, no backup dancers.
Only the sound of the wind whipping high above, the distant background noise of the city, and an idol girl sitting on top of the world, wearing a down jacket and starting a livestream.
It was like people excitedly approaching a birdcage, only to see the canary that was supposed to be singing inside perched on an open branch nearby.
"Everyone," Yun Mengxi spoke softly to the camera, and to the thousands upon thousands of viewers on site and behind screens. Her voice, carried by a high-quality microphone, was clear and tinged with the coolness of the night wind as it spread to every corner.
"Good evening."
"It looks like... our 'Starry Sea Dreams' needs a change of venue. We'll start from where the 'stars' actually are."
The wind swirled high up, lifting a lock of her hair before gently setting it down.
Yun Mengxi looked toward the last strip of dark purple light on the edge of the distant city. Her voice was very quiet, as if speaking to herself, yet whispering to everyone watching.
"When I was very little, my big brother used to point at the shining people on TV and say to me: 'Mengxi, look. That is what a dream looks like.'"
She paused, the corner of her mouth curving into a nostalgic arc.
"Back then, his dream was to stand on a stage like that.
"He had the best singing voice, wrote beautiful lyrics, and played the guitar so well that the grumpy grandpa next door would poke his head out to listen... But later, he locked his guitar in the closet, buried his songbook at the bottom of a chest, and went far away to learn how to do business."
In the lens, her eyelashes lowered, casting small shadows on her cheeks.
"It took many years for me to understand. He gave up his dream to hold up our family, so that I could chase my dream without any worries—or perhaps, to chase the 'our dream' that he couldn't complete."
She raised her head, her gaze seeming to pierce through the lens, landing on some distant past.
"So, I dance, I sing, I stand here... Every step feels like I'm stepping into his footprints.
"Sometimes I can't tell if what drives me forward is my own desire, or his unfulfilled regret.
"The word 'dream' is too heavy for me... It's not just the future. It's the past, it's responsibility, it's... a debt."
The sound of the wind on the roof became the only background music.
Whether inside the venue or in thousands of homes, it was strangely quiet. It was as if those complaints and anxieties had been paused by this overly personal confession.
Especially among the younger audience members, the look in their eyes gradually changed—from onlookers watching the spectacle to feeling an empathy connected by a similar confusion.
"So I started thinking," Yun Mengxi's voice carried a touch of genuine bewilderment. It wasn't an idol reciting lines, but a young person asking the void a question in the dark night.
"'Dreams'... what exactly are they?"
The moment the question was thrown out, it was like a stone cast into calm water.
Reactions began to diverge.
Most young viewers' eyes became focused, even a bit entranced.
Perhaps they were in school, suffocating under academic pressure and future planning.
Or perhaps they had just entered society, repeating work with no end in sight inside a cubicle.
Perhaps they were still looking for direction, swaying between their parents' expectations and their inner voices...
"Dream," a word both familiar and strange, was pushed back in front of them by Yun Mengxi in such a real and heavy manner. It touched upon the heavy thoughts they had never examined closely but were constantly pulled or stung by.
They began to think subconsciously. On the bullet screen and social media, fragmented but sincere shares began to appear.
"It feels like I haven't thought about this in a long time..."
"Does getting into a good university count as a dream? Or is it just a goal?"
"My dream... probably died a long time ago on the commuter subway."
"That feeling of 'debt' she mentioned, I get it... my parents are just like that..."
However, another voice emerged almost simultaneously, rapidly becoming ear-piercing.
They came from a mixed crowd—partly middle-aged people with weary faces and dull eyes, life having carved deep scratches into their features.
The other part consisted of young people wearing expressions that claimed they had "seen through everything" too early. They used cynicism as a shield to mask a panic they perhaps wouldn't even admit to themselves.
In a corner of the venue, a middle-aged man scoffed aloud, speaking loudly to his companion as if volume alone proved him right.
"She's not very old, but she thinks too much. Dreams? Can you eat them? Can you spend them like money?"
Beside him, a young man dressed fashionably with dyed blond hair immediately chimed in, his tone carrying the flippant mockery characteristic of internet slang.
