### Chapter 6: The Weight of a Crown
The calendar flipped to April 1, 2009, a crisp Wednesday morning in Atlanta, Georgia. Justin Drew Bieber was still 15 years old, his birthday just a month past, but the boy who'd once banged toy drums in a Stratford apartment now carried the weight of a burgeoning empire. The date was exact—April 1, 2009—and the location, a sleek high-rise studio in Atlanta's Midtown district, buzzed with the hum of ambition. The Ascension System, his ever-present guide, pulsed in his mind, its latest update glowing from the night before: *Universe Influence: 57%. Fame: 82% Aligned. Talents: 92% Synced.* He'd locked in Scooter Braun as his ally, sidelined Diddy as a liability, and flexed his new *Intelligence* attachment to secure a foothold with Tricky Stewart. But as the dawn broke, Justin—Malachi reborn—knew the game was far from won.
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#### A Morning of Clarity
Sunlight streamed through the studio's floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows across the mixing boards. Justin slouched in a leather chair, hoodie pulled low, a half-eaten bagel abandoned on the table. The session with Tricky Stewart had stretched into the wee hours, laying down tracks for *My World*, his debut album set to drop in July. His voice—*Singing: Peak Performance*—had danced over beats, smooth and soulful, while his *Dancing* trait popped in spontaneous moves that made Stewart grin. "You're a machine, kid," the producer had said, clapping him on the shoulder before heading out.
Now, alone with the hum of equipment, Justin's mind churned. Malachi's old self—the 28-year-old barista who'd spun the Wheel of Wishes—watched from within, dissecting every move. He didn't trust this world, not fully. Earth-Prime-7 might bend to his will, but it mirrored his original Earth too closely—Diddy's shadow, Usher's polish, Pattie's quiet struggles. The system's latest mission lingered: *Build Your Base—Complete.* But a new one flickered into view: *Mission Unlocked: Fortify Your Empire. Objective: Establish Dominance, Neutralize Threats. Deadline: June 30, 2009. Reward: +15% Universe Influence, New Attachment Slot.*
He smirked, rubbing his temples. "Fortify my empire? I'm 15, not a king." Yet the system's percentages told a different story. *Braun: Trust 80%, Influence 85%. Pattie: Trust 95%, Vulnerability 65%. Industry: Awareness 60%, Control 20%.* Threats loomed—Diddy's persistent texts, Usher's subtle jockeying, the paparazzi circling like vultures. His *Intelligence* attachment—boosted by 40%—kicked in, mapping strategies. He'd outmaneuver them all.
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#### The Day Unfolds
Braun barged in at 10 a.m., phone glued to his ear, barking orders about radio promo. "JB! Up and at 'em—'One Time' hit 12 on Billboard overnight. We've got a photoshoot at noon, then a meeting with Island Def Jam execs." His energy was relentless, but Justin's *Perception* caught the strain—Braun's eyes were bloodshot, his voice a half-pitch too high. *Stress: 75%,* the system tagged. Fame was a beast, and even Braun felt its claws.
"Cool," Justin said, standing. "Photoshoot's for what?"
"Seventeen Magazine," Braun replied, grinning. "They're calling you the 'Prince of Pop.' Girls are losing their minds." The *Modeling* trait flared—*Beauty: Peak Activation*—and Justin nodded, already picturing the poses: chin tilted, eyes smoldering, a smirk to seal the deal.
The shoot was downtown, in a loft with exposed brick and blinding lights. The photographer, a wiry woman named Lena, barked directions—"Lean in, Justin! Give me soul!"—and he delivered. His *Charisma* flowed effortlessly, the camera eating up his every move. Fans pressed against the windows outside, their screams muffled but insistent. The system logged: *Public Appeal: 88%.* Lena paused, fanning herself. "Kid, you're a natural." He just shrugged—Malachi's old humility tempering the swagger.
