Debut or Die - Chapter 8

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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 8
To be precise, Park Moon-dae’s dancing wasn’t quite at the level of admiration. It was more like—he wouldn’t stand out in a group formation.
But conversely, it meant he possessed enough visual appeal to blend seamlessly into ensemble choreography.
‘Even if that were the debut song right now…’
He seemed like he wouldn’t fall behind the other participants. It was an impossible leap in progress!
The Choreographer Judge hadn’t anticipated this situation, but he quickly regained his composure.
‘There’s no way talent suddenly appears out of nowhere in two days.’
So if he’d used his head, he probably just forced himself to nail the opening impact for the sake of first impressions.
‘Any moment now, he’ll slip back into sloppy movements….’
“….”
But he didn’t slip back.
Park Moon-dae maintained that same level of quality straight into the chorus.
No—if anything, his tempo control actually improved in the chorus.
Unlike most lower-tier class participants, his limbs didn’t flail loosely. He wasn’t crudely mashing movements around his joints; he was hitting precise angles.
-What shines on this stage today… is me!
Moreover, he wasn’t skipping or omitting a single phrase of the song—he was singing every note honestly.
His technique was lacking, but his tone was clean and resonant, without a single pitch break or flat note.
Beside the Choreographer Judge, judge Moody tapped her pen rhythmically.
It seemed like an unconscious gesture, but it meant she was genuinely impressed.
Even to his ear, which had no particular expertise in vocals, Park Moon-dae was the best participant so far.
-Look closely at this moment… I’m shining the brightest!
No, this was genuinely excellent.
His clean tone pierced straight into her ears.
‘How much effort must a layman have poured in to sing this stably while executing such choreography?’
The Choreographer Judge found himself thinking with unexpected warmth.
He clearly distinguished between those who were “skilled, promising, brimming with potential” and those who weren’t, treating them accordingly.
And in this moment, within the Choreographer Judge’s mind, Park Moon-dae’s rating—previously lowered for lacking dance talent—was being recalibrated.
‘Since his strength is singing, maybe he’s been so focused on maintaining stable vocals during the choreography that he’s been rushing just to learn the moves.’
Yet the sense of dissonance didn’t entirely disappear.
‘…It’s hard for dancing to improve in two days without any particular catalyst.’
Throughout it all, Park Moon-dae finished the second verse without losing tempo or power, bringing the song to its conclusion.
The judges’ panel fell silent.
Separate from his bewilderment, he suddenly felt a positive emotion surge up into his mind.
It was admiration.
“Huff, huff, thank you,”
Right after the song ended, Park Moon-dae’s face had flushed crimson from exhaustion, and he was breathing heavily.
Gone was the brazen composure and blank expression from his first evaluation when he’d boldly chosen his song. Now his face was flushed with fervent effort.
A face that made you think: he really did work hard.
Such a contrast had the effect of making observers feel unexpectedly moved.
Beside the Choreographer Judge, Moody’s eyes looked ready to shower him with praise at any moment.
The Choreographer Judge assumed the other judges would likely experience something similar, though perhaps to a lesser degree.
But no one else possessed the ability to amplify this impact for broadcast the way he did. After all, he was the one who’d honed the dancers during the two-week dance classes.
So the Choreographer Judge deliberately ignored the production staff’s implicit signal for Young-rin to give the first evaluation.
Instead, he leaned toward the microphone first.
“Park Moon-dae.”
“Phew… yes.”
“You did well.”
….
The brevity made the praise all the more certain.
Park Moon-dae responded not with words but with a grin.
It was a bright, unmistakably genuine smile—nothing like the expressionless contestant from the past two weeks, almost impish in its clarity.

* * *
A good twist always wins.
This formula never failed in idol audition shows.
Even as my heart pounded so hard I thought it might burst from my chest, relief flooded through me.
The judges’ reactions were favorable.
“Goodness, how impressive.”
“Park Moon-dae, there’s really nothing to criticize today~”
“Truly well done.”
I felt one step further removed from sudden death.
