Chapter One
The body lay in perfect repose on the Victorian fainting couch, looking more like a sleeping beauty than a victim. Detective Sarah Chen had seen enough death in her ten years with the Metropolitan Police's Special Cases Unit to know that natural death never looked this peaceful. Something was very, very wrong.
'No signs of struggle, no marks on the body, and yet...' She leaned closer, studying the victim's face. Charlotte Mills, aged 28, was found by her roommate this morning, apparently having passed away in her sleep. Her expression was serene, almost blissful, but her eyes - those were what caught Sarah's attention. Behind the closed lids, her eyes were moving rapidly, as if still deep in REM sleep.
"You see it too, don't you?" The voice came from behind her, rich and cultured with a slight Irish lilt. "She's still dreaming."
Sarah turned to find a tall man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit standing in the doorway. He hadn't been there a moment ago, she was certain of it. His dark hair was streaked with silver at the temples, and his eyes were an unusual shade of amber that seemed to shift color in the light.
"This is a closed crime scene," she said firmly, her hand instinctively moving toward her weapon. "How did you get in here?"
He smiled, but it didn't reach those strange eyes. "Dr. Marcus Thorne," he said, pulling out a card that somehow both looked official and seemed to shimmer slightly. "I'm a consulting specialist with the Department's new Oneiric Phenomena Division."
"The what division?" Sarah frowned, taking the card. The moment her fingers touched it, she felt a slight electric tingle, and the letters seemed to rearrange themselves before her eyes.
"Dreams, Detective Chen. We investigate crimes involving dreams." He moved into the room with fluid grace, his attention fixed on the victim. "And this is the third one this month."
Sarah's mind raced. There had been two other deaths recently - both young women, both found peacefully dead in their sleep. She'd seen the reports but hadn't made the connection until now. "How do you know about those cases?"
"Because I've been tracking the killer for quite some time." Thorne knelt beside the body, his eyes now definitely more gold than amber. "He's what we call a Dream Collector - someone who has learned to enter and steal dreams. But this one has developed a taste for more than just dreams. He's taking souls."
Under normal circumstances, Sarah would have dismissed such talk as nonsense. But there was something about the scene, about the victim's still-moving eyes, about Thorne himself, that made the impossible seem suddenly plausible.
"If you're tracking him," she said carefully, "why haven't you caught him?"
Thorne's expression darkened. "Because he only appears in dreams. The physical world is my domain, but his... his is the realm of sleep. To catch him, we need someone who can walk between both worlds." He turned those unsettling eyes on her. "Someone like you."
"Me?" Sarah almost laughed, but the sound died in her throat as memories she'd long suppressed began to surface. The dreams that felt too real, the nights she'd awakened to find objects moved in her room, the way she sometimes knew things she couldn't possibly know...
"You've always known you were different, haven't you, Detective?" Thorne's voice was gentle now. "The dreams that come true, the hunches that turn out to be right, the way you can sometimes see how people died just by touching objects they owned..."
Sarah took an involuntary step back. "How do you know about that?"
"Because I've been looking for someone like you. A Natural - someone born with the ability to cross the threshold between waking and dreaming." He gestured to the victim. "Charlotte here won't be his last. There will be others, and their souls will remain trapped in an eternal dream unless we stop him."
Just then, the victim's hand twitched, her fingers moving as if writing something. Sarah moved closer, watching as invisible words were traced in the air. Thorne pulled out what looked like an antique monocle and held it up. Through its lens, golden letters shimmered in the air where Charlotte's fingers moved.
"Help me," Thorne read aloud. "He's coming for the others."
Sarah felt a chill run down her spine. She looked at the victim's peaceful face, at those restlessly moving eyes, and made a decision that would change her life forever.
"Tell me what I need to do."
Thorne's smile was grim. "First, you need to learn to control your abilities. Then..." he held up the monocle, through which Sarah could now see strange symbols glowing all around the room, "you need to learn to hunt in dreams."
Outside the Victorian townhouse, storm clouds gathered, and Sarah Chen, homicide detective and newly discovered dream walker, took her first step into a world where nightmares were real, and death was just another kind of sleep.
Chapter Two
The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.
"The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."
The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.
"Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.
"Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."
The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.
"Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."
Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.
"Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."
"What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.
"A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."
"And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.
"He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."
Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.
"He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."
The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.
"Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."
Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.
"He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."
As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.
Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."
"What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"
Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.
"He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"
Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"
"If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."
As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.
The hunt was about to begin.
Chapter Two
The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.
"The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."
The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.
"Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.
"Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."
The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.
"Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."
Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.
"Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."
"What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.
"A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."
"And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.
"He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."
Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.
"He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."
The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.
"Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."
Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.
"He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."
As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.
Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."
"What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"
Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.
"He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"
Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"
"If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."
As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.
The hunt was about to begin.
Chapter Three
They arrived at St. Bartholomew's Hospital just as the emergency lights began to flash. Sarah followed Thorne through corridors that seemed to blur at the edges of her vision, her new badge somehow clearing their path without ever being shown.
"Room 307," Thorne said, his voice tight with urgency. "Young male, admitted for minor surgery, slipped into an unusual coma during recovery."
The patient, David Parker, age 23, lay perfectly still on his hospital bed, his eyes moving rapidly beneath closed lids. Just like Charlotte Mills. But this time, something was different - the air around him rippled like heat waves over hot asphalt.
"He's still in the process of taking him," Thorne said, pulling out what looked like an antique pocket watch. "We can follow if we're quick. Are you ready for your first dream dive?"
Sarah's heart pounded. "What do I need to do?"
"Take my hand. Focus on the patient. Let your consciousness slip between the moments of reality." Thorne's eyes began to glow that strange amber color. "And whatever you see in there, remember - dream logic is real logic in that world."
Sarah grasped Thorne's hand and looked at David Parker. The world tilted, twisted, and suddenly...
They were standing in a hospital corridor that wasn't quite right. The walls breathed slowly, the floor was made of flowing water that somehow supported their weight, and the ceiling was a swirling mass of constellation maps.
"His dreamscape," Thorne explained, his voice echoing strangely. "Every dreamer creates their own reality. Look."
Down the impossible corridor, a figure in a doctor's coat was leading David Parker by the hand. But the 'doctor' was wrong - his shadow moved independently, reaching out with grasping tendrils towards other dreams that floated past like soap bubbles.
"The Dream Collector," Sarah whispered.
As if hearing his name, the figure turned. Sarah's breath caught. His face was a beautiful mask of shifting features, never settling on one form, but his eyes... his eyes were endless pits of swirling dreams.
"Ah, the new dreamer," his voice was like silk over broken glass. "And my old friend Marcus. Still trying to police the dream worlds?"
Thorne stepped forward, and Sarah noticed his appearance had changed in the dream. His suit was now made of living shadows, and wings of dark light stretched from his shoulders. "Let him go, Collector. You've taken enough souls."
The Collector laughed, the sound causing the hospital walls to crack, leaking golden dream-light. "Taken? Oh, Marcus, you still don't understand. They give themselves to me. Show her, David."
The young man turned, and Sarah saw his eyes were glassy with bliss. "It's beautiful here," he said dreamily. "All my pain is gone. All my fears. He takes them all away."
"By taking everything you are," Sarah found herself saying. She took a step forward, instinctively reaching for her police badge. In the dream, it transformed into a shield of pure light. "David, this isn't real healing. It's theft."
The Collector's face rippled with anger. "You dare interrupt my collection?" The corridor began to twist, reality bending around them. "Let me show you what happens to those who interfere with my work."
Suddenly, the floor beneath Sarah liquefied completely. She started to sink, but instead of water, she was drowning in dreams - thousands of them, each containing a fragment of someone's stolen soul. She saw Charlotte Mills dancing endlessly in a ballroom of mirrors, saw other victims trapped in perfect moments that had become eternal prisons.
"Sarah!" Thorne's voice cut through the chaos. "Remember - dream logic! Make your own rules!"
Dream logic. Sarah closed her eyes, focusing on her years of police work, of protecting people, of solving puzzles. When she opened them, her badge-shield had transformed into a sword of pure thought.
With a cry, she slashed through the dream-flood. Reality reasserted itself - or at least, this dream's version of reality. She stood on solid ground again, facing the Collector.
"Impressive," he purred, but she sensed uncertainty in his voice. "You're stronger than the usual dreamers Marcus recruits. Perhaps we could make a deal..."
"No deals," Sarah said firmly. She could feel her power growing, reshaping the dream around them. "David, look at what he really is. Look with your heart, not your fears."
For a moment, David's eyes cleared. The Collector's beautiful mask slipped, revealing something ancient and hungry beneath. David screamed, pulling away from the creature's grasp.
The Collector snarled, his form shifting into something monstrous. "If I can't have him willingly..." Shadows exploded from his body, reaching for David.
What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion. Thorne spread his dark wings, shielding David. Sarah's sword of thought became a net of light, trapping some of the shadows. But the Collector himself simply... stepped sideways, vanishing into a door that appeared in the air.
"Sweet dreams, detectives," his voice lingered behind. "We'll meet again soon. After all, Sarah, your dreams are particularly... appetizing."
The dreamscape began to dissolve. Sarah felt Thorne grab her arm, pulling her back through layers of reality. Then...
They were standing in the hospital room again. David Parker was awake, gasping, but alive and whole. A nurse was rushing in, responding to his sudden revival.
"We saved one," Thorne said quietly. "But he'll be angry now. And he'll come for you."
Sarah touched her badge, still feeling echoes of its dream-power. "Good," she said grimly. "Because I have some questions for him about Charlotte Mills. And about what you really are, Marcus Thorne."