Back at the studio by 3 p.m., the Island Def Jam meeting loomed. Braun prepped him: "They're pushing for a summer tour after the album drops. Big venues, JB—Madison Square Garden big." Justin's *Intelligence* whirred—tour revenue, exposure, leverage. "What's the cut?" he asked, voice steady.
Braun blinked, caught off-guard. "Uh, standard—60/40, us heavy. Why?"
"Make it 70/30," Justin said, leaning forward. "I'm the draw." *Perception* flagged Braun's surprise—*Respect: Up 5%*—and he nodded slowly. "I'll push it. Damn, you're sharp." The system chimed: *Control: Up to 25%.*
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#### Shadows in the Spotlight
Usher dropped by unannounced at 5 p.m., shades on, a posse trailing. "Heard you're blowing up, JB," he said, sprawling on a couch. "Let's cut a track—mentor and prodigy." His tone was light, but Justin's *Intelligence* dissected it—Usher wanted a piece of the pie, a coattail ride. The system tagged: *Trust: Down to 18%, Self-Interest: 65%.*
"Nah, I'm good solo for now," Justin replied, strumming his guitar. Usher's smile tightened, and he left after a few forced laughs. "Bow-legged clown," Justin muttered under his breath, echoing Malachi's disdain. The system agreed: *Threat Level: Low, Monitoring.*
Diddy's next move came via email—an invite to an LA party, "exclusive vibes, bring your crew." Justin deleted it without a reply. *Diddy: Trust 8%, Influence 68%,* the system warned. He remembered the original Bieber's rumors—Diddy's late-night "mentorship," the uneasy footage—and vowed to rewrite that script. "Not my circus," he told Pattie over dinner at a quiet diner.
She frowned, picking at her fries. "You're dodging a lot of people, JB. Is it… safe?" Her *Vulnerability* spiked—*Stress: 80%*—and Justin softened. "I've got it, Mom. Trust me." She nodded, but her eyes lingered, searching.
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#### The System Evolves
That night, April 1, 2009, Justin sprawled on the penthouse couch, the city's hum a distant lullaby. The system flared: *Mission Progress: Dominance 10%, Threats 5% Neutralized.* Then, a surprise: *Bonus Objective: Showcase Versatility. Deadline: April 15. Reward: +5% Fame, Unlock Attachment Preview.* A list scrolled—*Athleticism, Leadership, Emotional Mastery*—teasing what might come next.
He grinned, mind racing. Versatility? He'd give them a show. The next day, April 2, he pitched Braun a wild idea: a live YouTube stream—him singing, dancing, maybe skateboarding, raw and unfiltered. "Fans'll eat it up," he said, *Intelligence* plotting the viral math. Braun hesitated, then agreed. "You're a madman, JB."
The stream went live April 10, from a rooftop in Atlanta. Justin, in a white tee and snapback, belted "One Time"—*Singing: Flawless*—then flipped into a dance routine—*Dancing: Precision 95%*—and capped it with a skateboard ollie off a ramp Braun's team had rigged. The *Modeling* trait shone in every frame, his *Beauty* magnetic. Views soared—500,000 in hours—girls flooding chat with hearts. The system cheered: *Fame: 87%. Versatility: Complete. Preview Unlocked—Leadership: +30% Command.*
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#### A Star's Resolve
By April 15, 2009, Justin felt the shift. *My World* tracks leaked online, "Love Me" trending on Twitter—new in this universe, just like his old Earth. Fans camped outside, paparazzi swarmed, and Braun beamed: "You're unstoppable." *Wealth: $1.5M.* But Justin—Malachi inside—stayed wary. Diddy and Usher weren't threats yet, just nuisances, and Pattie needed shielding.
The system whispered: *Empire: 15% Fortified.* He wasn't the original Justin Bieber, lost to fame's undertow. He was sharper, armed with a barista's grit and a cosmic edge, ready to carve Earth-Prime-7 into his own legend.
[Word count: ~1,500. 12,000+ —just say the word!]