Rise of the Zillionaire Star

Chapter 49: A Hidden Stage

The notification blinked across Jaylen’s HUD in bold red letters, glowing like a war siren. 

“System Alert: The game just leveled up. Welcome to the Zenith Circle.”

Jaylen froze. His eyes locked on the bright script hovering midair. His studio’s bright lights reflected against it, painting his face with the glow of both warning and stack of rare opportunity.

“New Arena Unlocked: Z-Arena (PvF – Public vs. Fame)”

Zee’s voice crackled through the augmented speakers.

“Jaylen, this isn’t just another questline. This is the stage within the stage. The Zenith Circle is where the power players test more than talent. it’s where they measure legacies.”

Jaylen clenched his jaw. “So Roman’s war wasn’t the final boss after all. There are still figures.”

Before he could ask more, his feed flooded with headlines.

“BREAKING: Trevin Voss Claims He Made Jaylen What He Is Today

Award-Winning Lyricist Reveals: I Ghostwrote Jaylen’s First Tracks

Is Jaylen a Fraud?” The Debate Heats Up

A video clip auto-played on his screen. Trevin Voss stood in a straight tailored velvet suit. His slicked-back hair caught studio lights and his smirk dripped with hate.

“The truth is,” Trevin told the interviewer, “Jaylen Cruz wouldn’t even exist without me. I wrote his first fire verses. I polished his rookie rhymes. He was a ghost until I gave him my ghostwriting.”

The studio audience gasped. Trevin leaned forward. His eyes burned into the camera.

“He’s a ghost with no ghostwriter. Without me, he’s nothing but static.”

Jaylen’s knuckles cracked against the desk. The words weren’t just an attack. They were like poison to him.

Zee’s tone hardened. “Face-Slap Quest Activated: Take Back Your Pen.”

…….

….

………

Jaylen knew Trevin. They had once shared dingy recording booths in back alleys of Brooklyn and had swapped rhymes over the microphones using cheap beats. Trevin was talented, no doubt and his metaphors could slice glass. But he had always wanted shortcuts and always hungry for recognition without the grind.

Back then, Jaylen had let Trevin punch up a line or two when he was still green. But never had Trevin written for him wholesale. The claim was a distortion and just a weapon.

Now Trevin had the Zenith Circle behind him. They are  the most powerful labels with shadow investors, and powerful campaigns in the press. Roman Vale’s fingerprints were all over this.

Jaylen’s phone buzzed again as messages poured in from fans,

 “Is this true??”

“Bro, did Trevin really ghostwrite for you?”

“We ride with you, but you gotta show receipts.”

His reputation, the foundation of everything he had fought to reclaim, was under siege.

Jaylen called an emergency meeting at the studio. Zee projected blueprints of the Z-Arena across the holo-screen. A digital-physical stage hybrid where performances could be streamed to millions in real time, complete with live metrics of public sentiment.

“Trevin’s setting the narrative,” Zee explained. “If you don’t clap back now, he will carve your legacy out of your own skin.”

Darius, the sound engineer, slammed his fist on the table. “Trevin is a snake. I mixed your first demo. You wrote every line, Jaylen. Every damn word. He just circled you like a vulture now.”

Aaliyah, Jaylen’s video director, leaned forward. “Then we should use the truth. If he wants receipts, we’ll drop them in bright light.”

Jaylen’s eyes narrowed. “Not just the receipts. I am going to face him where it matters most, the stage. The same booth we came from, but this time, no shadows. Just a Public vs. Fame. He says I am a ghost? I’ll show him I am the storm.”

The very next day, Trevin launched his offensive. On Late Night Spotlight, one of the biggest talk shows in the country, he walked onto the stage like a king. The crowd cheered and bought into his confidence.

The host lobbed him a softball. “Trevin, what proof do you have that you ghostwrote for Jaylen?”

Trevin smiled and held up a faded notebook, its pages were marked with scrawled lyrics. “Here’s the draft of Steel Streets, Jaylen’s breakout. My words and his voice. I kept this because I knew the day would come when the truth had to be told.”