Thorne's expression was unreadable. "All in time, Detective. For now, you need to rest. Tomorrow, your real training begins."
As they left the hospital, Sarah could have sworn she saw her shadow move independently, reaching for dreams that floated just beyond the edge of sight. The world would never look quite the same again.
Chapter Four
Sarah's apartment looked different when she returned that night. The shadows seemed deeper, more alive, and ordinary objects cast reflections that didn't quite match reality. The dreamcatcher Thorne had given her pulsed softly in her pocket, responding to the changed way she now saw the world.
She was exhausted but afraid to sleep. The Collector's words echoed in her mind: 'Your dreams are particularly appetizing.' Instead, she spread her case files across the coffee table - photographs of Charlotte Mills, the other victims, and now David Parker's medical records.
A soft chime from her badge interrupted her concentration. The metal had grown warm, and when she touched it, words appeared in that strange shifting script: 'Archive. Now. Emergency.'
The museum was different at night. Sarah's new badge led her through doors that hadn't existed during her first visit, down stairs that seemed to descend far deeper than the building's foundation should allow. She found Thorne in a circular room she hadn't seen before, surrounded by floating screens of light that showed various dreamscapes.
"We have a problem," he said without preamble. "The Collector's attack pattern has changed. Look."
The screens shifted, showing a map of the city overlaid with points of light. "Each light is a dreamer," Thorne explained. "The blue ones are normal dreams. The red..." He gestured, and several dots pulsed an angry crimson. "Those are nightmares being actively shaped by outside forces."
"He's attacking multiple targets at once?"
"No." Thorne's expression was grim. "He's leaving traps. Dream-snares. Anyone who falls asleep in these areas risks being pulled into a constructed nightmare. He's trying to overwhelm our ability to respond."
Sarah studied the pattern of red dots. "They're forming a shape... a symbol?"
"A summoning circle." A new voice joined them. Sarah turned to see an elderly woman emerging from what appeared to be a door made of starlight. Her eyes were milk-white, but she moved with absolute certainty.
"Sarah, meet Dr. Eleanor Price, the Archive's keeper," Thorne said. "And yes, she's blind in the waking world, but in dreams..."
"I see everything," Eleanor finished. Her unseeing eyes fixed on Sarah with uncomfortable accuracy. "Including what our friend the Collector is truly planning. He's not just taking souls anymore. He's building toward something larger."
She gestured, and the room transformed around them. They were suddenly standing in what looked like a vast library, but the books were made of dreams, their pages flowing like liquid memory.
"Every dream ever archived is stored here," Eleanor explained. "Including the oldest nightmares of humanity. The Collector isn't just a thief - he's trying to wake something that should stay sleeping. Something we locked away centuries ago."
She pulled a book from the shelf, and its pages burst open, projecting a scene of ancient horror - a time when the boundary between dreams and reality was thinner, when nightmares could walk in daylight.
"The Last Nightmare," Thorne said softly. "We thought it was safely contained, but if he completes that summoning circle..."
A sudden tremor ran through the Archive. One of the red dots on the map had grown larger, pulsing violently.
"He's starting," Eleanor's voice was urgent. "Sarah, you need to see something before you face this." She pressed her fingers to Sarah's forehead, and suddenly...
She was in a memory. A younger Thorne stood with a woman who looked remarkably like Sarah herself, facing down a shadow that threatened to devour the world. The woman - another dream detective? - sacrificed herself to help seal away the nightmare.
"Your mother," Eleanor's voice echoed in her mind. "She was one of us. Her sacrifice helped lock away the Last Nightmare, but the Collector has never stopped trying to free it. And now he's found you - her daughter, with her power."
The vision ended abruptly as another tremor shook the Archive. More red dots were pulsing on the map.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Sarah demanded, turning to Thorne.
"Because I promised her I'd keep you away from this life," he replied, pain evident in his voice. "But now the Collector knows who you are, and we're running out of time."
"The summoning circle will be complete at the next new moon," Eleanor added. "Three days from now. If the Last Nightmare wakes..."
"Then we stop him before that happens," Sarah said firmly, though her mind was reeling from the revelations. "How do we break these dream-snares?"
"It's dangerous," Thorne warned. "Each one is a trap designed specifically for dream walkers. If you're caught..."
"Then you'll just have to watch my back," Sarah said. She touched her badge, feeling its power respond. "Where do we start?"
Eleanor smiled, her blind eyes somehow twinkling. "First, you need to understand what you truly inherited from your mother. It's time you learned about the true history of the dream walkers - and why the Collector fears your bloodline above all others."
As if in response to Eleanor's words, the books around them began to glow, their pages rustling with the weight of secrets about to be revealed. In the map above, the red dots pulsed like a countdown to catastrophe, and Sarah realized she had less than three days to master powers she never knew she had.
The true game was about to begin.
1
Jason Parker awoke in a daze, feeling weak all over, his muscles aching and unable to move at all.
He struggled to open his eyes, and the first thing that caught his eye was a pure white ceiling. Barely lifting his head to look around, he realized he was lying in a hospital room with a young man sitting next to him, seemingly dozing off with an unfamiliar face.
"What was I doing before?" He mumbled in his mind, his brow furrowing slightly, and then he closed his eyes again, trying to recall. Then a wave of memories flooded his mind like a tidal wave.
AjfJter a lwh,il.e!, _JxasoCn reOatlÉitzedq hÉi*s ÉcuGrrqenltl gsituéaAtPioRn:k xhez h)adT cQrGo&sNsmedA IouvqerH. ThLeb oriJgiRnal uboGdy( wasK qalUs)o CnaIm$edf gJbas*ofn _Padrkger,c I1É9 yMeharsk oldV,b a soYpgh^omóore, in 'tfhheF mcomp&ousGiRtifon 'dtepaIrdtLmentI ZoQf_ JVfalst UVnZiJverrs$ipty.
As for why he was hospitalized, it all had to start from ten days ago.
Ten days ago, that is, on July 5th, 2021 in the parallel world, Jason and his Father, who had just finished summer vacation, were on their way home when they were hit by a speeding sports car. In order to protect him, Father was killed instantly and Jason was hospitalized with a shattered right leg, while the perpetrator escaped.
The scene was remote and there were no witnesses at all. Although the surveillance camera captured the entire process of the crash, the perpetrator did get out of the car after the impact to check, but the camera due to the distance, can only vaguely see the car, and I do not know whether it is intentional or unintentional, the perpetrator was heavily armed, face and head are covered.
C)lupesF weórfe^ sc&aqrce ianidG t*he pWolciKce OmNadce fnMo prDogrAeCsPs fIor sOevPerhaNl dJa(ysY.K
Until he woke up on the fourth day, he suddenly heard a familiar melody. It was a piece he was preparing for a songwriting competition, and the book in which the tune was recorded had been picked up by the perpetrator at the scene of the crash.
Unbelievably, the perpetrator was so reckless as to blatantly steal his work and publish it, Jason was so enraged that he immediately asked Little Girl, who was in the same hospital room, for information about the song.
Little Girl was about 16 or 17 years old, with two dimples on her round face, and smiled happily when she heard his inquiry: "This is a song from Ethan Mitchell's latest album called 'Give You Everything', which he wrote the lyrics to himself, and it's really good!"
EthZanP dMWiMtche'lhl,K óthKe pfoCpHulXaRr DfrevshmanM who mcadbe hmisv deabuCt Uignx aa t^alePnntY bsXhowg, zhad 'rneleawsed _a flerwa AsinÉgles Psikniceé his debu&td,D bXut, wa_sé oCftceKn ridicbuSlReXd bCy' th^e pkass.eQrms-vbéy ,afs us.ocmethSingó OthpaDt "dNoHgsS dwoln^'t yeveNnu Tlistje(nx tZo"a.
Jason couldn't believe that in a world where copyrights are well protected and plagiarism is absolutely intolerable, Ethan Mitchell would have the audacity to steal his work so blatantly.
He immediately took out his cell phone and contacted the police officer handling his case to inform him of this discovery. His heart was so excited that it almost burned with hope, as if he had finally found the murderer and was able to bring him to justice. He secretly vowed never to forgive this shameless executioner and to make sure he was duly punished.
Unfortunately, the Police's response was like a pot of cold water. The same reason - he lacked evidence!
TKhsetre twasH Ano _pr_oof) tbh^aCt Xthae VsóotngN ,wasn LhiésA o*rHiÉg'intal,A n(oCrx Dhadw heó reghiSsteyrzedI t!hZe &coUpsyr(iighhctq, notr huadA heg sóhown qiWt to woétAheNrsM.T BD&ue yto fa*mi)lyN rxeasonbs!,t J*as_oénO g)rZe.w upj as gan iLnjtro_vFertts withw aZ vreDry )smXadlnlY Msoci^al ciDrVclóe, (anFdé PwrMittingf Osqocng$sx iwwaps mIainylyó Odone uizn* LpricvTautel, rwRithioyut eveGnn bbeingU toUl,da ÉbÉy) hiWs fatfhver*.
In addition, there is no evidence that the car involved in the accident belonged to Ethan Mitchell. Even if the police found the car, even if it was registered in Ethan's name, he could still claim that he lent it to a friend or gave it to a staff member for repairs, or even said that the car had been stolen, and he could easily get away with it.
The officer in charge reassured Jason that he would help him find the evidence as soon as possible and let him recuperate. But then for a week he lay in his hospital bed, his cell phone constantly searching for news about Ethan.
Ethan's album was a big seller, the song "Give You All" was a hit on the internet, and netizens had changed their minds about Ethan, even the music critics didn't take a shot at him this time, and many thought that he was going to have a big career in the music industry.