"Exactly. Purely painting a pie in the sky, just moving herself to tears. What do your dreams have to do with me? Waste of time."
Similar comments exploded across the audience and the livestream bullet screen.
"If you have time to ponder this vague stuff, you'd be better off hauling a few more bricks."
"Here we go again, artsy youth moaning about nothing."
"It's a show, right? Is she going to sell us some products with a sob story next?"
"Dreams? I wanted to be a scientist when I was a kid, now I'm still a dog for my boss."
These voices were sharp, impatient, and full of a near-defensive aggression.
They were eager to negate the value of the topic of "dreams" itself, as if admitting its existence or importance would reflect some kind of powerlessness and failure within themselves.
Just then, Yun Mengxi in the lens seemed to inadvertently glance at the rapidly scrolling comments, or perhaps she simply followed some intuition.
She didn't get angry, she didn't refute them, she didn't even look at the malicious words. She simply cast her gaze back into the depths of the dimly lit city, as if providing a footnote for those noisy voices.
"Actually, I know..."
Her voice remained soft, yet strangely overpowered all the background noise, clearly reaching every corner.
"For many people, the word 'dream' is too far away. Far away like the stars.
"Every day when you open your eyes, you have to think about today's rent, tomorrow's meals, next month's bills. It's the boss's mood, the client's difficulties, the notices from the child's school...
"Life is like a swim across a river where you can't see the other bank. Wave after wave crashes over you. Just keeping yourself from drowning, just staying in place, already takes all your strength."
She tightened her down jacket slightly. The night wind seemed cooler, but she still reached out her hand in the frame, reaching toward the first star that had revealed itself in the sky.
She couldn't touch anything.
"Every stroke swimming against the current requires extra courage, extra stamina, and... a tiny bit of that luxurious thing called 'hope.'
"But if even breathing is difficult, how can one dare to look up at the stars?"
Her outstretched hand trembled violently as if shocked by electricity, then retracted in dejection. At this moment, she finally turned her face, looking directly into the lens.
There was no grievance on her face, no accusation. Only a transparent calmness, even carrying a trace of pity.
A trace of genuine pity!
"So, sometimes it's not that they don't want to, but that they can't.
"Even... in the eyes of some people who have been beaten to exhaustion by the waves, the very thought of 'looking at the stars' feels like a betrayal of their own situation. An unrealistic, sinful luxury.
"They don't hate the starlight. They're just... too familiar with the coldness of the waves."
As her voice fell, a brief, deathly silence descended inside and outside the venue.
Those originally raucous, scoffing voices seemed to have suddenly been choked.
The middle-aged man who had been mocking loudly opened his mouth, but nothing came out. The sneer on his face froze, slowly melting into a kind of embarrassment.
He wanted to stand up and scream at the screen, trying to use his "seniority" as a foundation to refute these words that exposed his "incompetence."
But in this moment, he—who should have lost all reason in his usual state—found his mind filled only with Yun Mengxi's pitying face.
She pities me... genuinely pities me... just like looking at an injured small animal, or looking at those poor souls caught in a disaster...
It was a form of incompetence that was inferior on a spiritual level.
He didn't dare to stand up. He could only turn his head, trying to find an "ally" to prove that "everyone else is drunk and I alone am sober."
But the blond youth beside him looked away, his fingers unconsciously picking at his phone case.
Yun Mengxi didn't name names, but every word was like a mirror, precisely reflecting the unspoken hardship and self-protective numbness deep within the hearts of the deniers.
Their contempt did not stem from a transcendent insight into "dreams," but rather appeared as a conditioned reflex of rejection toward anything "unattainably beautiful" after struggling in the quagmire of "survival" for so long.
It was a psychological defense of "if I can't have it, I'll say it's useless." A skulk of foxes who were born unable to reach the grapes.
And she wrapped her insight in empathy, interpreting their aggression as another form of scarring.
She didn't defeat them in an argument; she... understood their "powerlessness."
This understanding stripped the sharp denial of its footing, turning it into a pale self-mockery.
The harshest mockery of dreams often stems from the deepest powerlessness.
It wasn't that dreams were void, but that life had drained away their strength to look up.