050. Golden Finger 2.0

When the piece concluded, sensing that it was nearly time, Jiang Yu lifted his gaze toward the two outside the soundproof booth, eager to know when recording could begin.

He was met with the astonished expressions of Kyoko Kato and Chinatsu Kotobuki.

Understanding the reason behind their surprise, Jiang Yu scratched his head in mild distress, caught between laughter and resignation. After all, he wasn’t truly a jack-of-all-trades, perhaps not even a genius; yet, he kept presenting works that were at least excellent, and it was only a matter of time before others began to mythologize him.

Just as Jordan was to basketball, or Faker to League of Legends.

But aside from the foundation inherited from his predecessor, he really wasn’t adept at music... How could he explain this? Inspiration was the only excuse he could offer.

The two in the control room, recovering from their awe, noticed Jiang Yu’s troubled look and misinterpreted it. Chinatsu Kotobuki quickly signaled that recording could start anytime and saved the full piece they’d just recorded.

Jiang Yu was momentarily taken aback, then smiled helplessly. After adjusting his mood, he indicated that he was ready, and played the Canon Variations once more.

Thus, Kyoko Kato and Chinatsu Kotobuki were treated to another auditory feast.

Next, Jiang Yu took up the microphone, preparing to record “Butter-Fly.”

Clearing his throat, Jiang Yu mimicked Koji Wada’s pure, clear voice and began his own rendition, singing and playing.

This time, Chinatsu Kotobuki furrowed her brow, looking somewhat dissatisfied.

Kyoko Kato saw Chinatsu’s expression and smiled wryly, unable to argue.

After all, Jiang Yu’s vocal skills lagged far behind his piano playing; perhaps at best, he could astonish a crowd at a karaoke bar.

But in the eyes of a professional like Chinatsu Kotobuki, Jiang Yu’s natural vocal quality was not particularly outstanding, his techniques were clumsy, and his efforts to imitate were evident.

When Kyoko Kato decided to keep Jiang Yu, it was mostly for his piano prowess, not his singing and playing of “Butter-Fly.”

Still, this song was, in Kyoko’s opinion, excellent, and she was confident even Chinatsu couldn’t claim it was a disaster.

As for Jiang Yu’s singing... It was lacking, with much room for improvement.

It was reminiscent of those high school homeroom teachers in the old days, holding your report card, hesitating, then patting your shoulder and saying, “You’ve got great potential. Just keep working hard.”

And you would nod in agreement, feeling dejected for a few days, before returning to your usual routine of studying and playing as you pleased.

Jiang Yu had no idea what the two outside thought of him. He had never truly listened to his own singing, and the few times he had performed, he had received quite positive feedback.

Thinking perhaps he did have some talent in this area, Jiang Yu sang “Butter-Fly” from the heart.

To non-professionals, perhaps his singing was decent. But to pros like Chinatsu Kotobuki, it lacked refinement.

After finishing, Chinatsu sighed, shook her head, and beckoned Jiang Yu out.

Seeing the gesture, Jiang Yu obeyed and stepped out of the soundproof room, still feeling somewhat proud.

Then, with an expressionless face, Chinatsu handed him a pair of headphones. “Listen for yourself,” she said.

Jiang Yu sensed trouble, wondering if his performance was truly that poor. He took the headphones and put them on.

Hearing his own voice, Jiang Yu brushed aside the odd sensation and began to assess his singing earnestly.

After just one listen, he blushed with shame and easily concluded: it wasn’t good enough.

Not referring to “Butter-Fly” itself, but to his own performance. The better the recording equipment, the clearer the issues became.

Chinatsu spoke candidly: “I think you understand now. Honestly, it’s not great overall. The melody is good, the lyrics are good, but there are many problems with your singing.”

“Let’s leave technique aside and talk basics. You haven’t had any basic vocal training, have you?”

He shook his head.

“Ah, well, that complicates things. If you simply lacked talent, it would be easier to address. Now we’ll have to start from scratch...”

What did she mean, “if you lacked talent, it’d be easier”?

“Well, time is short. Let me briefly explain some fundamental and practical tips...”

At this, Jiang Yu settled down and listened carefully to Chinatsu’s instructions.

Kyoko Kato, a little bored, glanced at the two, then left the recording studio for reasons unknown.

...

Time passed quickly. By the time Chinatsu finished her basic explanations, nearly two hours had gone by.

When Chinatsu stepped out for a drink, Jiang Yu quietly digested the knowledge he had just received.

Then, something astonishing happened.

Chinatsu’s words surfaced in his mind, word for word, and his brain began to race. On his retina appeared a stream of mysterious “0”s and “1”s.

Soon, Jiang Yu felt he had fully mastered everything Chinatsu had taught. Half disbelieving, he tried a set of vocal exercises.

The results were identical to Chinatsu’s demonstrations—so skillful it was hard to believe he was a novice.

Frowning deeply, Jiang Yu struggled to accept that he possessed such ability. Why hadn’t he noticed it before? He’d always been at school...

Could it be because he’d never really paid attention in class?

Finding amusement in his predicament, Jiang Yu realized he’d stumbled upon the right answer.

He turned on the recording equipment, entered the soundproof booth, eager to test his theory.

Another rendition of “Butter-Fly” filled the room; Jiang Yu adjusted his singing according to Chinatsu’s key points.

After two takes, feeling he’d reached his current limit, Jiang Yu gave it one last go.

Rubbing his sore fingers, he stood up and hurried to the monitoring room, putting on headphones to replay the recent recordings.

The first take was a marked improvement over the previous ones. The final take, to Jiang Yu’s ears, was nearly the best he could achieve.

From emotional expression to vibrato control, and from pitch shifts to transitions between chest and falsetto, all had reached a masterful level.

If professional singers could debut based solely on their vocal skills, their level would be about the same.

Was his talent truly this remarkable? Jiang Yu could scarcely believe it.

Wait—was this thanks to the computer in his mind? He seemed to glimpse binary data earlier.

Had he just unlocked a new feature for his golden finger? But he hadn’t paid for a membership...

Did this thing even have a membership system? It wasn’t like it belonged to some tech giant.

Did this mean he’d activated both photographic memory and rapid comprehension at the same time?

...

So, Jiang Yu calmed his turbulent emotions by indulging in a bout of self-deprecating inner monologue.