Billy was the star everyone wanted to be. The people who were now his friends—and everything else—saw him as a blazing force from the very moment he sang Life Is Beautiful. Billy was the rock star everyone dreamed of becoming, and he was beginning to believe that no one in music could even come close to touching his most complex and ambivalent standards—the absolute master, the king of music. Blue letters seemed to flicker and burn before his eyes, hinting at a complete madness in the years to come, and he had already reached the final tier—Level 11, the level of legend, where anyone who wishes to be remembered until the end of time must stand. And now, Billy was part of that realm.
Each level granted knowledge and skill, but Level 11 gave him something that felt like a dream—the ability to breathe music itself, to understand it as a concept, and to push it beyond its limits.
The system gave him an idea: to use his emotions and amplify them, to project his thoughts like small flashes of light. To infect people with them—make them feel joy, sadness, or carry music deep in their hearts. To unleash every loaded emotion, to make them scream and cry—it was both therapeutic and addictive. And when people, filled with that fervor, released everything they carried, it became the downfall of anyone burdened by their own weight.
Level 11 added charisma, added a new dimension. It gave his voice a force unlike any other. He could inspire people to become singers, make his voice echo in someone's mind for a long time, reveal to them the beauty of the world. He could enter people's memories and remain there forever, unforgettable.
And now, he could read sheet music like a three-dimensional map, feel music even when it wasn't being played, find it in everything—in the air, in the forests, in water, in everyday sounds—and understand it. It was intangible, yet he could imitate almost any sound, from vocal tones to the voices of others with enough practice. He could hold a note for an entire minute, reach both the deepest lows and the highest highs. With training, it felt as though his voice itself had become a weapon.
Singing was no longer just an act—when he sang, he became something divine.
Status –
Billy Carson.
Singing: (1/100,000) Level 11: Legend.
Piano: (945/1024) Level 9: Master.
Guitar: (123/10,000) Level 10: Guru.
Violin: (460/1024) Level 7: Veteran.
Global Skill Rating:
7 / 8,340,000
Followers:
29,789,000
Level 7 was enough to join a professional band and hold your own—it wasn't opera or classical mastery, but it brushed against that threshold. Level 9 placed you among the elite—not the highest, but elite nonetheless. Level 10 was what separated the very good from the truly exceptional.
Legend… that was something else entirely. A state everyone dreamed of, reached only in rare flashes. For Billy, it came naturally.
—He's simply too good —Jerry said, almost ready to throw away his cane and start jumping. Billy was rocking with The Doors, and he was a complete ace. Jerry understood better than anyone that Billy would become even more famous—a quiet fame that would endure for years and only grow stronger.
It was filled with love, because when people gave their love—and Billy already did—that was when the symbiotic relationship of rock began. A mutual bond between a person and their essence. Legends were born in that space, and that was exactly what they hoped would rise with Billy at the forefront—someone who already understood just how good he was.
—We have our legend—our new legend who will sweep the awards next year and be loved by the entire world. The Beatles were the beginning, and Billy Carson is the end of an era that transcends simplicity—it's a complete emotional force. What will we face to unite all the bands? —George Martin said, his age lending a theatrical weight to his words. It was a battle against the death of rock—a struggle to extend a genre that was loved, yet seemed to be fading into silence.
--I like it, I really do—no doubt about that. —Ray Manzarek whispered. Something struck him with the force of three stars, a harsh reminder that his youth and arrogance had once been filtered through his own lens—a lens that often led to ruin. The organ had always been his companion, and Jim Morrison had been the voice—the soul. Damn Jim, how he missed him. How proud he felt, seeing the beauty Jim held in his eyes, remembering the purity of what they had built together.
But he wouldn't openly admit Billy was that good. To deny it would be foolish, and a man like that couldn't survive as a producer. Reason had to be his guiding principle—first and foremost—before allowing room for the irony he longed to express.
—Well, I think it's simple—we sang as best we could and left a fever behind us. —Billy said. Now all that remained was to take the stage with ten songs that were pure madness. Add one more, and he had an album that invited speculation—the irony of life itself.
--Hey, kid… you're everything I ever wanted for Jim Morrison. Please, live a long time. —Patty Sullivan murmured, watching the boy's profile. It was astonishing—his voice left him speechless, filling him with a deep calm. Time had etched itself across Patty's aging face, marked by years in the industry.
—What do you think about music? —Patty asked, as Billy adjusted his long hair, now falling over his eyes.
--Music and I were great friends. I can do whatever I want with it. I just need a microphone, and it works for me. —Billy replied, with rebellious confidence. He always answered roughly when he wanted to show off, and he had mastered the art of sounding like he knew everything. Though now, deep down, he felt a quiet certainty—that he might actually be wiser than most. Rock ran through his mind like a constant game.
--Then, little Billy, give us something good. We'll start the concert in August. For now, we'll let the world hear this record we've made. It's a true journey—one I'll be watching closely in the coming months. That last song… it's special. —Bobby Krieger said.
--Of course, of course—we'll make the generation of the '70s remember their glory days. I just hope they can still move like they did thirty years ago. —Billy replied.
--Back in the '80s, we were very loved. —Bobby Krieger answered with a soft laugh. No matter the idea, no matter the time that had passed, their old fans would return. And with that, one of the greatest collaborations in history would take shape. The legacy would pass to Billy like a torch, slipping into the shared memory of countless moments—returning to a time when everything was different, when war was always close, and life was chased with the same passion as love and beauty.
Billy looked at the veterans beside him. Time itself was a lifetime—they had created the first great wave of rock. Back when Jim Morrison proved that madness could become an image, something people would carry with them forever.
--Can you lower your voice by two tones when I come in with the bass? —Patrick asked.
—I can't—the sustain locks me in. But I can ease into it, about five seconds over the note, and do the best I can. —Billy replied.