With Chopin’s skill, Eric Carter could easily switch from the entertainment industry to the classical music world, follow in the footsteps of Lang Lang on Earth, become a revered pianist, pay off his debts, and reach the pinnacle of life—wouldn’t that be a breeze?

The key is that pianists have a higher status.

“It’s decided, it’ll be you!” Eric Carter mentally drew lots for the blind box most fated to him.

The blind box slowly opened, its patterns clearly visible. Eric Carter felt he could hear his own breathing, golden light shining within.

It was a golden legend: [Perfect Singing Voice (Non-Lyrics)]

“Ah, well…” Eric Carter experienced a brief moment of disappointment but quickly adjusted his mindset—it was compensation, after all.

He muttered, “I’ll let it go this time. Next time for sure, next time I’ll definitely draw a special grand prize.”

The prize turned into a white rainbow and merged into Eric Carter’s body. His throat felt itchy; it seemed unchanged, yet somehow different, though he couldn’t quite say how.

“Perfect singing voice is easy to understand, but what does ‘non-lyrics’ mean?” Eric Carter noticed the content in parentheses.

The system replied: [Please explore independently, Host.]

“So mysterious, everything needs to be explored.”

After half an hour of trying, Eric Carter roughly understood the prize.

The original body’s vocal quality and voice were all average, lacking any ear-catching traits—now, that had changed.

The reward’s definition of ‘non-lyrics’ was: as long as it’s not complete lyric words, he could produce a heavenly voice. For example, the “di di di di di da da” chorus in “Once You,” or Mao Buyi’s whistling, etc.

“This definition of non-lyrics is kind of interesting.” Whether it’s reasonable or not doesn’t matter—the system’s rules are set, so there’s no point debating their logic.

“What key is the song ‘Tan Te’ in again? That song has no lyrics at all, so I should be able to perform the whole thing with a heavenly voice.”

Even though Eric Carter liked listening to music before transmigrating, always wearing headphones on the subway, he really couldn’t write out a whole song from memory—not even his favorites, just hum a few lines at most.

“Even if it’s a hellish start, there’s still hope for a comeback.” Eric Carter breathed a sigh of relief.

Chapter 3: Looking for Opportunities

Only now did Eric Carter have a moment to spare. He looked around—the place he lived in was a more than 200-square-meter house in Magic City, decorated in a Nordic style, with a constellation crystal chandelier on the ceiling and a sloped indoor platform built with raised beams.

Looking down, the paintings, display cabinets, and corner exhibits in the house were all expensive. According to his memory, the triangular and irregularly shaped coffee table right in front of Eric Carter’s sofa was ninety percent steep, only enough to hold a teacup—more symbolic than practical, and sold for 118,000.

“The sofa is from Germany’s Usit, paired with black, white, and gray lines. Back in my original life, even at my peak, I made a lot of money, but I couldn’t bear to buy this.”

Behind the artistic coffee table was where the living room TV wall should be, but it had been hollowed out for a display cabinet, holding trophies and certificates: “iQIYI 2018 Scream Night Annual New Singer,” “Douyin Star Night Annual Hot List Star,” “Weibo Night 2019 Most Influential Artist,” and so on—awards only top-tier celebrities could reach.

To the left of the living room was a professional singing practice room, barely used. After becoming famous, his schedule was calculated in half-hour slots; planes and nanny vans were his real home.

Overall, it was a great place, but unfortunately about to be sold. Eric Carter understood that the bank was preparing to auction off this house to pay off debts.

Eric Carter went to the storage room to get a broom and mop to clean up the vomit from earlier. He admired the original owner a bit—even after deciding to commit suicide, and during the period of depression before that, the house was kept very tidy, with takeout boxes and trash neatly packed.

Familiar with all these things, Eric Carter found a brief suicide note in the phone’s memo—

[Sorry, I feel like I can’t hold on anymore. Sorry, sorry. I was not kept by anyone, I’m not secretly married, please believe me, I beg you.]

It was left for the main agent, Ms. Grant. The original’s parents were public servants who died in the line of duty when he was ten. He grew up with his grandfather, who passed away last year in the hospital from liver cancer. The original’s suicide was due to the despair of being abandoned by the agency, and also the helplessness of having no family to rely on.

“Capital destroys people tirelessly—it kills without blood, and even legal accountability is hard.” Eric Carter silently recited in his heart, then made a rough plan: reporting the rumor-mongers to the police was one aspect; the other was to get back everything that was lost.

First, he needed to obtain two personality coins and draw another reward as a trump card. According to the system’s list, eating spicy food and being hungover could be completed.

Next, he needed an opportunity to appear in public—not an interview, since he was currently mute, and no media or newspaper would want to hear him speak.

He had to return to the public eye, or else everything was just empty talk.

“Finally, if you don’t kill the tiger, it’ll come back to bite you. I still need to watch out for Dahua Company. If I were the mastermind behind this incident, I’d keep suppressing and attacking until the original owner could never make a comeback.” Eric Carter’s situation was like being stuck in a quagmire, with wolves ahead and tigers behind—standing still meant death, but moving might mean dying even faster.

[Sorry, bro, I can’t help you with this.]

[Well, if there’s a chance to work together next time, please don’t mess with me. I’m just a program director trying to support my family. The station chief will kill me.]

[You should lay low for a while and let this blow over. The internet has no memory—come back out when the time is right.]

…