Debut or Die - Chapter 4

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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 4
“Huh?”
Several judges began murmuring among themselves.
“T-Holic?”
A few years ago, T-Holic—the mega-sized boy group that had won the Grand Prize three years running—had entered a hiatus. It was an unavoidable consequence of military enlistment depleting their roster.
So instead, the agency had pushed the youngest member’s solo activities—a main vocalist who hadn’t yet enlisted. It was a mini-album fronted by a title track with an intense chorus.
But time would reveal that the album’s true gem wasn’t the title track at all—it was the B-side.
Remarkably, it had climbed to third place on the music charts through reverse momentum.
The wave that began with a recommendation from a major female solo artist’s SNS post had grown into a modest swell through several variety shows.
That B-side was “PARTY IN ME.”
An easy-listening track with lush band instrumentation and refined synths in perfect harmony, it had been performed at numerous university festivals that year and eventually secured a spot in the annual top 100.
And what was flowing through the filming studio right now was unmistakably its intro.
An iconic introduction with that distinctive accordion-like chorus melody layered beneath the accompaniment.
Of course, it was a masterpiece. Performed well, it was certainly an impressive song.
Which made this all the stranger.
‘How could someone choose this without knowing what it is?’
This was because the song occupied an extremely ambiguous position.
It wasn’t a signature hit from a famous idol’s prime, nor was it a well-known song from an established artist.
So in either an idol survival show or a singer survival show, it wasn’t the kind of track someone would immediately recall and select in an initial evaluation.
It subtly fell between both categories.
And now, years after the song’s heyday, it was even less likely.
The producers had expected a generic choice and hadn’t bothered assigning a specific song, which created this unexpected variable.
Of course, the production team could have reviewed the audio files submitted by contestants beforehand. But with 77 participants already, it was too much.
It had been careless to gloss over a filler contestant without investing the time.
‘This ambiguous song will be difficult to edit for comparison…’
The Writer/Producer tapped her pen irritably against the desk.
The judges, initially surprised by the song choice, were now waiting for the intro to end with a somewhat relaxed demeanor.
And then Park Moon-dae opened his mouth.
-I remember the me that I knew
Beyond that bright and dazzling season
Even through the weary and fragile times
At the end of endless days
What holds my broken self together, Oh-
Only me
Yeah, it’s me
“…!”
Excellent.
From the first verse—starting with a syncopated rhythm and flowing like a recitation—everything was flawless.
Because it sounds so comfortable to the ear, many people don’t realize it, but usually when someone performs this song, they tend to miss all those subtle rhythmic nuances.
It comes across as amateurish.
But this participant was inserting delicate melodic phrases with precision into every complex beat.
‘Dum, ta-dum-, dun, dum, da-an-, ta-dum.’
“…!”
One of the judges, who had been unconsciously tapping the table, was startled. It had fit perfectly.
When sung this way, even a casual viewer unfamiliar with subdivided beats and such details would get the impression of ‘singing well.’ Because the vocals aligned precisely with the backing track.
And furthermore….
‘The vocal technique… is good?’
The vocal technique was distinctly excellent. It wasn’t just powerful—the beautiful tone resonated with three-dimensional depth.
‘Was it like this at the Noraebang too?’
The Writer/Producer recalled the song she’d heard when they first met, but it didn’t seem to be at this level. If they’d sung like this, she would have conducted a longer interview during recruitment. She might have even been more lenient with the song choice.
‘So they improved this much in just ten days?’
Regardless of the Writer/Producer’s bewilderment, the song moved past the verse and into the pre-chorus.
-So I
I have to celebrate myself
I must never forget this
Come on, remember
Until now
Even as the notes climbed in an escalating pattern, not once did the pitch go flat. There were no awkward breathing moments either.
At this point, the Writer/Producer began noticing other things. Like the shocked expressions on the judges’ faces, for instance.
