Rise of the Zillionaire Star

Chapter 68: The Realest Voice

The morning after the People’s Summit felt like the eye of a storm. There were no velvet curtains and no champagne breakfasts in executive suites. Just the sharp buzz of headlines crackling across every screen in the city.

“Zenith Circle Implodes!

New Cultural Vanguard: The People’s Summit.

Jaylen’s Blackout Set - Greatest Concert No One Filmed.”

Jaylen sat slouched in the backseat of a black van. His hair was damp with the sweat he hadn’t bothered to wash out yet. The chants from last night still clung to his chest like an aftershock. It echoed in his ribs. His phone buzzed nonstop with several mentions, missed calls, interview requests but he didn’t touch it.

Instead, the chime of his system whispered directly into his mind,

“Main Quest Branch Complete: Zenith Broken

New Title Acquired - Voice of the Unbound.”

Jaylen let out a humorless laugh. “Thry finally named me the voice of the Unbound.”

Zee hummed. Her digital tone vibrating softly through the earpiece.

“Correction: You named yourself. They just took notice.”

The streets were different now. Last night’s blackout had cracked the shell of the industry.

Luxury sponsors withdrew overnight. Diamond labels issued panicked statements, “We condemn unethical practices of the Circle.” Stock tickers bled red with every passing hour.

Even ex-idols, the one chained in gold contracts, posted tearful apology videos. One sobbed on camera, “They told us silence was survival. Jaylen showed us that noise is freedom.”

Newspapers twisted their metaphors like knives. One columnist’s words cut the deepest, “The Circle was built on visibility. Jaylen shattered them with invisibility.”

On the sidewalks, the proof of the shift spread faster than any ad campaign. Walls dripped with graffiti of Jaylen’s figures holding a mic like a torch. In subways, murals showed crowds waving dead black phone screens like lanterns in the sky. Across the globe, fans staged their own silent concerts with dim lights, music stripped raw and voices raised as one.

Jaylen’s rebellion had become ritual, but every flame cast a dark, black shadow.

In the cramped office were lined stacks of unpaid invoices. His manager held his head.

“You have gone rogue, Jay,” he said with a cracking voice. “No cameras, no sponsors, and no streams, you’ve basically declared war on the system. They won’t forgive you. You’ll never work with them again.”

Jaylen leaned forward with a steady eyes,

“Good. I’m not working for them anymore.”

Roman Vale, the exiled king and the serpent in the dark still breathed somewhere in the wires. Gossips from the people said he funneled money into counter-movements, hiring troll farms and bot armies to drag Jaylen’s name through the mud.

Smear campaigns hit like waves,

“The blackout was staged.”

“Fake messiah.”

“The proof Jaylen is produced by the same machine he claims to fight.”

Trending hashtags painted him as fraud. Talk shows sneered. Commentators called him the people’s hypocrite.

Zee’s voice sharpened with data pings.

“Crisis meter rising. Narrative control slipping.”

Jaylen didn’t respond on social media. There were no tweets, no streams and no rebuttals.

Instead, he showed up at a children’s hospital with no security guard and no stage lights. It was just him, a borrowed guitar, and the thin voices of kids gathered in a sunlit ward.

He strummed softly with words catching on the edge of his throat. Laughter cracked between verses, weak hands clapped against rhythm, and tiny voices joined him, warbling off-key but pure.

Jaylen had only a circle of kids who forgot about tubes and wires for a moment.

Zee whispered in his ear, “System note: Crisis meter neutralized.”

By dusk, his phone finally rang. This time, it was not from a journalist, not from a sponsor, but from the Summit Organizers themselves.

“Jaylen,” the voice said in a rough exhaustion, “we have tallied the numbers.”

Jaylen braced up.

“1.2 million bodies were physically present at the Summit plaza. Tens of millions more flooded surrounding cities in protest solidarity. And globally…” the organizer paused with their voice shaking, “…we have lost count. Silent concerts, murals and word of mouth. We are taking ripple effects beyond measurement. You didn’t just play a show. You sparked a movement.”

Jaylen’s throat tightened. For once, he had no quip and no system-charged bravado. Just silence.

Because he was just realizing it now that this wasn’t just about music anymore and literally not about him.

It was bigger.

The night fell heavy, covering the city in neon haze. Jaylen and his team cruised through downtown, fatigue heavy in their bones.

The van slowed at a crowded intersection. People swarmed below a massive digital billboard with their heads turned upward.

The screen flickered. For a moment, static fuzzed across the skyline. Jaylen’s face blazed ten stories high.

Only just three words, stark against the city lights:

“The Realest Voice in the Game.”

The crowd erupted like an earthquake. Cheers shook the street and chants of his name pounding the glass of the van.

Jaylen’s manager gawked. “That’s not an ad buy. Who the hell…?”

Zee chimed, her tone reverberating with awe.

“System reading: organic hack. No corporate source. The city itself is projecting you.”

The roar outside swelled like a brutal wave. Jaylen stepped out of the van. His boots crunching the road. Cameras or not, people raised their hands with voices colliding into a singular chant.

“Jay-len! Jay-len! Jay-len!”

The system chimed in his ear like a crown settling on his head, “Global Reputation Achievement: Honest Icon. Fame level: 20 Unlocked.”

Jaylen didn’t smile and he didn’t pump his fists. He just stood there under the light of the billboard. His breathing slowed down and he raised his shoulders.

Because he knew that the battle wasn't over since Roman wasn't dead.

As the crowd howled, Jaylen’s eyes tracked the skyline. Somewhere out there, Roman Vale was watching.

Zee’s voice dropped low, almost to a whisper.

“They are calling you real. But to the enemies still lurking… that only makes you their biggest threat.”

Jaylen nodded once with his gaze fixed on the billboard. He could feel it in his bones that the battle lines had shifted, but they hadn’t vanished.

……

…

In a dim rooftop across the city, Roman Vale leaned against the ledge, cigarette ember burning like a dying star.

He watched the same billboard with his eyes narrowed to slits of venom. The crowd’s chants floated up, carried by the wind, but he didn’t flinch.

Instead, he pressed a phone to his ear. His voice was low and cruel.

“Enjoy the light, boy.” The line clicked dead and the night swallowed his figure.