Grab the Regressor by the Collar and Debut - Chapter 403

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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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403. Pushing a Tiger Off a Cliff (2)
Kang Ha-jin’s decision sent considerable shockwaves through the group.
Yet no one could refute that it was the simplest and fastest solution.
“It’s not like our group doesn’t have a rapper, and Lee Yu-gun is right there—it’s actually more ridiculous for me and Eun-chan to complicate things by splitting the parts between us. Just have Lee Yu-gun do it, whatever happens.”
Kang Ha-jin was resolute.
And he was cold enough to deliver a finishing blow to Lee Yu-gun, whom he’d just pushed forward.
“Lee Yu-gun.”
“…What?”
“You can do it.”
In that moment, Yu-gun felt something like déjà vu wash over him.
This wasn’t a question. It was coercion—an implicit threat that he had to succeed.
A crushing pressure he felt he’d experienced before from someone other than Ha-jin. Before he could even recall who that person was, Yu-gun found himself nodding.
“Yeah. I’ll practice.”
He had to succeed.
It was the first moment responsibility had ever attached itself to Yu-gun’s performances—performances he’d always done so casually before.
* * *
After a lengthy meeting, the major schedules requiring a substitute for Lee Do-ha were narrowed down to three.
1. 【Sarin’s Etiquette】
– Difficulty: ★★★★★
– Content: A high-class music live show by singer-songwriter Sarin, who made a successful comeback not long ago.
– Characteristics: With exceptional sound quality that captures vivid live performances with crystal clarity, it’s earned the nicknames ‘the proving ground for idol talent’ or ‘the guillotine for idol live performances’
2. 【Music Camp in Japan】
– Difficulty: ★★★★
– Content: A holiday special overseas location music broadcast.
– Characteristics: As a special broadcast, no new song stage is performed, but instead two existing songs and one cover song must be prepared. Being a broadcast, some AR assistance is possible.
3. 【Hit that Live】
– Difficulty: ★★★
– Content: A YouTube music variety show performed with a band session.
– Characteristics: As a standing live stage, no performance preparation is needed.
The soonest schedule was Music Camp.
All members except Do-ha—whose back muscles hadn’t fully healed and couldn’t endure long flights—departed for Japan in unison.
From the moment Yu-gun left the dormitory until he stepped off the plane, his eyes never once left the lyrics sheet. He’d practiced so much behind his mask that by the time they arrived at the hotel in Japan, his lips were already dry and chapped.
“Everyone, tomorrow’s going to be hectic from morning, so make sure you take care of your condition tonight.”
Kwon Wook offered the light reminder before heading back to the staff quarters.
As Tae-hyun unpacked in his room with Si-u, he suddenly recalled Yu-gun still humming the lyrics even before entering the room earlier, and he let out a quiet sigh.
“…? Why, is something wrong?”
“Oh, no, it’s just….”
Jeong Si-u, who hadn’t missed that sigh, asked Tae-hyun what was bothering him. Just as Tae-hyun was about to shake his head and say it was nothing, he found himself opening his mouth slightly.
“It’s just that Yu-gun seemed really burdened, and I got worried. It’s not like Do-ha’s part is small either, and suddenly having to take on all the rap from the previous songs too—I can imagine it’s a lot of pressure….”
As Tae-hyun aired his indirect concerns about Yu-gun, Si-u nodded as if he understood. When Si-u, who seemed like he’d be the most cynical about Yu-gun, listened without much resistance, Tae-hyun felt somehow relieved and began pouring out all the thoughts he’d been dwelling on, like a lament.
“Honestly, I’m not sure why Ha-jin decided to hand over all of Do-ha’s parts to Yu Gun. If it’s rap, both Eun-chan and Ha-jin could handle it just fine, so even if they split it a little between them, it would be less of a burden. Why push everything onto Yu Gun like that…?”
The Kang Ha-jin that Seo Tae-hyun knew was bulldozer-like, but not an unreasonable person.
That’s precisely why Tae-hyun couldn’t understand Ha-jin’s decision this time. The Ha-jin he normally knew would prioritize the quality of the stage and the stability of the group members, even if it meant shouldering everything himself.
Yet suddenly, all the parts were being dumped on Yu Gun.
Even though Yu Gun held the sub-rapper position in Kairos, his main role was lead dancer.
