Peerless Perverted Actor Has a Celebrity Harem?!

Strangely, Park did not jump straight into the remaining three gifts.

The Insta-Boost, Perfect Crown, and Spoiled by System were still waiting inside the Beginner Package, each carrying a name shameless enough to promise something ridiculous, but the abilities he had already received kept tugging at his attention.

Reading their descriptions was one thing. Feeling what they had actually done to him was another.

He wanted proof and not just glowing text floating in front of his face, but something real. He wanted to feel the difference in his throat, his expressions, his timing, and whatever hidden machinery inside an actor turned written dialogue into a living person.

The next time he walked onto a set, which would hopefully happen before the industry forgot he existed again, he wanted to know exactly what kind of monster the System had rebuilt him into.

So Park locked the double doors, kicked off his shoes, loosened his shirt, and spent the next hour and a half playing with his new toys.

He started with acting.

He had several scripts were tucked away inside the study, leftovers from previous auditions and minor roles he never got gigs for. Some were dog-eared, others coffee-stained, and nearly all of them had lines underlined in several different colours because the old Park had rehearsed multiple interpretations, then forgotten which version he had finally chosen.

Sometimes when he got frustrated, just like the Park of Earth, this Park believed organisation was something that happened to other people.

Park carried the scripts into the sitting room, chose one at random, and began running the scenes aloud.

At first, everything felt familiar. Comfortable, even. The dialogue returned naturally, the blocking followed behind it, and his body remembered small decisions that had once taken hours of rehearsal to settle.

It felt like slipping into an old pair of shoes, except these shoes had somehow been upgraded while he was dead.

Then Mourner’s Tongue began showing off.

The performance became cleaner without becoming artificial, sharper without looking rehearsed. Emotion no longer felt like something Park had to chase, drag into the scene, and hold down before it escaped. The moment he decided what the character felt, that emotion settled naturally into his breathing, his eyes, his posture, and even the way his fingers rested against the script.

When he played the handsome lackey, Kim, the dead boy whose tiny contribution had pushed his Bronze progress bar forward by two percent, the director and crew had already been impressed.

He had fitted the role so well that most scenes he had did only needed one take.

Whenever the director requested another, it was rarely because Park had made a mistake and simply wanted to know whether the rookie could reach the same level of perfection twice and not some luck.

Park always had.

That consistency had been one of the both old hims’s quieter prides. They might not have been famous, well connected, while blessed with a face that made casting directors reconsider their hatred, but once he found a performance, he could repeat it perfectly.

This was different.

This was not repeating a performance.

It was rebuilding the character whenever he pleased.

Park ran the same scene three times:

The first version was cold, with every word carrying the careful indifference of someone who had already decided the relationship was dead. The second was wounded, the anger barely covering the humiliation beneath it. The third became sardonic, almost playful, as though the character had found the whole betrayal funny because admitting it hurt would have been far more embarrassing.

Each interpretation felt complete. Not a different facial expression pasted over the same delivery, but three separate people reaching the same moment through entirely different lives.

Even the silences behaved properly.

A pause no longer felt like Park waiting for the next line. It felt like the character thinking, resisting, remembering, or choosing which lie would hurt less. The smallest movements arrived without being ordered. A tightening jaw. A glance that lingered half a second too long. Fingers curling before the emotion reached his voice.

By the time he finished, Park had almost forgotten he was standing barefoot in his own sitting room, performing a breakup scene to a lamp.

He lowered the script and stared at the ceiling.

"That is going to make people cry."

The lamp remained brave, luckily.

After working through several more scenes, Park switched to music.

Singing had always ranked below the acting talent for him. His voice came second after acting, while composition sat third, though calling any of them weak would have been deeply insulting to normal people.

Even after the System recalculated his talents, most had risen into S rank, while composition (musicality) remained at A+.

’A tragedy.’

He might only be able to write cleanly across several genres, create melodies on command, improvise lyrics, and embarrass professional songwriters before turning twenty.

How would he survive?