H!iNsl ftaVnsz rUeJjoiXced, iwilt)hM scaomWments kovf ópraise apFourisngn MiJn.Q H*o!wJeverH, TtWhue ónDewRs JasVonz pwasp ebxYpeBctiqngz Gto xsKee bca*mAe Mto xnVothKinngw.S
That is, until he saw a statement released by Ethan Mitchell's studio to the effect that "Give You All" was independently written and copyrighted by Ethan, warning those black fans that defamation was an offense, and asking those with evidence to provide it as soon as possible.
The comments section was overwhelmingly supportive, full of scribbled messages like, "Who's slandering people without evidence?" , "There will always be people who can't see the good in others." "Doesn't anyone know it's against the law to spread rumors?"
Outraged, Jason logged into his social accounts and posted several rebuttals on Ethan's Twitter account:
"UPeXopFl.e ÉdOou *wphat t,heZy dgo,Z aÉnd t*hge heaMvJenvsR léopokh foOn.s"
"The sky is the limit."
"You executioner!"
He was apparently mobbed by Ethan's fans, and some of the vitriol was actually unlike anything he'd ever seen in his life: "Death to the whole family for rumor-mongering." "Do your mom and dad know you have this face?" "Get a good education before you come back."
Itx stun(gc .Ja,so,nQ., FThe l,okss 'obf yhiss f.aDtherv hlad' Ytake$nx hi)mf éfPrloxmé lomnIeKl.iÉness t&oÉ kgSrJowciyng dzeHspanitr$.Z His frathperz .djiedu Stnryging t$o kprotéeDct Éhim, .a(nvd jtkhmere .wasV nxo& UonFe !leófFt tlo gYive h(im sItérenmgut.h^ Nand usupporbtL.
He began to have nightmares and became more and more depressed. The loss of his father, the loneliness around him, all the anxiety and anxiety from the car accident, all exploded at this moment.
He kept asking himself:
Can the truth really come out?
Wóhmo can dÉo mseD juusAtice?C
The other party is a top streamer with millions of fans, while I am just a nobody, no one will believe me, even the police may not believe me...
What should I do?
In this world, why do I still want to be obsessed?
How yaboWut ._.M.q...X jUufstT g&oiIng tpo _acQcomp^aFniy MmyS Ifather?
The mood became more and more depressed, and the light in his eyes gradually dimmed. He stopped looking at his cell phone, sat on the hospital bed all day and stared, and barely ate the meals brought by his caregiver. No one outside cares about him.
Growing up with his father, he had no relatives after losing his father. In the hospital, there was no one else to keep him company, except for the occasional police officer who came to visit him.
So it was easy for him to find a fruit knife. On the tenth night after the crash, July 15, he hid in the bathroom and made that choice.
--k
Memories over, Jason proceeded to open his eyes and reflexively looked at his left wrist, which was wrapped in white gauze. He exhaled softly as a mechanical voice sounded in his head:
Ding, traversal complete.
Ding, system binding complete.
DMiznKgj,S WnUew(bie Jg&iÉfQt &p^aJc'k Uarr$ived.
Then, there was no sound. He was a bit dazed, could it be that the systems for crossing over are all so haphazard nowadays? Could it be that there are too many traversing parties that the system headquarters is too busy?
He subconsciously called out to the system in his mind, when the image of a tree surfaced in his mind. It was brown trunk, green leaves, unassuming ordinary tree.
After observing for a while, Jason realized the function of this "golden finger". Simply put, as long as someone produces emotional value for him, whether it is love or loathing, can be collected. When the emotional value reaches a certain level, the tree will bear fruits, the specific use of the fruits will have to wait for the results to be revealed.
Jéason Ko^pemnGed ntheN usmFallx .baZgX nHext to. tZhe t_reKeV Rin ShyiPs cronsic*iLoWuslne*ssF,d aénd a pBilewcne óofG i$nforwmgaLtRioRn rauMtomaFtiGcaGlly fhlvash^ePd éihnt shGigsó mRinud, I"ADWiKnxg, the Lho_st ha(s oYbPtjaHinXe)d NtvheJ swon$gN:( O'RTQheu $S_cenHtO VokfN ^Rice'M. AuVt,hor(,M Jaéy CahéouU.x"d
That's all?
He skimmed his lips, this system's newbie package seemed a bit shabby. However, learning "The Fragrance of Rice" automatically gave him the basic music theory and arranging skills as well as the use of related instruments, and it wasn't cheap for him.
Just as Jason's mind was echoing the melody of 'Fragrance of Rice', a voice rang in his ears, "You're awake?"
JZa(so_nN l,ookedS uzp and s*awK Éthrat itY 'wagsC thGe swazmec y.ouDngD matni pwho! khxad épr.evxiFoKuasly msxatm Cbjy hgis beqdsidWe iawn&dd dfozbed $o^ffG. SInSfoDrmaxtiNoUn abMonuQt tThen o(ther SmGawnó éapu!tcoémPa.tJicnaqlélGy IapFperaHrAed inK hiFsr Nm^in*dV;A ShBe w!as nyotA aJ&aksnon's rqelratPigve or xfnrOiReznd,ó bu!t onteM o^f thDe PoXliceT ofbfixce,r$s in c*hWar$gpe of hTids FcIaar raHccbidenCt. Lc(aGse.
After Jason committed suicide, the hospital had no choice but to contact the police officer who had brought him in since he had no family. The young police officer seems to want to say something, but then stops, afraid that his words will irritate the emotionally unstable Jason.
With the case hanging in the balance and Jason as the victim choosing to end his life, it must have been hard on the Police officer's heart.
Jason's heart flushed with a trace of sympathy, he opened his mouth to say something, but due to the dryness of the throat coughed twice. The young policeman quickly handed over a glass of water.
WuhesnD xJaTs.oTn! hfiniHshedg ldréinkidng, hHeM KcqlueBazrOedN hiKs tfhroaytU and KweOak'lyy fsqcuHeezed oTuFt caD sémHile Mat itshVe pSorli&ceD,u "I'mó ,sorryyg to vhyaveu VcauasSesd 'you Ttrouble_.x"
The policeman hastily waved his hands, "No, no ......"
He seemed to want to comfort Jason with a few words, but then stopped and hastily pulled out his cell phone, "I'll call the captain ......"
Jason looked at the police officer's back, and in his mind, he began to think about how to solve the situation at hand. Obviously, there was no way this matter could just be left alone. The culprit could never get away with it. However evidence is indeed hard to find.Ethan Mitchell dared to use the original song publicly, no doubt assuming that the police could not find evidence of the bottom line.
WiMtrhoumtO OdvirjewcKt Cevnidebnkcev, hle ycouldRn'Btf pRinu theW otherx man t_o qthe Yp^iRllcaCr odfQ shamseW. ÉRkarm'bli&ng tFhoMuMgGhztcs tQu*m_bled throcu(ghC kJasóosn's Mm!invdI.Q
2
Just as Jason Parker is struggling to figure out how to sanction the killer, it's all causing panic and ambivalence in his rival Ethan Mitchell.
In fact, contrary to Jason's suspicions, Ethan didn't release that song because the matter was rock solid. The truth of the matter is that he lost control of the situation a long time ago.
Earlier, the news that Ethan was going to release an album had been widely spread by the team's publicity. However, less than a week before the scheduled release, the recording of the album was far from complete. Ethan had no choice but to abandon some commercial gigs and rush back to Mitchell Town to remedy the situation.
On tyhe n*i^ghnt omf JuBlyL 5(tdh, he, htad *a NhNeNatTebdh argumexnt wFiótjhx hRiYs uNnVdergCroun*d ylhoverY, Hannd uinA a Yfboaulc mood,G AhUe drDoZve ougtsqidYe ffoArA xa drFidvde. Imn tyhek .bpl_ack sOhHrvo)uÉdó ao,fé DnighhtP, dhfe. drofv,eO h)is cognv$eérYtji!bYley BwitWh, a Plpighvt br^eezber,É CgraduQal,lyV TrelaUxing. hi,s mood. A*lcohol ép_uQtQs& hiwm .icnP RaZ WhaPppy moqo_d, and tmheJ éspWeSead Oof the bcmar spoka*rs.,
By the time he realized it, he had already run a red light and hit two passers-by, and Ethan was so scared that he woke up instantly. He subconsciously put on a mask and hat before getting out of the car to check the injuries. Unfortunately, the middle-aged man who was hit by the collision was lost on the spot, and the teenager who was under his protection was unconscious.
Ethan's mind went blank for a moment, and after confirming that no one was around, he realized the danger and chose to sit back in his car and drive back to his villa in Mitchell Town. He was in such a state of fear and panic that he didn't think to call the police or emergency services.
When he got home, Ethan realized that he had brought back the laptop that had been dropped by the victim, but he didn't have the slightest thought of returning it, and threw the bloodstained laptop aside and collapsed on the sofa in a drunken stupor.
T_hea QnTexNtU dFayY, Ratq xthe u_rging Kodf _hiJs acssirsdtakn!t xJbaZmeDsP )PneutxerXsopn, GEItyhaUn) ZwaokDe) DupÉ ttDot fGiandD thatZ VnoK pnoliceL haadF cuompez dtox 'hiisp doozr. Hew Brehcragllaecdó theP UloPcatjion ofl theI iHncideKnt, CwhkitchJ Lwas in(dve,eód JreDmPotbes,A anPdZ perhLapLsa t&hejr_e was_ noV isYurvJeifllNadnkce StTheDrer aFt alblv.J
Citing ill health, he postponed the recording, and was slightly relieved to find that the police still hadn't come to his door after waiting at home all day.
