Grab the Regressor by the Collar and Debut - Chapter 46

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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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46. Daylight (2)
Before Three Corn could even shake off the relentless one-punch combo, Lee Do-ha unleashed a barrage of criticism in rapid succession.
A machine-gun delivery I’d never witnessed before.
“Ha-jin, you have a wide vocal range and you’re good at belting. I’m not sure if it’s your vocal technique, but instead of just hammering high notes constantly, your pitch creates dynamic variation—you move freely between chest voice and falsetto, which makes your tone far more captivating. Plus, your sense of rhythm is solid, so you handle mid-to-low melodies beautifully when the beat opens up and the groove shines through.”
“Wait, hold on.”
“The Daylight sub-vocal A section starts high and stays high. Those parts are best sung by members with naturally high voices who can lift them effortlessly, or those who can sustain high-note technique throughout. In our team, that’s Haruna and Si-woo. I think you’d handle the B section that follows A much better. It’d suit your vocal style more too.”
…This guy’s better than the system?
[System Alert: What?]
Ugh, I wish he’d stop reading my innermost thoughts. But Lee Do-ha’s machine-gun critique wasn’t finished yet.
“You said you got the third-verse ad-lib, right? Honestly, if I could’ve distributed the parts, I would’ve given the ad-lib to someone else and handed you the main third-verse sub-vocal line instead. Or had you layer harmonies. The song’s character demands the third verse to feel strong and confident, pushing forward—and you have the volume and technique for that. But if you’re doing the ad-lib, the member singing the sub-vocal needs to be just as powerful as you are, and frankly, I don’t know anyone in the Feather rank with that level of vocal strength. Your ad-lib could overshadow them. And—”
“I get it! I get it, so stop hitting me, man.”
“…? I’ve never hit you.”
My mental state, bruised by his words. Only a rapper could deliver criticism with such crisp articulation and impact.
If I took any more hits, I felt like I’d lose my grip on the last thread of sanity I was barely holding onto. I gestured at Lee Do-ha with one hand to calm down while pressing my throbbing temples with the other.
“Saying I can’t handle my own part is the same as hitting me.”
“No? That’s completely different.”
Lee Do-ha scratched the back of his neck. That’s the gesture someone makes before delivering a heavy blow. I instinctively raised my guard.
“Ha-jin, you.”
“Yeah, go ahead. I’m ready to take it.”
“You distributed the other members’ parts first this time too, right? With what they could do best.”
…
My shoulders dropped. Because he was right.
“I noticed it since the end-of-month evaluation last time—you always take the leftover parts. The ones left after giving everyone else their best sections. The parts the others can’t do or can’t handle.”
…
“I’m not sure if that’s exactly what Senior Seo Tae-il meant when he said you weren’t greedy… but from what I see, you don’t seem greedy at all. Why don’t you do what you’re best at? It’s not like you don’t know your own abilities.”
“…Maybe I don’t know. Right now, it seems like you understand me better than I do.”
“No. The way I see it, you observe the members just as well as the New Artist Development Team staff does. You understand them. You had the confidence to give me the dance break, saying I could do it—and you’re telling me you don’t know your own abilities? That doesn’t make sense.”
Lee Do-ha stared at me with conviction. But why was he so worked up? I felt the urge to run away. Lee Do-ha kept dragging out something inside me that I wasn’t ready to face yet, and it made me uncomfortable.
“…I’m just curious.”
…
“Whether you have confidence or not. Whether you’re ambitious or not.”
His question landed on me, leaving me speechless.
“Whether you really want to debut.”
But I couldn’t answer that question. Not completely.
* * *
When does a person experience their first moment of frustration in life?
-Ha-jin came in first again? And without even attending cram school—how does he do it?
-He’s good at sports too. At the last leg of the relay race during the athletic festival, Ha-jin made up the difference.
It might sound unfortunate to say, but I was someone who rarely experienced frustration growing up.
A child from a poor household who still performed above average at everything. Athletics, academics, even the smallest things—flipping pancakes during holidays, playing cards with adults.
I had done most things better than my peers, accomplished them well, and achieved them successfully.
-Mom, I passed the audition.
When I received the call accepting me as a trainee at my first company, it wasn’t particularly surprising—because deep down, I already knew I would pass. I was happy, but not surprised. It felt unremarkable. After all, I had generally accomplished everything I set out to do.
When you succeed at so many things at such a young age.
And when a smart child realizes they’re good at what they do, do you know what happens?
-Ha-jin, aren’t you going to practice?
-I should… Ugh, I hate doing it.
-Leave him alone. He doesn’t practice unless he feels like he’s good enough for it anyway.
Laziness born from tasks too easy for my abilities.
-No, seriously. Why can’t you guys do this? If this is how it’s going to be, I’ll just do it myself.
-…Do you have to talk like that?
-Ugh. Then get better at it. If you’re worse than me after just one day of practice, what are we supposed to do? Should we just give up on everything?
Thoughtlessness toward others whose skills didn’t match mine.
-Hey, Kang Ha-jin. You think you’re the only one who’s good? You only think about yourself? You always think you’re right about everything, don’t you?
-Then am I wrong? Honestly, what I’m saying is right. Maybe you should focus on doing your senior duties better.
Arrogance and conceit toward myself.
-Third place in the end-of-month evaluation? If I’d tried harder, I could’ve gotten first. What a waste.
-Mom, I couldn’t practice much this time because I was studying for the exam too. Isn’t this level good enough? Can’t you just say I did well?
A desperate need for recognition for myself, undervalued as I was.