The System had not labelled his talent Peerless because it enjoyed dramatic adjectives. The foundation had already been there. What it gave him was polish, control, and a complete lack of respect for reasonable limits.

Park began with songwriting.

Ideas came so quickly that keeping track of them became the actual problem. A melody formed from the way warm light pooled across the floor near the door. Another rose from the silence of the suite, the specific kind created by rooms built large enough that every small sound seemed lonely inside them.

He found half a chorus in the faint hum of the air-conditioning and a slower, more dangerous love song in the memory of Quinn’s gloved hand tightening against the front of his shirt.

He stopped that one halfway through.

Not because it was bad.

Because it was becoming much too good, and sending a woman a song about her hands on your clothes after knowing her for one evening was either bold romance or evidence in a future disciplinary hearing.

Park decided to save it for later.

Then he tested his voice.

He began with the same low note from before, held it, climbed gradually through his range, then dropped again. He moved through several vocal colours, testing softness, weight, brightness, and the rougher edge needed for more emotional songs.

Every note held.

Nothing cracked. Nothing thinned halfway through a sustain. His breathing remained steady, and the tired, slightly breathy weakness that used to reveal every late night had vanished completely.

His throat seemed to understand where the sound needed to sit before Park consciously placed it there.

The middle register surprised him most. It possessed a warmth that did not merely sound pleasant.

It felt close, almost private, as though he were singing beside the listener instead of across a room.

Park stopped and rubbed the back of his neck.

He was going to have to be careful.

Anyone who had heard him sing before would immediately know something had changed. People could accept improvement. Training, rest, confidence, a new vocal coach. Society had invented many polite explanations for sudden talent.

This was not improvement.

This was his old voice being dragged into a luxury workshop, rebuilt with illegal parts, and returned without documentation.

Still, Park was not foolish enough to assume smoothness meant mastery; the abilities had raised his foundation, removed several weaknesses, and handed him tools most performers would gladly sell a relative for, but real range and control still required practice.

Talent gave him a beautiful weapon...

’...training would teach me where to aim it.’

Park had never been lazy about improvement. His old life had simply given him more determination than opportunity. Now, for the first time, he possessed a version of himself worth pushing as far as it could go.

That thought stayed with him long after the first excitement settled.

Eventually, he sat at the low table beside the window, found a clean notebook in one of the drawers, and began writing a soft love song.

It took less than half an hour.

The melody stayed low and unhurried, carrying none of the desperate declarations most love songs threw around as though affection required public property damage. The lyrics were simple, careful, and close. It did not beg the listener to stay or promise to die if they left. It merely offered a quiet place beside someone and made that invitation feel more intimate than any grand confession.

Park sang it under his breath once, changed two lines, then tried it again at full volume.

It worked.

More importantly, it sounded honest.

He recorded the finished version on his phone and listened back through the room’s sound system. Then he connected his earbuds and played it again, expecting the cheaper recording to flatten something important.

It did not.

The warmth remained. The soft ache remained. Even through a phone microphone, his voice reached the listener with its intentions intact.

Park stared at Quinn’s contact for several seconds.

The old him would have written a caption, deleted it, written another, checked whether the wording appeared too eager, and eventually convinced himself to send nothing until morning.

The new Park attached the audio file and pressed send.

No caption, explanation or the careful little question asking whether she was still awake.

Just a love song appearing on Quinn’s phone at whatever hour she had finally escaped her duties and allowed herself to lie down.

Park placed the phone face-down on the table before common sense could request an emergency meeting.

There.

Done.

If she liked it, excellent.

If she misunderstood his intentions, even better.

Only then did he return to the Beginner Package.

The initial excitement had settled into something sharper. When he first opened the Abilities Box, he had been curious. Now he had felt those gifts moving through him. He had watched old scripts become new performances, pulled melodies from lamplight and silence, and recorded a song good enough to send without hiding behind an explanation.

Whatever the remaining rewards contained, they would not be small.

The System had already proven it had no interest in fairness.

Fortunately, neither did Park.

Blue light returned before his cognac-gold eyes.

[Gift: Insta-Boost.]