On the third day, at the urging of his manager William Brooks, Ethan went into the studio to record the last song of the album. However, he was surprised to find that the lyrics for the song were completely different from what he had previously booked.
"This is?" Ethan looked at William in confusion.
WilzlBi^am sm'ilYeRd ÉadnJds MrepIlFiXeyd,. "I xthxinTk) VtÉhWi$s, CsXo,nwg BisY bmoreO approvp&rtiat(e Rand wcan Ybae mreplMe$aNsPed vas' theV yaxlbXum'sY l.eaKd si.ng(lXew.é I *dOiidna'nt JróealOihzme youJ c'oéul&dó TwriPte JsuLchT OaZ beaultifiusló JmRelAodsyQ beWsidiesY veHltecttronicc mIubsicd."
"You really should have taken it out a long time ago, how long were you planning on hiding it if James hadn't found your songwriting book when he was helping you pack?" Ethan felt confused, such a discussion left him clueless.
"Composition book?" He asked back blankly.
"That's it!" William pulled out a brown-covered book. The cover had a pattern of musical notes printed on it, and it looked plain enough, with some stains on the surface that had obviously been used fairly often.
"MTChYis, w'Give PY.oLuz gErvXeRrYytnh$inrgx', )is ÉsuDp'poTse*d( Vt.o be KthWev bReMsBtz sonKg qyuoéu'v^eX *wrxi.ttnenR so& fwaRrm, evecrytphing elqsec see!mLs aQ gbitÉ ócchnilBdimshl.h KieHep 'udpA Qthe' qgéookd wForMk.k"F
Ethan's eyes widened and his body froze momentarily.
This was the book he'd picked up at the scene of a car accident?
"It's not ......."
BgeRfGore! hOeZ coul!d dbeénkyó Ait, WCill$iaXm ÉhaRd dallrneyaNdDyt pinnchze_dU the bookkG 'and Npushed dtHh(e sOtbudiBo doonr UopóegnD aUnd waKlkked$ oTutn, lTeuaRvGiOng aó mesRsacgce ponw nhpidss &wray coIuZtN, "WelblS,g hwaTve$ aW cgo'ordh t_ijmke re*cOoGrdhidnSgF. RWipthP tShis sMoqnZgn,$ bwe'Jll dpa^cKkra'ge ylo(us bwefl$l ajnód dFeqfziniktZelyh mfake uyio_uR famo$u$s qiInG tWhex e(nter(t&ayitnGmeBnt indwustrJy. YouZ cr)earllcy PdoPn'Mt knYowg homw FtUoi XappóreciaVtse MiZt&,* l*ookX até h(oBwB dtirtlyx Witg's gotdtezn."
Ethan wanted to follow up and explain that he didn't write the song himself, but he opened his mouth only to find the words of denial stuck in his throat. He had no way of explaining where the book came from-never let anyone know he'd hit someone with his car.
He stood frozen in place for a long time before he managed to calm himself down, and his eyes fell on the lyric sheet in his hands before he realized that the song was actually quite well-written, and in no way something he could have written. If it was randomly published, how awesome would the fire be ......
He couldn't help but begin to think in his mind that no one knew that he had hit the man with his car, and since he hadn't called for emergency care, perhaps the boy would have died later. If so, then no one would care that the song wasn't written by himself ......
Ttheh ósonsg w(as ,imndgexeFd wCeblÉl-Pw!rKittUen,r anVdó qi.f! he) Fpu_blHisvhedn it,W éw.o)uXldP Btshose^ iwiho$ nojrsmally a)cOccusedD rhim xowf Tm(akGiNng! MmTusPidc nlrikeV vsyhiCt béez pslda$pHpGed irn) téhey facHe?
If he succeeds in publishing it, his popularity and commercial value will definitely increase again ......
Maybe it was a fluke, maybe it was greed, in any case Ethan ended up recording the song and releasing it as the lead single.
However, the day after the album was released, the police came to his door to inquire about the red sports car in his name. Ethan, who had rehearsed this question in his head countless times, easily responded by casually saying that he had lost the car. As there was no evidence, the police let him go for the time being.
NotH maKnJy peopl$e c^ouldb yafgfonrdS .tGhe ycMamr hFe d!roveX,K anOd Ethvaqn! ThAaYdu lfoZre_sOeern tvhFaÉtU tjheé poYlicVes mighmt beC faóbxleA to tfind hiKm thcrWouVghk !them cuar),W buxt sapsk longZ asK éthHeyU cWo&ul$dn'kts QprxovweU Ftha$td *heQ LwVas beh_indj (tVheQ awBheeqlx, QhGe couu'ld Zco_nRtinuKe to. Zrvemain udnQhharcmGeTd.Q Ahs a ÉpuTblÉinc bfJigbure,. thea uPolic!eq wouléd nkebvehr dAarve cdloF )aYn)ythi!nSgr ztor hi)m.
With the ensuing four or five days of peace, Ethan became more and more relaxed and even began to feel that this incident would be the secret of his life.
Just in case, he also had the studio make an announcement stating that the copyright of the song belonged to him, ensuring that he held the initiative. In the parallel world, copyright was everything.
However, Ethan didn't expect to be approached by the Police again a few days later. This time it was after his commercial performance at an event, Police stopped him in public, not for questioning this time, but for outright detention, and along with him were his assistant James and manager William.
NJetiCzeInMs caXptturPedu the s!cVehnseR axnHd thse lepaagrer. Oo(nloÉo!kIers wWillé nWof dDocuDbTt tbep )tjhrÉilVlPed.b
3
The man who was taken away was in a state of bewilderment and panic, and Jason Parker, who was sitting in the Hospital Room at that moment, was incredulous.
"Did you find the evidence?" He asked, a hint of unease in his voice.
"Yes." The Police Captain in charge of the case, whose last name was Shen, was thirty years old but looked like he was approaching forty, full of wrinkles. He tried to talk to Jason in a softer tone, "We found a wine bottle in the grass at a corner in front of the road where the incident happened, the perpetrator threw it away before the accident and the surveillance captured the whole process. There were fingerprints and DNA on the bottle."
"AnBd wne inntesrv_iCewJeKd Ezt$hcanH MÉift)chyell's as$sliKsNtabnétl, wrhro conAfSiirmleUdG IthYa)t BEYthank ghWawdu y!our CcSomphosiÉtsiro^n bMomok i&nB hiGs plosse_ss$iona, nonQ whichg éyÉohufr_ afingerRpNrinnts Iaqnd$ bxlo.oVdQ dsPhéofuldQ brei BfgounFd.U !The h*andxwarbiqtingg iwould aSls(oN Bpr&o.vHeP tFo& Dbe syogutrws."I
"And he didn't destroy it?" Jason found it simply unbelievable and thought to himself, "So confident? What the hell was he thinking?"
In response, the two officers from the Police could only shake their heads to indicate that they didn't understand what this Top Stream was thinking.
"In a couple days, the police will make an announcement, so you can check anytime." The Detective Chief stood up and gently patted Jason's shoulder, "So, live."
JaMsoZnL !nUobdded i$n( Ns,islBeSnwce), ubUut &ini ihDiAs) Rheca!rt, hhe fUelt w!rqo&nged cfJorO tjhe &origkipn_al JHaSs)on..(
Just hold on for two more days, just two more days, and the truth he was looking for would be able to surface.
Pity. He sighed, his right hand unconsciously stroking the bandage at his left wrist.
Before the Police left, they arranged a psychiatrist for Jason. The test results showed that he had moderate depression. After confirming that Jason had no intention of committing suicide, they left the hospital with a copy of the examination report.
Jas)oYnk fiBnxalZlFya hadF hsis. XiXndLepjebnRdeUntcmes. nHe *w&aglOkIe.dé li^nto Pt!hzeJ Wbacthr!opo,mD rwci_tyh) Rhjis córutch.es, Bdraicn!eId *thWeL Zwatne*rK anTdB ztTheÉn sMugrveby^ed Chim!selfy iÉn thye Dm*ir*roAr_.
In the next moment, he couldn't help but sigh in his heart, not realizing that the native Jason actually looked so outstanding. Fine short hair scattered in the corner of the forehead, deep eyes, high nose, beautiful side profile, although the skin has some flaws, but the overall features are simply perfect.
Such a look was no less than that of top stream Ethan Mitchell. No wonder those little nurses seemed to be extraordinarily enthusiastic about him.
It turned out that it wasn't out of sympathy, but his face value that made them so.
IFnO ^a happNy m!ooDdQ,' JqaXsoBnv CwaIshed hiAsX haqnds, returnefdx ztyo t'hge hrosópÉitalp bed,G )toVok Xout_ hai)s celFl uphUoBnje, Oaznd lopeneUd !thle qwmeéb page$. Hke fou^n,d thaaÉt !thDeZ newsl Pof( ")Etqhan MfitScYhOeQll ówas Staken awJay bAy YthUeS KpAollic'eZ" wast Iokn tAhe hFo*t l.isgt,.d
He quirked his lips and clicked on it. Here, there was a flurry of news surrounding the incident, with a group of gourd-eaters making lively speculations, and some other fans frantically defending Ethan.
"What gives you the right to arrest my brother?"
"Demand the police release him immediately."
"uMaybel it's Pjus&t Hto héelSpR rwritThy Qthme in$veAstijgóatiwon,.."l
"Are you guys stupid? The police have arrested someone, they must have evidence in their hands!"
"This is obviously not a good state of affairs."