Why take such a risk with a member who already had so much on his plate—the dance center and complex choreography?
Jeong Si-u, who had changed into pajamas at some point, spoke with his chin propped up to Tae-hyun, who sat in front of his suitcase with that expression.
“You’re really lenient with Yu Gun, aren’t you?”
“…What?”
“If it had been someone else instead of Yu Gun, you would’ve given a much colder assessment. You always make exceptions for Yu Gun. Back in the Special Class, didn’t you hate those types who just talked without practicing the most?”
Why was Si-u suddenly bringing up the Special Class when talking about Yu Gun?
Tae-hyun felt confused for a moment, but soon grasped the meaning behind Si-u’s words.
Tae-hyun was the one who’d earned the nickname “Switch” for always turning on the practice room lights when he arrived and turning them off when he left. He despised those without skill who didn’t practice. He resented how those unqualified wasted even a single second on stage—seconds he had to fight tooth and nail to earn.
Yet that same Tae-hyun was “lenient” when it came to Yu Gun, his own teammate.
The evidence was that his lack of understanding was directed not at Yu Gun for his insufficient skill to cover other members’ parts, but at Ha-jin for pushing parts onto Yu Gun recklessly.
“Actually, it’s not just you—all of us tend to be that way. The members, the company people too. We don’t expect Lee Yu Gun to make any great strides. It’s as if he’s already doing enough as it is.”
“But he hasn’t done anything wrong. He keeps up with practice just fine…”
“Since when did being an idol mean just meeting practice quotas equals ‘doing well’?”
“…”
“Do-ha lives in the studio all day long, and Ha-jin participates in A&R Team meetings like it’s nothing, throwing out ideas about the group’s overall concept.”
Si-u, who had been talking about Yu Gun, suddenly began listing out the efforts of the other members. Though it seemed like a non-sequitur, Tae-hyun, who understood there was a point to it all, listened to Si-u’s words in silence.
“Eun-chan’s vocal and dancing skills are improving by leaps and bounds these days—the trainers praise him every day. And Ha-ru seems to be running every morning lately to increase his lung capacity.”
“…”
“What about you? Are you different? You’re the one with the most natural talent among us, yet even now you’re studying your expressions and gestures by reviewing stage footage second by second. I don’t really want to brag about myself, but I’m doing my part to live up to the name of this team’s main vocalist.”
“…”
“So what about Lee Yu Gun? Next week marks our one-year debut anniversary. What’s changed about him in all that time?”
What was truly frightening about Jeong Si-u was that even when he spoke such harsh truths, there wasn’t a shred of personal emotion in his tone.
It was a purely professional delivery—not to criticize Lee Yu Gun, but for the sake of pointing out the problem itself.
His words were so dry that even Tae-hyun, a capital-letter INFP, couldn’t bring himself to say he felt hurt after hearing them, and it sealed his lips shut.
Tae-hyun wanted to make excuses for his friend, but he knew well that in moments like these, anything he said would become nothing but an excuse.
“Everyone is creating something extra—a plus factor—for the team and for themselves. But we don’t ask anything of Yu Gun. Why? Because he’s the breadwinner of his family? Because he never intended to debut in the first place?”
“…”
“Or is it because we have no expectations of him at all?”
“…No, that’s not it.”
Tae-hyun, who had been listening in silence the whole time, shook his head urgently at the last question.
It wasn’t true that he had no expectations of Yu Gun. Tae-hyun knew Yu Gun’s potential and latent talent better than anyone, and he was often deeply moved by the stage presence Yu Gun occasionally displayed.
It was just that, having lived a completely different life from him, Tae-hyun had come to realize through their recent argument that dreaming and thinking of a more distant future was still difficult and overwhelming for Yu Gun.
How could he demand tomorrow’s progress from someone who was barely trying to survive today?
“That’s really not it… I just…”
I just want Yu Gun to be able to enjoy performing on stage.
Jeong Si-u caught the hidden meaning in Tae-hyun’s words and nodded slowly. He pulled out two barley tea pouches from his carry-on and placed them in a hotel mug, then continued speaking as he poured water into the coffee pot.
“Anyway, the real question is why Ha-jin gave Do-ha’s part to Yu Gun, right? I was curious too, so I asked Ha-jin directly.”
“…Really? What did he say?”