-Always living through today
This amazing miracle
Don’t forget, don’t erase it
So congratulate
Celebrate this moment
That’s the party in me
Like every day is a PARTY, Ooh-
Let’s PARTY
The high notes soared effortlessly. There was no strain whatsoever. Clean and fluid, as if an entire octave of range remained in reserve.
Rather than belting recklessly, it was delivered gently and beautifully like spoken words—exactly what this song demanded.
Now the Writer/Producer felt like laughing in disbelief.
‘Yeah, this turned out great…, definitely main vocal material…. We were short on vocalists anyway, so this is perfect, right? My eye for talent is truly remarkable. Just recruiting someone off the street and this caliber walks through the door.’
The second verse began again.
Park Moon-dae naturally handled the complexity of the same melody as the first verse but with altered timing.
Crossing the bridge and reaching the final chorus where a key change occurred, the voice effortlessly rose as if it were the most natural thing.
A thrilling high note that sent shivers down the spine passed through cleanly. It wasn’t excessive, yet it didn’t gloss over the moment either—a magnificent climax.
Then, returning to the opening verse as if speaking again, the song ended.
-…I, I remember the me I knew
The participant produced a beautiful sound all the way to the final note.
The moment the backing track ended, Park Moon-dae bowed respectfully. Then he added something slightly awkward.
“…Thank you for listening.”
A brief silence fell. The Writer/Producer gripped her pen tightly.
‘Right. Don’t let him go—keep him.’
As she repositioned Park Moon-dae’s placement, the judges eagerly picked up their microphones.
“Wow, Moon-dae!!”
“Yes.”
“You know you did well, right!?”
“…I practiced hard to sing well.”
Then another judge cut in sharply.
“No, that’s just natural talent. You’ve got real skill.”
It was the Choreographer Judge, known for his directness.
He was smiling with his eyes narrowed, clearly pleased.
Though he exaggerated a bit for the broadcast, he wasn’t the type to say things he didn’t mean.
Park Moon-dae silently rejoiced, bowing his head respectfully.
The judges’ praise continued to pour in.
In particular, Moody, the female solo artist appearing as a vocal coach, shone with enthusiasm and lavished praise.
“First of all, your tone is really refreshing. And your vocal technique is so good that it makes it sound even better.”
“Right? It’s like you’re speaking right next to my ear…”
“Exactly.”
Voices of agreement poured out. Then Moody nodded and continued in a rapid voice.
“Also, your voice isn’t genre-specific and seems like it would suit anything, which is incredibly important for idols. There’s no awkward habit or dated feel to it, and I’m really looking forward to what comes next. Truly.”
“Thank you.”
“Moon-dae, you’ve never joined an agency before, right? You said earlier you had no experience, and looking at your profile, there really isn’t any history.”
“Yes, not yet….”
Then the Young Male Judge interjected. He was a member of a famous boy group that had lost two members during a recent contract renewal season.
“So you’ve never had special lessons either?”
“No.”
“Not at all? So no academy either?”
Park Moon-dae quietly shook his head.
The judge who asked expressed admiration with a hint of skepticism in his expression. Then Moody laughed brightly and spoke again.
“That’s right, sometimes waiting for one real shot is better than joining just any agency. I’m sure you’ll get offers from good places!”
“Thank you for the kind words.”
The Writer/Producer suddenly recalled that Moody’s agency was preparing to launch a boy group.
‘Now that I think about it, she has a stake in her agency.’
And she looked at the contestant, who was still bowing politely but didn’t seem particularly impressed.
Then, seeing the judges’ seats full of praise again, she felt a strange unease wash over her.
Something felt like it had been glossed over somehow.
It should have been beneficial for the broadcast to discover a skilled contestant, yet she felt unsettled.
The Writer/Producer rested her chin on her hand, then suddenly remembered as she looked at the handheld microphone Park Moon-dae was holding.
‘He never actually danced properly!’
