Debut or Die - Chapter 3

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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A Fatal Illness if I Don’t Debut – Episode 3
My visit to the Broadcasting Station, practically dragged along by the writer, proved uneventful. It amounted to little more than a casual interview in front of the camera.
There wasn’t even a perfunctory request to dance. Naturally, there was no suggestion that I attend a dance academy.
It was proof that my role was clearly defined in their expectations.
Well, none of that really mattered anyway. What mattered was that I’d gotten my name on the participant list.
But there was one unexpected element.
The first recording date was far closer than I’d anticipated.
“…Ten days from now?”
“That’s right. Park Moon-dae, you came in right at the last moment. Spots like this rarely open up, but you really lucked out~ We secured this position because you’re such a solid candidate.”
They certainly knew how to package the word “replacement.”
Even as I felt a flicker of surprise, I maintained an indifferent expression.
It cost them nothing to speak with such polish, so I could afford to play along graciously.
Of course, once they opened the lid and found me worthless, they’d flip without hesitation.
Few industries cut ties as quickly as this one.
Moreover, casually demanding that an ordinary person prepare for filming and an evaluation song in ten days without proper guidance hardly constituted a legitimate request.
They spoke of it as though it were nothing unusual, but if I’d been affiliated with an Entertainment Agency, the company might have lodged a complaint.
They were essentially telling me to perform poorly with just some hastily arranged instrumental track, inviting criticism. If I wasn’t bad enough to warrant criticism, I’d simply be edited out entirely.
But I’d anticipated this much.
“…Yes. Thank you.”
I nodded, feigning obliviousness while appearing appropriately nervous about the imminent filming date.
A satisfied expression flickered across the writer’s face.
“We’re the grateful ones~ I’ll contact you with the details later.”
It was a dismissal. I left the Broadcasting Station without hesitation and began mapping out my strategy for the next ten days.
With such limited preparation time, I’d need to employ methods far more extreme than I’d originally planned.

* * *
After those hectic ten days, the first filming day finally arrived.
As was natural for a survival program format, we began with individual evaluations of each participant.
First Round of Evaluations.
Anyone who’s watched an idol survival show even once would understand, but the impression formed here often carries through to the program’s end.
So for a participant without any particularly noteworthy qualities, delivering a mediocre performance is the worst possible outcome.
It would be better to completely bomb and become a laughingstock—at least the editing could spin that into a redemption arc later.
But if you fail to show any distinguishing features here and get cut from the final edit entirely, there’s no recovery.
Not that I was deliberately aiming to become a target for viewer backlash, of course.
“You remember your number, right? You’ll be called by number. When guided, please enter through this corridor~”
The filming began with the contrived shot of participants walking through the Set corridor one by one.
It was probably for a teaser video, but they’d already spent over two hours filming for that forty-second clip.
That made sense—there were seventy-seven participants in total.
‘Just kids, all of them.’
I glanced around at the faces scattered across the barren Set space that barely qualified as a waiting area, and my motivation began to drain.
No matter how much I had a status window or was regressed, the reality of pursuing an idol career among these children was finally hitting me as genuinely embarrassing.
“Um, hello there.”
One of the kids who’d been chatting with people around the area approached me.
I couldn’t tell if this one was just genuinely excited or deliberately trying to break the ice.
What mattered was that they looked like a middle schooler.
Here I was, at this age, exchanging names with a middle schooler for the sake of social networking.
“Did you apply alone?”
“Yes.”
“Wow, me too. Oh, by the way, how old are you…?”
“…Twenty.”
Lying about nine years felt awkward on my tongue, yet oddly satisfying.
“Do you have an Entertainment Agency?”
“No.”
“Ah, right! Usually older participants come through an Entertainment Agency. I was asking which one you were with originally…”
“I never had one to begin with.”
“Ah… I see.”
The middle schooler’s interest evaporated instantly.
They quickly wrapped up the conversation and moved on to talk to someone else.
This kid clearly understood the social hierarchy already—they’d probably succeed.
Of course, they’d need to hide that calculating attitude from the cameras, but that was their problem to solve.
Anyway, if even middle schoolers were operating like this, the competition was brutal.
I began to suspect I’d made a ridiculous decision, caught up in an unrealistic situation. But it was too late now.
“Everyone, we’re moving to the next Set!”
The actual broadcast filming was finally beginning.
I followed along with the middle and high school students moving together like a meerkat colony.
I waited for my turn beside the Main Stage where the first round of judging was taking place.
I was called roughly in the early-to-mid portion.