‘Right. Investing all three points I’d accumulated throughout filming into dance was the correct choice.’
So my dance was now at C-rank.
Honestly, the sense of improvement was far more dramatic than when I’d leveled up my vocals.
What my mind understood but my body couldn’t execute suddenly became embodied in an instant.
The sensation of muscles I couldn’t use before suddenly becoming responsive rippled through my entire frame.
It was genuinely exhilarating.
At this level, I probably couldn’t reach advanced class, but I’d be comparable to intermediate-level participants.
Especially since I’d spent the entire first week without sleep, memorizing only choreography—my mastery of the moves was so thorough it felt like it could burst out at any moment.
Limited to this song, I might actually be better than most intermediate-level dancers.
‘And I unleashed it all at once without any intermediate steps.’
As long as the editing didn’t cut me out entirely, I’d pass the first elimination with this.
I was progressing steadily toward survival.
And the expected question came.
“But Park Moon-dae, what exactly did you do these past two days?”
At the Choreographer Judge’s question, I could see judge Moody mouth ‘Why?’ in response.
The Choreographer Judge added an explanation as if answering her.
“Your dancing suddenly works? Just like that in the two days we didn’t see you.”
“That’s…”
I steadied my breathing and deliberately shook my head in a slightly awkward manner, appearing embarrassed.
“I asked a friend who’s good at it.”
“A friend who’s good at it?”
“Sun Ah-hyun.”
In other words, a smokescreen.
I couldn’t exactly tell them I’d leveled up through the status window, so I decided to gloss over it emotionally instead.
Conveniently, my roommate happened to be Sun Ah-hyun, who was in the advanced dance class.
It wasn’t unheard of for peers to improve dramatically after receiving practical advice directly from one another, so I figured I’d give it a shot.
-Do you have a moment?
-Me? You’re talking to me…?
-Yeah. Sorry, but if you have time, could you help me with this move…?
-Oh, y-yes! Of course!
-…Okay then.
What’s more, Sun Ah-hyun had been absolutely delighted when I’d barely broached the subject, and had taught me with such enthusiasm that I would’ve felt sorry if I hadn’t improved.
He’d spent nearly two hours breaking down each movement and explaining it with such passion that I was genuinely taken aback.
I’d only been trying to get the basics right…
Regardless, the image of having helped an amateur participant who couldn’t grasp the feel of the choreography would certainly do Sun Ah-hyun no harm. It wasn’t a bad look at all.
Should I strengthen the narrative a bit more? Let me add some unnecessary remarks.
“…Sun Ah-hyun was really kind.”
“Hey, so I’m not kind then?”
The Choreographer Judge immediately pounced on that.
But his face was breaking into a grin, his expression full of playful intent.
It seemed to have gone over well enough. A warm atmosphere settled among the judges.
“Do you remember what I said in my first evaluation?”
Young-rin from Saint You asked gently. It didn’t seem like a genuine question so much as an opening to the conversation.
“I said you had no proficiency in dance whatsoever, so future missions would be challenging for you.”
Young-rin smiled faintly.
“I think I misspoke. Park Moon-dae, it seems you’ll overcome challenges quite well.”
“Thank you.”
“Today, I really enjoyed watching you. Next time, I’d like to see more ease in your movements.”
“I’ll do my best to make that happen.”
One comment alone wouldn’t suddenly grant me ease of movement, but in an audition program, you had to give a proper response. It was rather amusing.
In any case, it had been successful. I received favorable comments from the remaining judges and made a reasonable prediction.
My rating would be Gold.

* * *
Like other idol audition programs, the theme song in Idol Corporation was the content most exposed to the public first.
And naturally, the theme song’s airtime went to those who performed well. This evaluation round was what determined the criteria for “performing well.”
You could roughly guess from the class-dividing badges, but the rankings were split into upper, middle, and lower tiers: Gold, Silver, and Bronze.
“However, participants who fail to meet even the Bronze criteria will be… eliminated!”
They said that every season, but it had never actually happened, so there was no need to worry about it.