Of course, Park Moon-dae had performed some choreography-like movements.
However, since this song wasn’t originally produced for promotional activities, the movements were merely rhythmic gestures at best.
When the dancers around me performed proper choreography, I was structured to simply stretch my arms in time with the beat and move my legs a few times in imitation.
Yet the original stage with dancers remained as an afterimage in people’s minds.
Even watching these meager hand and foot movements, it was easy for them to mentally fill in dancers around me and think, “Well, the original stage was like that too,” and move on.
Especially when the vocals were delivered so flawlessly!
Besides, I had indeed performed a conceptual song from a top-tier idol, so I could get by on vocal ability alone and even dodge questions like “Is this really what you want to do as an idol?”
In the end, it was the best choice available to me in this situation.
‘This goes beyond mere sense—there’s a seasoned professionalism to it….’
The Writer/Producer scrutinized me with a dissatisfied gaze, as if she could sense something beneath the surface.
And as if reading the Writer/Producer’s thoughts, one of the judges who had been quietly observing the other judges’ praise picked up the microphone.
It was Young-rin from Saint You, the female idol group that had achieved viral success during their obscure days with a fancam of her smiling and performing acrobatics in the monsoon rain.
“The choreography difficulty was almost nonexistent just now—could we see your dancing performed properly?”
The Writer/Producer wanted to applaud.

* * *
‘Perfect.’
All those days of grinding through this one song and focusing on leveling up had paid off.
I’d poured every available point into vocal ability, and as a result, my current status window showed ‘Vocals’ at A-.
It was the obvious choice. In Korea, a singer who can’t sing is disqualified, whether they’re an idol or anything else.
Poor dancing can be covered with practice hours, but poor singing shows through even with pre-recorded tracks.
Moreover, in the idol trainee pool, there were typically fewer main vocal aspirants than main dancer aspirants.
So if I established myself in the main vocal position early, the probability of securing a spot in the debut group would increase significantly.
Next was the selection method for the evaluation song.
Given the notably low amount of negative feedback, my approach seemed to have been correct.
I anticipated criticisms the judges would likely make based on my weaknesses, then systematically excluded any songs that would provoke those reactions.
‘Why is your dancing like that?’
-Eliminated songs with elaborate choreography.
‘You don’t dance at all?’
-Eliminated ballads.
‘Your singing is good. But it doesn’t feel very idol-like, does it?’
-Kept only idol songs and eliminated everything else.
‘Wasn’t it too much for you to handle this song alone?’
-Eliminated all songs performed by three or more artists—no reckless gambles when I couldn’t even arrange.
‘It’s inevitable you’ll be compared to the original artist!’
-Eliminated all songs released within the past three years.
Then I selected the song with the best streaming chart performance from what remained.
It was a solid strategy, really.
I thought I might slip through unscathed, but as expected, there’s always one person who doesn’t get swept up in the atmosphere.
I made eye contact with the judge holding the microphone.
I recognized the face.
She was the first idol who taught me that filming idols could actually make money. Thanks to her, I covered my tuition for the second semester of my first year.
‘She gained a hardworking image from that viral acrobatic fancam and became quite the hot topic, so it was a win-win for both of us back then.’
But this time, it doesn’t seem like a mutually beneficial encounter.
“I understand you haven’t received training. However, since this is the first screening, shouldn’t we at least check your baseline abilities? If you’re participating in an audition program, I’d expect you to have prepared at least one song.”
Saying something like “I didn’t prepare anything” here would be insane. It would be worse than just keeping my mouth shut.
“Yes. Would this song work?”
A staff member quickly approached near the stage and gestured to me. I walked over and told them the song I’d been thinking of.
Then the camera followed, capturing even the staff member’s flinch.
Seeing this, it looks like they’ll avoid heavy editing if possible. All my effort is paying off.
And immediately after, an upbeat instrumental filled the Filming Studio.
“…!?”

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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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