* * *
“Participant Lee Sae-jin B is… ranked 15th! Please take your seat.”
“Thank you!”
At the MC’s words, one of the participants being judged bowed their head respectfully.
She was one of four participants grouped together for evaluation because they came from the same Entertainment Agency.
She was the best of the bunch they could salvage, but the production team’s mood remained unsettled.
‘It’s too extreme.’
Ryu Seo-rin, the writer twirling her pen, furrowed her brow.
Season 3 had a reduced budget compared to the previous season. It was inevitable. This was the season they’d barely managed to restart after Season 2 had flopped.
‘Re-listing’—even with such a ridiculous subtitle, the production team had gritted their teeth through preparations, determined to erase Season 2’s shadow.
But no matter how much they patched things up and concealed them through connections and planning, certain cracks still showed.
One of them was the talent pool.
Adequately trained candidates had leaked out to other audition programs in droves.
To fill the quota of 77 participants, they’d stuffed the roster with people who merely looked presentable on the surface, inflating the proportion of hollow shells.
When there were too many incompetent people, there were limits to how much entertainment value editing could salvage.
In Korean audition programs, promoting someone without talent was nearly impossible. No matter how much you packaged non-existent skills, the slightest misstep would trigger an avalanche of criticism.
Not hatred accompanied by buzz, but keywords centered on ‘boring’ and ‘deceptive’.
They’d managed to fill the headcount of first-tier participants already marked for debut rights, but running the program without a dark horse candidate all the way through was no easy feat.
‘This one coming up is the same.’
The participant about to be evaluated was a complete rookie inserted just ten days before the first broadcast taping.
One of the other participants had driven under the influence at the last minute, so they’d hastily removed her and picked this one instead—there were no great expectations.
‘What was her name again? I’ll find out when she performs, whatever.’
This participant had a decent voice and decent looks, plus she had a personal story they could use if needed.
Thanks to that, she’d easily cleared the lowered bar set by the urgency of the situation.
But even combining all those advantages, she was ultimately just slightly better than a substitute.
‘Well… she could work as a comparison point.’
The judges had quickly flipped through her application—nothing special besides her family circumstances—and were chatting with indifferent expressions.
So she found herself thinking along similar lines.
‘Yeah, it’d be better if she was really terrible. At least that would draw attention.’
If mediocre performers kept appearing, it would get tedious, but a few who were spectacularly incompetent could still fill out the program nicely. After all, ridicule was still attention.
There was a decent chance an ordinary person, preparing alone in just ten days, would be laughably bad.
She glanced at the stage with a faint glimmer of hope.
“Next participant, please take the stage!”
Just then, that ordinary participant was stepping up onto the stage.
Fortunately, her styling seemed to have been done properly—her face looked more presentable than before.
The problem was the mysterious atmosphere she gave off—bored yet melancholic.
Last time, she’d wondered if it was because of her family situation, but even with all these cameras around, she maintained that attitude?
The truth was that I’d seen cameras swarming in countless scenes while doing stand-in shoots, but the writer had no way of knowing that, so she found it puzzling.
‘…Is this the type who doesn’t show nervousness easily?’
It didn’t really matter either way. Then I’d just frame him as arrogant despite lacking the skills to back it up. The writer’s mind raced with possibilities.
Meanwhile, Park Moon-dae had taken the stage and was listening to the MC.
“Yes. Participant, please introduce yourself.”
“…I’m Park Moon-dae. Thank you for having me.”
And I bowed my head respectfully. At that, the judges’ table erupted in barely suppressed laughter and snickers.
“That’s it? Nothing else?”
One male judge holding the microphone asked with a laugh in his voice.
His tone carried a subtly negative undertone—implying I should say more—but I nodded seriously in response.
“Yes. I have no career worth mentioning.”
At that, genuine laughter burst from the judges’ table.
“Wow, this guy’s unique!”
“This is fun~”
A few of them whispered softly to each other. Of course, the microphone picked it all up.
“Ah, looking at the application here, there really is nothing at all.”
“Right?”
It was about time for comments like “Why did you even come?” to start appearing.
But thinking it would be more impressive to save such remarks for after the performance, the judges all suppressed their smirks.
And the writers thought: We might actually get some usable cuts out of this.
“Then let’s see your performance.”
“Yes.”
With malicious curiosity, the participant accepted the microphone a staff member handed over.
Not long after, the instrumental began to play.
And everyone was taken aback.
This song here? Now?

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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