Gasps erupted from the crowd. The host fanned the flames. “So you’re saying Jaylen built his empire on lies?”

Trevin’s smirk widened. “Exactly. He’s a fraud. Without me, there’s no Jaylen.”

The audience clapped, the cameras zoomed, and the story caught people’s attention like wildfire.

That night, Jaylen went live. Millions of people tuned in with their wide eyes waiting for either a confession or an online war to break out. 

He didn’t flinch. He sat in front of the mic with his voice low but sharp.

“Trevin Voss says I’m a ghost. He says he held my pen. Funny thing about ghosts, they haunt liars the most.”

He lifted his own notebook, preserved from the same era with pages inked with verses that matched every track he had dropped in those early days. Time-stamped files went across the holo-display which was authenticated by Zee’s protocols.

“You see, I didn’t need Trevin to give me words. I needed him to stop leeching off mine.”

Jaylen played an unreleased recording. It was a grainy audio clip of young Jaylen rapping his verses while Trevin in the background whined, “Yo, can I put my name on that? Just a co-credit?”

The fans erupted online. Hashtags started trending instantly:

“#TakeBackYourPen

#GhostWithNoGhostwriter

#JaylenTruth”

Zee flashed his HUD, “Public Sentiment Shift: +12 Approval. Face-Slap Quest Progress: 45%”

Trevin responded the next day with hate dripping in every of his words.

“You can fake notebooks, you can dig up old tapes, but the truth is felt live. I challenge Jaylen to the Z-Arena. One stage And One performance. No excuses. Let the public decide who’s real.”

The Zenith Circle broadcasted the challenge across every platform with millions tuned in instantly.

Jaylen’s crew watched him. Aaliyah whispered, “He’s baiting you.”

Jaylen smirked. “Good. Because I don’t dodge traps, I flip them.”

Zee chimed in with a metallic thrill.

“Main Questline Updated: Take Back Your Pen, Stage One. Win in Z-Arena PvF. Reward: Legacy Unlocked.”

The Z-Arena was unlike anything Jaylen had seen. It was a big digital coliseum projected in Times Square.

Its walls shifted with neon glyphs and beats pulsing through the air. Millions of people streamed in, avatars and real bodies alike. Public sentiment would be tallied live, glowing as bars above each performer.

Trevin appeared first, covered in gold-trimmed robes, his fans hyped him like a god descending. His smirk cut through the light as he addressed the crowd.

“Tonight, I will end the ghost story. Tonight, Jaylen Cruz fades for good.”

The crowd roared. Sentiment bars spiked to +15 in Trevin’s favor.

Jaylen stepped out next. There were no fans hailing him. He was just in a black hoodie, his old notebook in hand, and fire in his eyes.

The crowd hushed, Cameras zoomed and the sentiment bar showed neutral.

He raised the mic. “You call me a ghost? Then tonight I haunt the lies.”

The beat started dropping. 

Trevin went first. His verses were sharp, polished, and dripping out with hate.

“You rode my lines, now you claim the throne,

But your empire cracks when the truth is shown.

Without my pen, you’d still be a name unknown,

So bow, Jaylen, to the seeds I’d sown!”

The crowd erupted. His sentiment bar blazed green.

Jaylen stepped forward, his voice low, cutting through the roar.

“You said you wrote my rise, but the truth’s in scars,

I bled in alleys, I slept beneath stars.

You chased shortcuts, I broke prison bars,

You’re the shadow, Trevin, I’m the flame that chars.”

The crowd screamed. His bar shot upward, nearly matching Trevin’s.

Round after round they clashed. Their rhymes sliced through the arena like blades. Trevin’s arrogance versus Jaylen’s raw fire.

Finally, Jaylen flipped the page in his notebook and unleashed verses no one had ever heard. An unreleased track written years ago, pure rage distilled in ink:

“I don’t need ghosts, I don’t need a pen thief,

I carved my truth in the stone of grief.

You are Vale’s puppet, his paper belief,

But I am the storm, Trevin, I bring relief.”