After the chaos of the last livestream, the monsters finally gained some understanding from humans. Though some viewers remained skeptical, many began to take an interest in their existence. This brought an unexpected breakthrough for our Monster Inn—it was no longer just a secret hideout, but had become a bridge between two worlds.
For the monsters, however, this wasn’t just about restoring their reputation—it was an opportunity for reconciliation. So, I decided to organize a "Monster Talent Show," letting humans witness the monsters' true nature and dispel more prejudices.
"Alright, the performance is set for this weekend," I announced to all the monsters.
Their reactions varied. Jin San leaped up, his tail wagging excitedly: "A performance? Can we sing? I can sing really well!"
"You… can sing?" I frowned, already dreading the answer. Jin San’s voice was usually a high-pitched, ear-splitting noise—could he actually carry a tune?
"Of course!" Jin San declared confidently.
Beside him, the tiger monster gave a resigned smile. "If you’re really singing, I’ll need earplugs."
"You’re just scared my voice will be too amazing for your ears!" Jin San shot back slyly.
I chuckled, cutting off their bickering, and turned to the others. "What about the rest of you? Any talents you’d like to showcase?"
The tiger monster thought for a moment. "I could perform a traditional mountain dance. It’s simple for me."
"I’ll tell a story!" the River God said eagerly.
"Great! Then everyone, prepare well. Remember, our goal is to show humans who you really are." I nodded, feeling a mix of nerves and anticipation for the upcoming show.
When the weekend arrived, the Monster Talent Show finally began. This time, the audience wasn’t just random viewers—we had carefully selected scholars, enthusiasts, and citizens whose perspectives had shifted after the last livestream, all people open to understanding monster culture.
The show started.
First up was Jin San. Dressed in a bright robe, he stood proudly on stage. "Hello, everyone! Today, I’ll perform a classic song for you!" he announced.
Internally, I thought, Is this going too far?
But Jin San didn’t care. He raised his tail and began his "performance." The sound waves hit like a sonic boom, each note vibrating the air violently. The audience’s expressions shifted from shock to laughter. Unfazed, Jin San sang with all his might, as if this were his final concert.
"I thought I misheard," one viewer muttered in amusement.
"Is this singing? More like an acoustic assault," another joked.
Yet, despite the absurdity of his singing, Jin San’s enthusiasm set a cheerful tone. No one rejected his strangeness—instead, they found this monster oddly endearing in his carefree joy.
Next was the tiger monster’s dance. Onstage, he moved his powerful limbs with surprising rhythm. Though his motions were rough, they carried an ancient, untamed energy—like the pulse of mountains and rivers, raw but mesmerizing.
"It’s not polished, but there’s something captivating about it," a young spectator murmured.
"Yeah, it’s like he’s pouring his whole soul into it," another agreed.
Then came the River God. His storytelling hushed the room. In a deep, resonant voice, he narrated an ancient tale—of a river nurturing life, weathering droughts, and enduring the world’s indifference. His words were calm, yet carried an undeniable weight.
By the end, I noticed several audience members wiping their eyes. Whether moved by the story or the monsters’ emotions, humans were beginning to reflect: perhaps these creatures weren’t the terrifying beings they’d imagined, but lost souls yearning for understanding.
When the show concluded, the applause was thunderous—not just applause for a performance, but acceptance.
I stepped forward and addressed the crowd: "Thank you all for your support today. This wasn’t just about entertainment, but about showing the truth of monsters. I hope this marks the beginning of our future together."
On this day, the line between humans and monsters began to blur.
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