As the host's introduction faded, the arena once again plunged into a brief silence.
Even though the entire crowd was still drowning in the absolute, euphoric high of Ai-chan's performance, these bloodthirsty listeners managed to summon a baseline level of respect for the new arrival.
So far, the quality of the performers had been "wildly inconsistent," to put it mildly. But not a single one had been a coward, and not a single one had lacked a gimmick.
So everyone waited in anticipation, eager to see what kind of audiovisual feast—or world-ending eardrum destroyer—this strangely-named contestant would bring to the table.
It could be either. That was the beauty of this chaotic night.
But this time, the new contestant's entrance seemed... slightly underwhelming?
In the darkness, a set of hurried footsteps pattered out from the side of the stage, rushing toward the center.
In front of the monitor in the waiting room, Shu, who had been slouched deep into the backrest of his chair, finally sat up with a heavy sigh.
"They're finally here," he exhaled, his voice dripping with pure exhaustion.
Excluding the solo wildcard that was the Herrscher of Deathly Vocals, this was hands down the most dangerous group on the roster.
A bunch of Herrschers who refused to stay dead, refused to reflect on their past defeats, and whose heads were currently filled with nothing but "revenge."
Right...
And your so-called "revenge" as dignified Herrschers is to bribe Azhar into signing up with the Book of Akashic Records, just to pull off a super-performance and knock my ranking down by one spot?
Where is your Herrscher pride? Where is your transcendent clarity of mind?
Forget it. It's better if you don't have it.
I'm so tired.
Shu let out a breath so long he practically exhaled his own soul.
So, what kind of instant-detonation emotional nuke had the Book of Akashic Records cooked up for him this time?
The spotlight finally snapped on. Standing perfectly in the center of the illuminated circle was a little girl who looked no older than ten.
She had curly chestnut hair and wore an oversized hoodie over a lace-trimmed skirt, her feet clad in a pair of polished leather shoes.
It was obvious she had dressed up carefully for the occasion. But the focal point was the thick, heavy black notebook she was clutching tightly to her chest.
The girl was Azhar.
And the black notebook was the Book of Akashic Records—also known as Depascal.
"H-hello, everyone..."
Azhar's voice echoed through the stadium PA, trembling slightly with nerves.
But she quickly took a deep breath, forcing a bright, lively smile onto her face.
She might be timid, but she absolutely refused to be so stage-frightened that she couldn't speak.
"I'm Azhar! And the performance I'm bringing you today is..."
It was exactly the kind of formulaic, overly rehearsed greeting a little kid would give at a school talent show.
A ripple of good-natured chuckles rolled through the audience, leaving Azhar unsure if she should feel more nervous or slightly relieved.
"Anyway... thank you all!"
With that, Azhar raised the black notebook from her chest.
Under the gaze of thousands, she opened it.
The rustling of pages wasn't particularly loud or remarkable.
But the next moment, a stream of desolate white light poured from the seams of the book.
It wasn't blinding, but it carried an irresistible, penetrating weight that instantly flooded the stage and began washing over the audience.
The light bore an ancient presence, like silt washed down from the furthest upper reaches of the river of time.
"Ooh..."
Azhar let out a soft gasp as the white light gently lifted her, her feet floating several inches off the stage.
As the notebook opened fully, countless fragments of light and shadow began to rise within the desolate glow.
Blurry images surfaced like bubbles from the depths of a memory pool, flashing briefly across the surface before shattering before everyone's eyes. They were echoes of history, cross-sections of memory.
Someone saw the Golden Hall in Vienna a century ago, the conductor's hair flying wildly as his baton slashed through the air.
Someone saw the Woodstock festival, hippies embracing in the mud while a battered acoustic guitar played.
Someone else saw the eve of the Great Eruption—an unnamed singer in a dingy dive bar, rasping out one final love song.
Every single image was what each individual in the audience considered the "greatest" performance they had ever witnessed.
These fragments wove together, forming a dazzling, kaleidoscopic galaxy of music and memory.
"Whoa..."
The scene was dreamlike. Everyone was seeing their absolute favorite concert moments—performances that were already completely tailored to their tastes, now subjected to an extra layer of nostalgic idealization until they were utterly flawless.
But the Book of Akashic Records didn't stop there.
It was still sifting. Still searching.
It was searching for the true ultimate performance—one buried deep in history, rooted in the memories of the past.
Suddenly, the white light rapidly contracted. All the fragmented images collapsed inward, compressing into a single point.
Then, the picture froze.
The rowdy, chaotic stadium fell into instantaneous, suffocating silence.
What was projected before the crowd was no longer a grand concert hall or a euphoric festival.
It was a dead, silent arena.
The sky was a heavy, leaden gray. Stagnant elevated highways coiled over the ruined city like massive, decaying serpents.
This was Sapphire City. Or, more accurately, the ruins of Sapphire City, exactly one month after the Great Eruption had baptized it in destruction.
And at the dead center of the projection stood the city's iconic landmark—the Pearl of the Sea (Sapphire City).
The largest performance venue in Sapphire City was now so quiet it felt as if it could swallow the souls of anyone who approached.
The massive glass dome was coated in thick dust, dim and lifeless, like an injured eye staring blankly up at the heavens.
"Is this..." In the waiting room, Kiana raised a hand to her mouth in sheer disbelief.
"Impossible..." Bronya's pupils quaked slightly. The figure emerging within the projection was simply too shocking.
"Is it really... her?" Mei whispered softly, equally doubting her own eyes.
They all thought they must be hallucinating.
But... that silhouette was unmistakable!
It was the ultimate idol, the greatest phantom of the music world—the one who willingly chose to be buried in the past alongside the golden age of humanity!
"Yo... hello, everyone."
Shu's half-lidded eyes snapped wide open. His brain, which had just deactivated its thought-acceleration, instantly redlined into a catastrophic meltdown.
The sheer volume of chaotic thoughts crashing into his mind in that split second was enough sensory overload to trap him in the Prison Realm a hundred times over.
Is that... Yun Mengxi?
Is this a resurrection? Or is it that reality-replacement trick the Herrscher of the Past pulled off in Sicily?
No... it's neither of those...
Before he could finish the thought, Shu instinctively moved to intervene.
Yun Mengxi was more than just a singer, more than just an idol... She was the Herrscher of the Past. Aside from himself, she was the only Herrscher in this civilization who had been genuinely, inherently friendly toward humanity.
Sure, the things she did ultimately caused a massive headache, but...
It was still Yun Mengxi.
Yet, just as Shu raised his hand, his hyper-accelerated brain vetoed the conclusion.
No... that's not Yun Mengxi.
It was merely a Mandela Effect construct—an entity formed by aggregating everyone's collective memories and impressions of her.
Exactly the same kind of being as Depascal herself.