At Si-u’s mention of asking Ha-jin directly, Tae-hyun’s head snapped up. Si-u thought Tae-hyun looked exactly like a rabbit and smiled faintly. Then he handed Tae-hyun a cup of barley tea and spoke.
“He asked what the problem was.”
“What?”
“He turned it back on me, asking why Yu Gun couldn’t do it. He said he was obviously going to have Yu Gun do it.”
Obviously.
Ha-jin had answered with certainty about the very topic everyone in that conference room had been too hesitant to bring up.
Si-u took a sip of the warm barley tea, recalling Ha-jin’s expression at that moment—how he’d looked at Si-u as if he were the strange one for even asking.
“Do-ha said the same thing, by the way. He said if he had to skip his activities, having Yu Gun do it would be fine.”
“Do-ha too…?”
“So it’s one of two things. Either they both think it’s time to start demanding more from Yu Gun, or….”
“….”
“Or maybe, in their eyes, this level of work isn’t even considered a plus factor for Yu Gun in the first place.”
I’m curious which one it is.
Si-u smiled brightly as he drank the barley tea, its nutty aroma seeming to vibrate in the air today.
* * *
‘I think I’m going to throw up.’
Lee Yu-gun genuinely thought so.
It was a tension he’d never experienced before a performance.
‘What was our first song? How did we change the choreography? Wait, is this the choreography before we changed it? Ah, but what were the lyrics….’
At a concert hall in Japan where Music Camp in Japan was being held.
After going through countless rehearsals and pre-recordings since dawn, waiting, filming, waiting again—his sense of time had become unclear, and his cognitive abilities felt like they were deteriorating in real time.
He’d tried to sleep in the waiting room but had nightmares, and when he got up to stretch, he felt like he might retch, so Yu-gun had just escaped to the emergency staircase behind the concert hall. He’d made sure to let Kwon Wook and Ha-jin know his location just in case.
“…Ugh. My head hurts.”
When was the last time he’d been this nervous in his life?
Yu-gun rubbed his cold hands, which had lost circulation, and thought.
Was it during the first parent-teacher observation at Tiger’s elementary school?
Or when he had a part-time job interview?
When someone at the Dance Academy suggested filming a choreography video together for the first time?
No, no. He didn’t think he’d been this nervous even then.
It felt like this was the first time in his life he’d ever been this nervous.
Yu-gun hurriedly pulled out his phone from his pocket. The AiTube video he’d been watching until moments ago was paused on Do-ha’s image, rapid-fire rap pouring out.
“…How am I supposed to follow that?”
Yu-gun was someone with considerable skill at mimicking others.
He was intelligent, his body responded well, his abilities were solid, and with a few viewings, he could convincingly imitate someone’s actions and movements.
But that was only imitation at best—he’d never thought of it as his own ability.
“It’s okay, don’t be nervous. Just do it, just do it. It’s not that hard….”
It would have been easier if this had been my part from the beginning.
Following an already perfect standard was suffocating—from the lyrics to every gesture, nothing came easily. Each time I spoke the words Do-ha had written, I found myself recalling his intonation, his cadence, his rhythm, and inevitably, whatever sense of self I’d managed to maintain would slip away.
From the very beginning when Do-ha first crafted the rap section, he’d deliberately created a completely different style to forge synergy between me and Yu Gun, which presented yet another layer of difficulty.
“…I want to do well.”
I wanted to do well.
Yu Gun genuinely believed that.
I wanted to do well.
I wanted to pull it off.
Well enough to wash away that lingering regret I’d felt beneath the stage once before,
Well enough to smile and tell Do-ha not to worry—the Do-ha who’d apologized with such frustration on his face for potentially disrupting the comeback activities,
Well enough to stand confidently before Ha-jin, who’d asked if I could do it, whether out of faith or to test me, I couldn’t say.
‘I want to do well.’
I genuinely wanted to pull this off.
“Hey, big star senior.”
The Emergency Staircase, which had gone dark from disuse, suddenly flooded with light as someone arrived.
Yu Gun, who’d been blankly replaying Do-ha’s stage performance on his phone, lifted his head at the movement.
As the bulb overhead flickered to life, a voice as bright as that light pulled me from my wandering thoughts.
“You’re crying?”
“…Kim Won-ho.”
Once we’d shared the same stage; now we walked the same path under different names—my friend.
Kim Won-ho, leader of Phase, greeted me with a playful smile.

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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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