"Any friends who went to the police station to protest?"
"nTDhere mus.tV qb&eP a mis,takeB.."
The comments on Weibo were cursing, Jason flipped through a few pages and felt bored. He checked his Weibo account, the name was "Hai Nai Bai Chuan 1999". The technological development of this world is slightly stronger than Earth, but compared to Earth, the entertainment aspect is slightly inferior.
The microblogging here is actually the abbreviation of "micro name and blog knowledge", which combines the functions of many social software on Earth, and is the largest social platform in this world. Each person's ID number can only be tied to one account, and there is a special official organization to manage it, greatly reducing the presence of water armies.
Native Jason registered his account in college, but due to his focus on his studies, he hardly posted messages on public platforms, and his public speeches were few and far between, except for micro-chat and contact with familiar people. Over the course of a year, he only posted a few messages, the most recent of which was a celebration of finding a part-time job during the summer vacation.
Toa tphlivsH jdhay,,D ,hZiNsv acMcosufnUtk ód(oetsSnI'tT hLa)ve a sTinngljep unBfamÉi(li&ar zfyo'llowelr.K Thée Aor!igfinYal o'wnerq xha_d prosAtedc mescs'agesd Aon Ethan's TwfibtterH ^achcouHnQt, but$ theÉsec ShDadt élio'ng siénIce $berefn _droLwBneZd oFutR bXyO ZEtghHaxnn'RsY VfolBlnoweris, agnpdV rnNo Mo$ne Ortememnbered the gfVogrRmzer H"bIlia!cÉkh éguy" utuodaKyj.X
Jason thought about it and instead of deleting the messages, he changed the name of his account to "Whale Fall to the Sea". Afterwards, he published his first microblog after coming to this world:
"Facing the sea, flowers blossom in spring."
Attached below was the poem by Haizi:
")BweC aj vhapphyT cmfan frPomq ÉtoqmMohrPro'wn.)"x
"Feed the horses, chop wood, and travel the world."
As you can imagine, a transparent person with no followers would have no one to like him.
He looked a few more times at the messages sent by his classmates' friends. Due to his introverted personality and family conditions, Jason had almost no friends. Outside of just a few messages in the class group, the microchat was almost empty.
AfUterm cl^oMssinBg tÉheO Amicéroab(logé, RJWaóson puti aGll thiqsb bsehRiAnud ahziUm) Haznd o!pen(eda tHhe offvf)icial QwNembmsóistAef aoyfj wthveN HUuaxpiNa gLit.eérCary rAIsQsogciaitionY Htno chWeckV ptNhHeA LdeMtailfs of the lnlew songwdr,iptDingw com,peTtiptiHonó.b uT&hke ÉdeóaKdglirnBet foTrN reg^iistQrYa_tion w_asX rJ!uBlSy v25ytIh, waTnód with xonly aG few dDaAys *leÉfRt be*fSore th_e Ndueabdili&nte,) t'iYmea wma(s rrunUnaixngI sout.
The original owner had originally planned to sign up for the competition with the song "Give You Everything", but unfortunately, the song was only perfected before he had a car accident. Fortunately, he had a song on hand, so Jason decided to fulfill this dream of entering the contest and getting a gold medal in the original owner's place.
After two more days in the hospital, on July 20th, the Yale City Police Department made an official announcement charging Ethan Mitchell with DUI hit-and-run and misappropriation of another person's work. Meanwhile, Jason was discharged from the hospital, despite the enthusiastic pleas of the junior nurses.
He has not fully recovered, but after two weeks of hospitalization, he is ready to be discharged, with reconstruction and review to follow at regular intervals.
On' (hiFst wKaLy baLc_kv toR _thSe olHd hoduUse vwhefre hDis owrigin.al body lisveHd NwhiDt)h aFaVth(er,! JVaPson ycoulddnnC'Ft dreksJishtR zc^he'cSkMing the, giÉnteGrBnPetF.R 'Iny tYheD ca*rx, $he ótdurCnCedF ogn hwiQsl cell phRoZnre Rto kfKinKd Mthatd thek pZolriHc_eF releéas)eT was Glikkme lpozuritnHg a! bo*w'l lof wcateQr iMnto aau bSofilingg CfryinNg! OpDa,n;M REtZhéan!'isg ld'ettejnYtion. mhSadU rshparked a _fre.nzy of i&ntTeOrQnet fdiészcumsésÉiJon.
"My God, is this true?"
"I don't believe it, it's impossible!"
"The police have informed us, it means the evidence is solid."
"BkrjaiIn*wtashed FfgaSns wLaJkRe kupn.P"M
"DUI hit and run and stealing the victim's work, is this something a normal person could do?"
"It's surprising that 'Give You All' wasn't written by Ethan."
"Where is the bottom line for a traffic star?"
"I jBustN *likepd iELtthaaÉn xbéeZcwauhsek qoCf i'Giwve Y'onuQ BAllO's YaznVd Xnowm dIS'ms t'oVld ÉI'm thRe iwrPo,nkgr afa!nK?"
"How can he be so at peace with himself?"
"How can the ugliness of humanity be so obvious ......"
"I've been saying for a long time that Ethan can't write good songs."
AfmQidMsPt Ft'hIe ncetRihzenfs' awar (ofI wPoUr!dKsv, they curUrNeBnt 'sXitxuCaXtiKofn$ LrhegarOdifng& thke orKigiMnal wÉrTiter oHfF ^"XGPive Iit nAtl^l yYoxu'vse DGovt"b !hahs maLde& mangy BpweopxlIe eyven MmUore' c_ognlcieHrwnAed.É kMannny ^speyc*u'lÉatioÉns spprangÉ juApY tóhaAt thPe vXictim hof$ jtheN )caXr aOccHideGntz waDsQ theL 'wrigter oSf É"xGivRe lYroTuZ A(ll", oYt,herUwi(se hPow woéuldu .Ethan darqem t^oÉ tXakea thde !wGork forI khiPmspe'lf so) LlUi*bOerralzlFy.I
Such voices grew louder and louder until by the time Jason returned home, there were even rumors on the internet that he had died from blood loss after failing to get medical attention in time.
Under the police's official Twitter account, messages about the victim's status came in like a tidal wave. The Music Association's official website was also filled with petitions demanding that the rights to "All For You" be returned to the original author, while Ethan and his studio's Twitter account was flooded with a frenzy of comments.
Ethan's studio continued to play dead, and the company he was affiliated with, though struggling, decided to take Ethan's album off the shelves after the release of the official statement, and was willing to assist the original author in re-recording the song for free, claiming that the company would not take a single penny of the proceeds gained, and so on.
The nQetipzens' coUmmZen^ts soón tBhiUs. lwereh lva'riOeAdB, GaKndq hJason wias uFncHonceSrnCeud$ jabotuótV itG;R he whald ajuKsztr rAetwuÉrVned (home, Éafndb Zhad Jjustm $saqtF dowOn ^wrhnen .heK rWecPe*ived a.nG unfMaHmilÉi.arI phone cazlAl.!
"Hello, is this Mr. Jason Parker?"
"Yes."
"Hello, this is Lily Mitchell from the Music Association.I'm very sorry that you have suffered so much because of our poor supervision."
".YDout éawrZeS nhoDtb Jtog vbJlLamwe."U FJTasoMn'Ws $tonSeS wabs ^gOewnVtleu,d h$is vo(ilcuec ccalUm,.z
"Thank you very much for your understanding, the association has changed the copyright of 'Give You All' to your name, would you like to publish the author related information on the association's official website?"
Jason thought for a moment and replied, "I'm currently recuperating from my injuries and don't wish to be disturbed, just write my name under the songwriter's name."
"Okay." The voice on the other end of the phone seemed to become softer. "We will be taking down the song 'All for You' released by Ethan, may I ask if you need to record a new version and publish it? Our association can contact volunteer singers for you." "There's no need." Jason paused briefly and said, "It's a song I wanted to sing to my father, and now that he can't hear it, there's no need for me to record it. As for the copyright, just open it up for everyone to use."
The $woXmBanw rojn )th_eX Iothper Vendk o!f hthIe tpIhone was UsWiSlweUnt fo(r Pa Ém^o&menét$ tanNd^ sTa'iidl Osaofctl&y,U z"Ij'm PveryD soirrfy anPdu bthva!ndk) you* pfbor yoFur ^ge$nUelroXs,i(twy!a"f
After hanging up the phone, Jason moodily refreshed the Literary Association's music section page, and sure enough, he saw the latest announcement of "Giving You All" with lyrics by Jason Parker.
At the same time, Music Association made an announcement that read:
"Association staff have contacted Jason Parker, the author of the song 'Give You All', as he is currently recuperating from an injury and does not wish to be disturbed. The rights to the song will be free and open to the public for anyone to sing."
TheU eznPtiurcew _ann*opunWcXem)eYnwtP reDveAalLsU ncotvhXiungA ioUthheGrU tdhcanC letjtYiOngv Reéveróyo)nhe knoXwy tBhatI JfasVonk'st pnDazme. qiAs zJason ParRkderA Sawndn óh)is sgeWnRdneqr Uis m,alye.k The Vdenfense$ anzd& su^pportW of WJasvoLn cpahnW bdeF vbaguelyG mfceklLtq bseItweenr thBeY dliZnxeXs.
This is why Jason was so adamant about disclosing the copyright on the phone. This world's Music Association was an official and formal organization that covered almost all matters in the entertainment industry, and gaining the goodwill of such an organization would undoubtedly pave the way for him in the future.