And self-rationalization for all of these things.
To be clear, it wasn’t that I wasn’t working hard every moment. It was just.
-Ha-jin, I feel like you could do better… Why do you always stop at just adequate?
I always stopped at the level I could “manage.” It was so I could have an excuse to run away when results weren’t good.
-Kang Ha-jin got pushed out of the debut line again this time.
-He seems good though. Why does he always get pushed out?
-How many people here have more hunger than him?
So when the moment came where “just adequate” was no longer enough, I ran away.
I was too afraid of breaking after giving my all. I didn’t want to experience the failure of pouring out everything I had.
-Mom, sometimes I.
-….
-I’m scared of my unremarkable future. I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.
I didn’t want to disappoint my parents, who gave everything to support their children’s lives despite our family’s difficult circumstances.
-If you believe in me this much, Mom, and I can’t achieve anything, that’s entirely my fault.
-….
-So I’ll just do something else. Something I’m good at, not something with potential.
Even after I quit being a trainee and took a different path, I would occasionally recall those moments and wonder.
-What if I hadn’t given up back then and gone all the way?
-If I could go back to that time, would I be able to risk everything and face it head-on?
I, who had lost all motivation before the regression and only repeated self-censure, could finally understand. Why I couldn’t forget that moment. Why I recalled it every time I failed.
That day was my first escape.
It was my first defeat, one I hadn’t even known I possessed.
‘Then what about now?’
Floating atop memories of the past, I asked myself.
Was I running away again right now?
* * *
The day of the mentor evaluation had arrived.
“Ha-jin hyung. What are you thinking about?”
“Huh?”
“Why do you keep spacing out today of all days?”
At Kim Won-ho’s words as he tapped my back, I snapped to attention and shook my head, saying it was nothing.
“Nothing? You look like a deposed crown prince who’s lost his kingdom.”
The vivid comparison made me laugh despite myself.
“Thanks for making me a deposed crown prince, at least.”
“Honestly, if we’re talking visuals, Eun-chan would suit that role better than you.”
“He’d be better as the tyrannical northern duke everyone spreads rumors about—the one who’s actually warm to his woman.”
“…I’m sorry, hyung, but I only understood the part about ‘warm to his woman.’ Everything else went over my head.”
Ah, what was I saying to someone who wouldn’t understand?
“No, never mind. I didn’t sleep well, so I think I’m losing it.”
Since I genuinely hadn’t slept, I deflected adequately and patted Kim Won-ho’s shoulder.
“Did you prepare well?”
“Me? Well… I just worked hard. You told me to work hard.”
“Think you can beat Lee Yu-gun?”
“Hard to say. But honestly, neither of us has much of a part this time.”
“Why?”
“I’m the rapper, and we have Lee Do-ha hyung in our team. And Lee Yu-gun… apparently his live vocals aren’t as strong as expected. Si-woo hyung didn’t give him many parts. He doesn’t seem bothered either. As for dancing, Seo Tae-hyun and Ju Eun-chan are the centers.”
Ah, now that I thought about it. I recalled the member composition of Wings Rank and nodded in understanding. Lee Yu-gun did seem weaker in vocals compared to his dancing.
“What about Han Sung-woo hyung?”
“Him? Well… now that I think about it, he took all the killing parts. ‘Hello, it’s me’—that’s his part.”
“That’s unexpected. I thought it’d go to Seo Tae-hyun.”
Kim Won-ho shrugged, perhaps sensing my unspoken question—why would they give the killing part to Han Sung-woo when Lee Do-ha, that fearsome critic, was around?
“Well… he’s a battler anyway. He leads and has plenty of parts, but he wanted to secure at least one killing part for himself, so he convinced them.”
“Seo Tae-hyun just agreed? He didn’t insist on doing it himself?”
“Well… Lee Do-ha hyung originally wanted to give that part to Seo Tae-hyun.”
Kim Won-ho rolled his eyes upward, recalling that moment.
“But Seo Tae-hyun said it didn’t matter what part he took—it would become a killing part anyway.”
“I can’t even deny it, which is infuriating.”
“Yeah. Lee Do-ha hyung and Si-woo hyung heard that and just said okay to giving Han Sung-woo the part.”
Unlike me, Seo Tae-hyun possessed genuine confidence in his abilities, and I couldn’t laugh at his words. Ever since my conversation with Lee Do-ha on the Walking Path, this state of mind had persisted.
‘Get it together, Kang Ha-jin. It’s the mentor evaluation today.’
The complex within me that Lee Do-ha had revealed had no bearing on this mission. Even if that part didn’t suit me, with only two days left until the evaluation, changing parts out of mere greed made no sense whatsoever.
‘I’ll think through that part step by step in the next mission, I suppose.’
That was when it happened.
[Really?]
“…What?”
“Huh? What do you mean?”
The system window, normally bathed in blue light, glitched and shifted to a crimson hue. Then, in a tone unlike its usual manner, it posed a question to me.
“Ha-jin! Ha-jin hyung!”
“Ha-jin hyung, something’s wrong!”
Before I could even properly comprehend what had appeared in the system window, my team members came rushing over, calling out to me. I could sense from their expressions alone that something was terribly amiss.
“Jae-young, Jae-young’s been rushed to the Emergency Room!”
“What?”
“His fever’s at 39 degrees, what do we do? Right now the PD and all the managers are looking for you!”
“What about our mentor evaluation?”
The system window vibrated once more.
[If you had another chance, you wouldn’t run away this time, would you?]
At the system window’s question, I found myself at a loss for words.

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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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