And above these three classifications, there was one more tier.
“The newly revitalized Idol Corporation returns this season—who will be the lucky participant to receive the Platinum tier that represents this relisting season!”
It was the Platinum tier.
On the internet, people had turned this tier into a meme using all sorts of comparisons, from multi-level marketing schemes to games asking about your parents’ wellbeing.
I was honestly a bit relieved that the production team’s naming sense hadn’t extended all the way to Diamond.
Regardless of my true feelings, the other participants were all tensed up, waiting for the MC’s announcement.
In front of each participant was a ornate metal box, containing a badge that symbolized their tier.
I already had a sense of what my tier would be, so I wasn’t particularly concerned.
Silver started from 26th place, and judging by my status window alone, I’d already entered the top 25. But my stats weren’t high enough to make it into the top 10 for the Platinum tier.
So it had to be Gold.
“Participants, please open your tier boxes!”
I arranged my expression to avoid looking indifferent, then popped open the box.
And I froze.
Inside the box, a platinum-colored badge with holographic reflective coating gleamed brilliantly.
It was a Platinum tier badge.
“….”
As I stood frozen, Sun Ah-hyun beside me, who’d been lifting his gold badge, tilted his head curiously. Then he was startled.
“W-w-whoa, whoa!”
“What? …No way, that’s insane!! That’s seriously insane!!”
Lee Sae-jin, the former 20th-ranked participant holding a gold badge, screamed upon seeing what was in my box.
And she struck my back while shouting.
“You’re seriously incredible! Platinum!!”
I had no idea when we’d become so close.
We’d only exchanged greetings in passing, and even then, she’d initiated it first, so I’d reluctantly reciprocated.
I took a deep breath and picked the badge out of the box.
The other participants seemed to think I was overcome with emotion, but my mind was actually churning with confusion.
‘Why Platinum?’
I knew that every season, a couple or so participants received the Platinum tier based on their growth potential rather than absolute skill level.
But I didn’t think I was quite at that level.
And then it hit me.
‘…That evaluation order!’
That’s why fewer people from the lower-middle ranks had surged upward. So relatively speaking, I stood out.
My dancing had been thoroughly solidified through regression-induced preparation and all-night practice, so it was better than others at my level too, which probably played a role.
“…Hmm.”
I rolled the badge between my fingers.
I was certain I’d passed their scrutiny, yet an unsettling aftertaste lingered.
‘If I mess this up even slightly, it could be catastrophic.’
I had no idea what kind of editing would be deployed if I stumbled even an inch in the next evaluation. In the first season, a participant had suffered terribly through a similar trajectory.
Actually, I didn’t even need to wait for the next evaluation. Receiving a Platinum rating now would be an editing goldmine—any slight misstep would invite endless criticism.
If Choi Won-gil, who was glaring at me from over there, gave an interview like “To be honest, I wasn’t entirely convinced,” it would be perfect ammunition for them.
But showing my displeasure here would be insane.
‘There’s no choice.’
I slowly picked up the badge and fastened it to my chest. When I turned my head, I could see the other participants wearing Platinum badges.
As expected, both the first and second-place finishers from the initial evaluation had Platinum. Most of the people who’d been sitting on the sofa received Platinum again as well.
It seemed that a few participants who’d dropped to Gold had been replaced by me and the top-ten contenders.
I was the only one in the top twenty. Damn.
‘I’m about to get bombarded with screen time.’
…No, think positively. This is actually a good thing.
‘I’ll get plenty of footage.’
Until my stage fancam dropped, it was all about screen time competition.
I’d avoid early elimination for sure, so I was steadily moving toward my goal of debuting within a year.
‘As long as I don’t become some hated villain, I’m fine.’
I resolved firmly: give them fewer openings to criticize.
Level up like crazy and pour everything into dance and vocals.
“Participants who received Platinum ratings, please come up to the Stage!”
…And for now, I’d avoid standing near anyone with an A-rank dance stat during the theme song stage.
Getting compared would be the end of me.

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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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