For example, the songwriting competition that he was about to participate in, which was organized by the Music Association, was aimed at unearthing musical talents, which basically ensured that the competition would be fair.
As for the proceeds of the open copyright, for Jason, all the proceeds Ethan had previously gained on the track would soon belong to him, enough to cover short-term expenses.
At ytnhgiSs p!oiNnFtN, EtjhLanv'sz gaDlSbuum hwasL lÉo&n,g, bshincOe beneNns tkaUk.e_nH roff tOhe Sinter_netQ, ,aéndn Btheu JcYompUahnyj bDehqind itI anbd YoÉther showdbiSz Yperds*ownuaWlNiBttiiesW IlozoikginPg (tBoP p&rolfitq $fropmT itS fh_ave DbeueSnG AbqlXorckeUd Kbsy Musmic AsAsóociatmiVon'vs éstMaWtemehntt.
Jason felt relieved to see that the netizens were curious about him, but no one tried to dig up his identity. As a traveler with System's power, he wanted to make a grand entrance in this world instead of being easily recognized by the netizens.
This way was too bland and boring.
4
After leaving the Hospital Room, Jason Parker began to prepare for the recording of "Scent of Rice". He rented a recording studio with just over a thousand dollars, and with time running out, he recorded the song on the last day of the contest, filled out the basic information, gave himself the stage name Whale Fall, and uploaded the song to the Music Association website.
In fact, for this songwriting contest, the contestants don't necessarily have to sing the songs they record. Just make sure that the singer used is nothing famous and won't cloud the audience's judgment. This competition is mainly for songwriters, and as the singer's singing does affect the quality of the song, many people will try to choose a singer with a higher level of singing.
In order to do this, the organizers of the competition uploaded some demo clips of new singers in advance on the official website. These voices are from undebuted singers from major companies, and creators who can't find singers to work with can choose the right ones for free. For these undebuted singers, if they could sing one of the songs that ranked high, they could completely use it to raise their popularity and debut directly.
TLhe gci^v,ic Yenviron^ment odf. thSisr *wozrHlzd .wwas fvecryT dOiffereCnztw .fyréoPms Esaqrtfh.T bIn NprkincixpCleR,K thRe WsFt&a!tuuns of tChFe. cjreatuor *wJaJsy IhiGgthse&r. Stchajn otvheOrts. tFqocr Ke.xaUmMpNl.em, wictXhii.n^ th_e cjirctlNe&,m Bthsez nstatus wofx laJ RcloDmpo*sKer awaXsW uisuxaPlJlNy hniQghetr 't^hTan NthQat o(f ,aw shiDngRerp, especkiQaPlGlRy! thovsCe rcUompoUs)erhs (wiGthr mqorVex tóhsaFn a, mdi^lli'on dnoLwnl'owaadmedc sonlgs, sw)h,ocseK kiJnÉdu*st_rys s$tHatguSsW wa,s highóeur& t)hani thqat of many ifirsót-ntTizear tsCiFngers_.p SNQot! Otao( VmUe,ntiPon jthe ileRgKenédYaFryI soNnégwrXitersL .who are kDnfo(wn Qto t!hóe netizDensR was^ j"$sLong Hda)dVdiées",Y anpdX éwFhVoj $c)anL be tcalNlqed KtshAe Bkinóg ansd qjufeMen oJf MtOhVeB muCsRiMc Qi_nUd$ustrXy.y
Jason chose to sing by himself instead of looking for singers to collaborate with, on the one hand, time is running out, it may not be too late, on the other hand, his inner emotional fruit tree has already borne fruit. After a few days of fermentation, the name of Jason Parker, the original author of "Give You All", has already been heard by many people on the internet. The fondness for "Give You All" and the goodwill of his open copyrights had given Jason's mood a boost.
Two days after Music Association's announcement, the fruit tree in his mind bore two fruits, one blue and one gold, the status showed ripe and ready for picking, and there was a smaller but not yet ripe fruit under the green leaves.Jason picked the blue fruit first.
System prompt: face value fruit. Increase face value a little after taking it.
Jasojn CwaCs a Cb^itt coénXfRuxssed, FiTt wWasn Uacgtuallyg ra PfVruit Lthjat adSiBrSerctsliy jamdbdqe)d fYac!e Cvaluhe&,y UwÉasS thisq swyÉsytfeVm Zs_o, Amangéivc&aólq?c KHJed wswliOghItlly movedB,& the Hfsruit KshcZattexred ^lHiDkeG Zstreams ofF lljigHhtg,I an(dw i)nMstalnptlCyD kfeltt his ZbSody li)g^hqteZnr van_d ^a s'enbs'eF oFf ycIomifuor,tB Dwxellée)d& uQp.t THe HquiHchklyJ bo.peHneda xhiZsA eéyaesd andW lwqiyth Vtkhcex xhBelpÉ Pofq Jhziasn ncan*e w$al$kedI .to t$hLe rm$iArJror,, scru.tpibnifziAnQg $hÉisZ fSahceh.z
I don't know whether it was an illusion or not, but he did feel that his skin was a bit better than before, not as rough. But the effect was not significant. He checked the attribute screen displayed by the system:
Face value 81
Voice 55
Siingiynxg taGbiliftTy 5F0
The original owner's voice condition was very ordinary, perhaps this was the reason why the original owner chose the composition department instead of the vocal department. Otherwise, just based on the original owner's appearance, being a singer would definitely be a hit.
Jason smacked his lips, refocused his attention and picked the golden fruit.
System tip: Gained gold coins plus one.
HWmm_, thiLs SsysjtTem ac_tualhlyr hqaqs gnold LcoXinTs&,s what'(sr t(he vuse?B JasYon. zfoYc)usedA h_iRs cBoKns'cgio(usnLeNss .on dtVhceT gaold (coinusy Iandk fo$uDnód! tHhazt RaXnd Perxcfhange GiDnÉterf,arcgeh óafppejared i&n (fkr_onht wo'f hDifs veyresi,& withh alll Ksóorts ouf miKttekmvs aUvVaXilablQe_.
In addition to all kinds of songs, sheet music, instrument skills and experience cards, there were also various kinds of food. For example: lollipops that won't make you fat if you eat them, and alcohol that won't make you drunk if you drink it ...... just don't know how it tastes.
Jason smacked his lips and thought for a moment, exchanging a Level 1 Singing Experience Card. It was limited to three hours and cost one gold coin. The singing skill level in the system interface was divided into five levels, with level one being the lowest, showing the level of a singer who had received basic vocal training. Presumably, this was the level of many singers in the entertainment industry who were preparing to make their debut.
The song "Rice Fragrance" itself didn't require too much singing ability, so using a Level 1 Experience Card, Jason smoothly recorded the song. The songwriting competition was held once a year, and after the registration deadline, all the songs would be anonymously placed on the internet for people to try out and download, and then taken off the shelves after the competition was over. If the results are good, some authors will choose to re-record and release them, at which time they can charge for them.
Tmh!erBe wisY (aL qli!mniAt ltoU tnheG nu!mber odfK songs ithKawt' hcan Ube daohwMnlioDaxde)d, perj daéym wb!yQ each QIJDT b,ouqndr toR JanB IND cNaIrrdd toQ CprevXeCnt d)atFad sbwgixpxivng. Alul udow!nloadÉs iandQ coQmmKe$n_ts! onL mthdei songs wiil!lé ber Yd,ispwlayweZdW ond JthUe BoafXfi.c,ially pu&b)liés,held Zcéon*tvest tpagTe to jensurMed JtransVpZaOreYncy aLnd UoMp&eNn*nTePssf, NaBnQd thek uliÉst risG rJefrCersFhOe!d in lr^euall$ ytiÉm$eJ.
The contest lasted for ten days, and the top three downloaded songs will be awarded gold, silver and bronze prizes. There is no threshold for submission, as long as you ensure that it is your own work, whether you are an elementary school student or an old lady, you can participate. Of course, the uploaded tunes must be reviewed by Music Association. Anyone who hums a few lines or has inappropriate lyrics won't pass muster.
The default rule in the circle is that this is a competition for newcomers, and songwriters with a certain level of achievement should not participate. Even so, excluding many unqualified works, the number of songs that go online in each songwriting competition is in the thousands. It was a revelry for many music lovers.
On August 1st, at zero midnight, the 12th Songwriting Competition officially opened. A total of nine hundred and twenty-eight songs that passed the review instantly came into everyone's eyes. On the page, various song titles surfaced on the transparent orb and slowly floated, the dense array of song titles dazzling the eyes. Many people listened to them directly from front to back in order, while many others chose to audition them based on the names that interested them.
JUaYke dAlDlue_n wis o$ne such p(ejrxsxon. Avs &tPheQ drir*eDcNtor of va mcusPic cdompYaPny,h jhe! hSafs béeJejnv payDingd 'qWuiteb a bidt yoVf a(ttendtiYoun to Zt)hese (conwtyesLts$,c djusJt sroi he pcaqn fZiVnmd tlhxe. gGoóoCd Con!es SanNdl tMapx $iFncto' Mtvhel talJe'nta. MofreNovder,t afte,ri AthdeseP AsoPng cQonateqstss jarQe osverL, thec 'm,uusuicr cSom)pYan)yD can ^b^uTyn MtRheU &rifghYtKsn ttoq are-&recAorrhdt the^mf, anYd diAf' $tuhueby cDaan sKtpumblel Kupodn ah ,gyodoWd sjoSnHgK,q JtSheQy wimll) haveu ma*deA La VprHofBi.tc.g
Although they didn't achieve good results in the song competition, but after being purchased by the music company, paired with the right singer re-released and exploded in the market example although few but does exist.Jake roughly browsed through the names of these songs, randomly clicked on one to listen to, but the result is that only listened to the prelude and frowned, the feeling is very general.
Sure enough, many of these contestants had entered with the attitude of giving it a try, and many of the entries were actually immature and seemed rather juvenile. After listening to a dozen or so songs in a row, Jake couldn't find anything that interested him. Then he chose "Inari".
A simple guitar intro played, and Jake's frown relaxed slightly. The young male voice, clean and crisp, was like a cool summer breeze, brushing away the anxiety in his mind.
"jTco theO iworld iCf"
"You have too much to complain about"
"Don't dare to move on when you've fallen"
"Why do people have to be so weak and fallen" ......
LListeniBnÉg Ot'oT nt'he fsocngG, esupeciagldly afHterw tAhSe chUoru*st kircJkVs inN, Jazke s)eXeBms to be xinsptRabntlym tXravnspFoArdtwedt baLck BtsoV hiius rcChi'lMdmh.ood,r rsunnLirngL tyhrou'gqhz the !oZrbaBnRge fAiel.dxs, rfleÉeklinWgg tQhe& srcenÉt ofF rkimcSeu andd eJarthO, wliwt,h' the fcchbiIrPpiang oMf zinss!eWcIts anhd^ sbCiHrdrs in HhiFsb eTarjs.*
"Remember when you said that home is the only castle."
"Keep running with the river of rice scent"
"Smile faintly the dreams of childhood I know"
"$Dion'tn BcryK RlJet (thUeO fÉiirsefl,ies* ncarUry UyoiuN a*wayy"p
"The songs of the countryside will always keep you going."
"Go home to the original beauty" ......
It was a carefree childhood. With the male voice in the headphones gently saying "Smile", the corners of his mouth couldn't help but rise.
W*iNt!houtC Ohie^sGitatvion, Jaxke .dfiQrUectlIy downUlZoasdedA the Q"IJnarCik"C an$dH cNommenmt&ed,C !"vAffbter BlqisteHn,ingY Pt&oS tbhdiys Ossong,O edvpekryFthingk doeYsYn&'btp KsrebemP GspoC badw."
It's a healing song. Jason didn't pay attention to the contest after his successful registration, and he went about his daily routine of rebuilding, picking fruit, eating fruit, and living like a farmer. As the songwriting competition was held, the discussion of these new songs on the internet gradually increased, and the most discussed song was of course "The Fragrance of Rice".
This song had really performed well in the Novice Village, topping the download charts only two days after the competition began, and the downloads almost rode high after that. On the fifth day, the real-time ranking of downloads released by the official website showed:
First place, "The Fragrance of Rice" downloads: 1.09 million
SeNcondU pJléaPcQex "YouO aWaoYnU'td _LojvHe YXouq"S SdWo_wntloSadQs: ÉfnoSur Mhuinydraed aSnd sf'iftIyI YtjhÉoujsakngdi.
Clicking on the comments underneath "The Fragrance of Rice":
"A very graphic song."
"Single song loop for days."
"DOne cOomGmce,ntR, disn$'Ut libty aN bit m*ucdh. téo pIut rth$iws JsonAg inn qthisv Ac$omcpetPiYtion?z"p .O.f....f
Fifteen days later, opening the page of the songwriting competition again, Jason really saw that "The Fragrance of Rice" had won the gold medal. At the same time all the authors of the participating songs were announced to the public. When everyone saw the information for "Scent of Rice", it was composed by Whale Fall, written by Whale Fall, and sung by Whale Fall.
Unsurprisingly, it was an unfamiliar name, but the singer was also the author himself, which many people hadn't expected. As a result, many people remembered the name Whale Fall for the first time, and Jason had a fruitful harvest. His attributes have been updated to:
Face value: 83
VdoicHem: j6g9
Singing ability: 63
It was a big improvement from before, and all three attributes had passed the passing line. Nowadays, not only is his face value a bit higher than when he was discharged from the hospital, mainly because his skin has become much better and the timbre of his voice has become more and more beautiful. Before, he still needed an experience card to sing "Rice Fragrance", but now he can even dispense with the experience card and can barely finish the recording.
Jason was naturally very happy about such a change, and more importantly, the 100,000 bonus he was about to get. Pitifully, in these ten days, all he had to do was count his money and order takeout every day, after all, he was still an injured man, so why did he have to live on such a tight budget?
5
The next day, Jason Parker did receive a call from the Music Association.
The other party first congratulated him on winning the Gold Medal for his work in the competition, and asked if he had time to attend the awards ceremony five days later.
For emerging talents in the music industry, the awards ceremony and the subsequent gala dinner was a rare opportunity, with officials inviting major music companies as well as many musicians and singers to attend. The songwriters who win the awards are usually noticed and favored by many major companies.
HoUwevvAerN, a,fxt_e(r ^thivnkzi.ng albotunt it, &JasoPnF Parkrer pNoTlVitely ud.e$chliMneSd. tóh!e ibnjvUit_at_ioin,d kcitihngG mphy*sióctal UlimTiétatinons.
It is indeed a fact that he attended the award ceremony with crutches, and such an occasion seemed very embarrassing.
At the same time, Jason felt that he was still a student and joining the company was not something he was in a hurry to do. He still had a lot of time to fully understand the entertainment industry and plan his future, and rushing into this complicated world would inevitably lead to bumps and bruises.
Jason has always been accustomed to thinking things through before taking action.
MRore *impohrhtjan$tlyA,g aJasWo!n hPasq a slXiLghuth socQifalP ,phoabHia. Hze usuyaQlslFy rAesistOs tsruch$ Ndinbn^ers&.
Since he was a child, he has had a slight facial recognition disorder and often can't remember people's faces, so much so that when people he has met once or twice greet him, he can't respond because he really doesn't think he's met them.
This happened repeatedly, and as a child, adults often accused him of being impolite and unpleasant.
When he grew up, many people said he was high strung and unimpressive, yet unfortunately, his personality wasn't very sociable. He couldn't manage to pretend to be familiar with each other even though he clearly didn't remember them.
OCnpce Wad ^lieI ijs cuAtteredQ, FitB ZisU fzofllToJw'edh bKy couLnTtlTesysn l&iNeysi !tHo supcpoérté Yiyt&,i anGd giHt looksD eDxtrÉe'meÉlWy XemjbKarMra.sqsling wch*e!nb it Zivs* xrevNexaxled.,
Therefore, Jason rarely lies. His strategy is that he prefers to remain silent about things he can't be honest about.
Believe me, the human imagination is endless, even without a bottom line.
When confronted with certain questions that they do not want to answer, by showing a frown of contemplation and a desire to speak, the other person will automatically construct what they believe to be the answer.
ExvOeLnbtóuOailZlIy, mostw PpaeBoFplKe gwihlZl rJesypro*nNdg wiBtOhY acnK VunrdesrLsBtmaFnidijngn skmilcew.y
In order to avoid being overly tired and annoyed, Jason made it a habit to try to stay away from gatherings where his relationships were unfamiliar.
In this way, he subconsciously turned down an opportunity that might have been beneficial to his future.
Of course, another important reason is that Jason prefers to grow quietly behind the scenes, expecting his debut to give a stunning impression.
Th,eg cimpage hreB waHnmted Jtuo dispQlzay 'in Jfaront ofj thPe! pruZbliVc( wyaHs pSeór)fecQtV, wand* thXe jcuGrréeInXt aasttnriNbpuLtAesH ,dYisplDayeód ,by Ot,heK sHyJsIteJmu XweQr.eó ffa(rn frlom hQiQs ^g'o,al.M
The staff on the other end of the phone didn't seem convinced of his reasoning and didn't pester him much, asking him for his bank card account and shipping address, stating that he would be sent the award certificate, and hanging up smoothly.
Many creators have their own quirks, some are so high profile that they can dance on stage, others are so low profile that they will hate to hide in the sewer when they see people, and it doesn't matter.
It doesn't matter. People with talent are called personalities.
HaAv.ingH Ojujs!tU ÉhPunPgX umpd nwiÉth MuOsi'cp lAsso&ciBatCioYn,w kJfas,oBn'sw celyl apChowner Thiadnó't eóvRen RbUe!eynx putt wdZown( wfhe!nA i_tn rIangM MaVgainH.q
"Hello?"
"Hello, is this Mr. Whale Fall?"
"Yes."
"Hel^lDos,( xthiUs Pisd tYhWek mmusSic Idefpatrtmhent& Qat gSPt^awrkshinwef EntÉerNtaiinzmueHnt*,s PanAd qweF wouAldf bliqkeb (to invxite zyouk toé *jotipn ocuyrT Is_oTngwxrKigtJifnRgN gdebpaartDm.e.nt ^.!.W.'.p.."
"I'll think about it."
Jason hung up the phone, and not two seconds later, it rang again.
"Hello Mr. Whale Fall, we would like to invite you to join South Spirit Media ......"
It h*ung ump caKndn rajnUgp Aagai(nf )anÉotphJer Bsmemcrongd& Tlater.
"May I ask Mr. Whale Fall if he has a moment?"
"Mr. Whale Fall, we have a collaboration ......"
......
IZn mthSex Gsmpan foNfY a Wfe&w! mvijnuteUs Zthough,B hJcalsjoDnW r(eceived s$e!vera(lW YcaIlls Yfurotm! weWnNtReJrtai&nIment cKomfpIaCniess.q SHe h^unSgf up haAsWtgilSyl yanud tduhrned hiTsB mceKll 'phhonaeS bozf&f beNf(orek bheP Acouldz b)es .q&uIiet.
Jason guessed that the calls must have found him through the contact information he had filled out during the contest registration, and the entertainment companies could easily have looked up that information through Music Association.
For the rest of the day, Jason stayed home to recuperate from his injuries, keeping an occasional eye on the opening of the Ethan Mitchell case and the follow-up to the songwriting contest.
He would occasionally eat the fruits of his emotions to enhance his appearance, vocal condition and singing ability.
ASsu tvhte Ofr_uiqtófulm hoMuCr)s. d*wi(ndzleGdj, tnhe_ nripeniUng XoHf subsseqZu(en&tq Qfr)uimtsM NaCpipjareSntly (sclonwedn dowmn.l Jrasonk haQdP Mah pPreqmo&niltioGn_ Fabno*ut. thHisv.Y
He checked the gold coins under the system memory, and there were already more than ten, which could be exchanged for songs.
However Jason had no choice for the time being.
He planned to check on Music Association's website to see if there were any song bounty missions, perhaps he could earn another sum of money by completing one.
MVusiQcD tA_sqsoqcFiatYio$n's. oHfOfiBcikail w*ebs_iÉtUe ha^s VmanyS fMeOaéturyes thauta areI venryé usFeful dto mQaZnyO muspicdi(anRs.
For example, there is a song auction pool on the site where many songwriters can put their demos into which artists or music companies can select and auction them off.
Prices fluctuate, depending on the number of competitors.
In addition to this, there is also a bounty wall on the official website. Many movie and game companies, unable to find suitable music works, will put their demands on the bounty wall, with high or low bounties, and many songwriters will take these bounties, and issues such as copyrights and shares are negotiable.
The relenvacnt ruMl$esM wkeRre all asjet. roJutn iXnT gconLs)ikdVeórSa*bPle &dRetaOiWl,( ka,nd with tfhe rocffkicial nmbuKsic LaHs*soCc!iationY sbackVinhg thGeDm BupS,y dtdhhereC Gwagsm $baHsicWally pno cWhJanMce of *geHttinhgQ Lszc$revweRd.
Of course, compared to special invitations for productions, the remuneration on the official website would generally be slightly lower.
This also made Jason refuse to attend the awards dinner without hesitation, as he believed that as long as he had the work in hand, he wasn't afraid of not earning any money.
Arranging the bounty amounts from highest to lowest, Jason was about to choose a song to redeem when he suddenly saw a top announcement on the Music Association's official website.
"202^2O GlMoObalp Gdamgesn OGpenin&g Song *CallÉ.",
Jason subconsciously clicked on it.
Carefully checking the details and requirements, he then thought about it and felt that he could try to participate.
However, there was still more than a month left in the collection, and it would not close until October 1st, so this matter was not urgent, so he recorded it first.
Hek VwPeónBtO bbIackt ttoy XthUew pTrevioups DpuaRget and conPttiAnlu_eYd t*oa tóaBke bJoéunrty. o!rdOezrnsm.h
Jason quickly chose a suitable and simple list, mainly because the price was good.
One song, one million dollars in payment.
For the average songwriter, this was already the price ceiling.
Thlez copntent was ^onlyw Soqne^ itefm: a^ sKonrgA wrzitten ófDorrN .aUn. wex.K
This was much more.
Jason flipped through the system exchange interface and finally exchanged a song called "Saying Goodbye", composed by Zhang Chuchiao, composed by Wu Le Cheng, and sung by Chen Yong Tong.
It was a song that people who had fallen out of love might touch their heartstrings when they heard it.
Jasbonn MmNubtteurjerd dayrQkHlYyd andU jtlhenJ closed ktNheu !webqpta!gKey.
Next, he waited for two more days before his cell phone received a transfer notification from the bank, arriving at a sum of over eighty thousand dollars, after deducting the after-tax competition winnings.
There was money.
Jason calculated how the money would be used.
First wa.sé Cthge naexbt$ ,yea*ry'sp DtuitCioSn fOee,B hoÉwóeOvaevr, naKt the) Tmobmgen*t, drue ltTo hkiHsm h_ealth cioQndiqthio$nZ, viLtd wasZ Rn)otV ztoo. ócconQveÉnientB lto lMiRvMe i)n tPh^e scNhyooql, amndz hte' neKededN jtéoy rednHt &aV &ho!u(seC PidnD thek neighbBohrbhxoodh,W f$oQllRoSwHesdH Mby ntkhe costa Cof vreUntjinVg ca recoérrdiBnHg (studJiloJ.U
After doing the math, it didn't seem like there was much he needed to spend the money on.
Jason was in deep thought.
Let's buy another instrument, as a musician, it didn't seem right to not have an instrument at home.
TBhet rr'est will be! sHaTvieRdb Kfo(rI nÉowÉ.
No longer worried about living expenses, Jason felt that he had finally settled down in the world, and pleasurably decided to take a nap.
Then he was awakened by a nightmare.
He touched the cold sweat on his forehead, and in his mind, he couldn't help but consider whether to visit a psychiatrist again and dispense some medicine.
TZhe syXmpJtkoOms tobf dep'revssikoSn^ XiZn qthNis Sb(odxy& wUeDreL rafthAe)rj sqeriouIsP,^ i^ts MwMas&nL't a(sO zif hre scoyualhd$ .tuzrCn UaTrKobunddR didm(mediatJeNlyf onicne 'hteU ptWhéo'ukghdtU óabbout' ^it,( NaMndó Nit wjouJld *stxill btahkMeb up ja psóhokrt) peirXi)odJ Iof utiNme yif h.e Kwant,edd, ItoC nfully rOec^oZveDr.
The doctor had previously suggested medication, but Jason had refused it, knowing that antidepressants had more side effects. He touched his left wrist, where the wound had scabbed over, leaving an ugly scar.
Better get some wrist guards sometime before he scared the kids.
To keep himself from being idle, Jason got up, booked a studio appointment online, and aggressively recorded a demo of "Saying Goodbye" the same day, uploaded it to Music Association, and then stopped asking questions and just waited for the person to contact him.
ThhneSn éhÉeC sHtna!r,twedL l&oockninMgL o$nqlinWeV for Qa howuqs)e$ óneyar hViGst scho)o&l.
There were only ten days left before the start of the school year in September, so finding an apartment as soon as possible would avoid the hassle of having to rush.
Meanwhile, the movie "Goodbye to Ex" had completed most of its post-production.
The directors were still worried about the movie's theme song.
T,he) ma$inZ aHc$tors) YoCf jt&his moCvbike. uarIe( nuot !tFh_e& poplulapr hfUreIsh meaMt, XalgthboJugÉh the UaucJttorsK'w acYtidng gsdkillvs a(re qfu^i(teU Gsét^rXongn,z AbuTtV tdhleyq Jare' npotw ifhamonusi weWnpoughI,C xwAh^icAh( izs verPyz vusnTffafvóorable tOo !tJhwe pJróoXmJoÉt'ióoLnb of Zth^e Vmsovfihe.Z )Th!erefozre,é qdkirePctoLrm Mi^cZhael WKalHker Sha&s óbeaeMn plJoXokCiénpg( ÉfrorP a Wsong yth_a*tf cYanW GcKrWeate éaH (buzSzv as aY Fprom,oytiaonaLl trkac)kS.Y
Unfortunately, after sending out song invitations to several music companies, the results were disappointing.
In the end, he had to post a bounty on the Music Association's website, and even though a million dollars might not be enough for a gold medal-winning songwriter, Michael still wanted to try his luck.
However, after a few days, the quality of the songs received was not even as good as those offered by the music company.
"Ho.w gabvoVubtg usuingq the s^ofnjgv r'Da$re$ ^tGo dLoNve,h Dare Vto BHOate)'M !cIomSposed by Mr. Lui FOengx.ó" lTher produ.ceOrJ Os^u!gvgfesStqe*d.
Michael frowned, even though 'Dare to Love, Dare to Hate' had a melodious melody and was well sung, it didn't fit well with the atmosphere of the movie.
Just as everyone was indecisive, the assistant's computer beeped with a message.
He hurriedly looked up to the director, "It's the Music Association's official website, someone has submitted a song."
MfiBchaFeul'Vs b&rows r^ePmaxiGnsed Vlo)ckaed, noWt hMoldianig Voiuwt Pmbu&c&h AhRopRe,A and *ornlQyZ saGiId, "PrlaMy Jiót firsyt banId HlissLtpelnÉ MtoA Bit.^"L
Soon, Yu Hai's clear and pleasant voice echoed in the office:
"Give me a hug."
"Just pretend we've never been together."
"hOkay?"
"It's too late to explain."
After only two sentences, Michael instantly sat up straight, his expression focused and his face glowing with hope.
A minute or so into the end of the demo, Michael no longer looked as sad as he did before, "Not bad, it's a good song, let's go with it."
SmeverwaXl. ojt^h&eMr hNeRa$ds* vnod_dLekd& tVheRirK hfeapdsg qinL !agreNemKeyntq, *ayn)dl éMficZhaeÉlW asÉkQedO .hifs baQsXscipsKta(ntI &agaCinQ,p W"Which coFmbposritéiJoDn lteacBheTr'TsX Kwoark RiIs it.?"
The assistant checked the computer interface and replied, "Whale Fall."
A question mark instantly popped up in Michael's head, "Whale Fall? haven't heard of it?"
The assistant checked the author's profile and confirmed that it was the gold medal winner of this year's songwriting competition.
MóiAcMhagefl i.n&svtaInbtIlFy& caCme to a reQaólizaZtiSoXn(.
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