Grab the Regressor by the Collar and Debut - Chapter 466

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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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466. A Certain Resolution (2)
The studio, which always echoed with conversation and music of various genres, was unusually filled with silence today.
The two same-aged pillars supporting Kairos’s music and performance sat facing each other in wordless stillness for quite some time. They hadn’t even exchanged the trivial pleasantries of asking how the other had been.
Both of them understood well that this moment was a continuation of their previous conversation.
‘Has he lost weight? …No, his body seems bigger actually.’
And in the midst of it all, I found my thoughts drifting elsewhere.
It was because my old friend Bear’s jawline had become remarkably sharp.
My own physique was bloated all over from binge-eating late-night snacks after staying up all night yesterday—a stark contrast to his.
He’d always had a good body, but recently, taking a break from work and adding exercise, dance practice, regular meals, and disciplined living habits to his routine, it seemed he’d gone on his own kind of rampage.
‘At this point, I probably can’t even compare shoulders with most guys…?’
Still, I’m supposed to be in Kairos’s top three physically, so have I really been neglecting my management that much?
Seized by an unexpected sense of urgency, I pressed and kneaded my own forearms and abdomen. Fortunately, despite some puffiness, the muscles I’d worked hard to build were still firmly in place.
Thinking I should tighten up my management starting tomorrow, I finally broke the long silence.
“I’ll do it.”
“Do what?”
“Think about it.”
At my oddly abrupt words, Do-ha’s neat, straight eyebrows twisted asymmetrically.
His expression was so intimidating that others would confess to crimes they never committed, but knowing it was simply the face he made while pondering something, I continued without blinking an eye.
“I’ll start thinking about what kind of song I wanted to make.”
“You….”
“It’s not running away. …It’s the opposite, if anything.”
I cut off Do-ha’s words with a sullen expression, propping my chin up at an angle.
From me, tapping the floor a few times with my foot as if displeased with this decision, there emanated not the old discomfort but rather a certain resignation and acceptance.
Do-ha, instead of asking what I meant again, simply waited for me to finish speaking.
It was the maximum consideration he could offer, being clumsy at gentle conversational guidance unlike the other members.
“…It was back in my third year of middle school when I first made a song, I think.”
And as if answering his patience, I brought up the story of my ‘first song’—something I’d never told anyone.
The story of that old song whose melody had grown hazy by now.
“Back then, I was pretty serious about it. After things fell apart with the kids at KD Entertainment, I had nothing to do by myself every day. I wrote that piece by tinkering with the piano, trying to sublimate that loneliness….”
What was the chorus lyric again? It was pretty verbose, I think.
Recalling my past self, I let out a small self-deprecating laugh and lowered my gaze.
“I played it for my lesson teachers a few times, and they reacted pretty well. Honestly, back then, rather than wanting to seriously compose… I think I was just intoxicated by ‘myself, who could write songs too.'”
“….”
“Then after leaving KD Entertainment…. Even when I completely gave up on the dream of being a singer, I tried various things to properly revive that song several times. I rearranged it as a band version and performed it during band club activities, and I even secretly played it for the older musicians around me who kept making music.”
After leaving KD Entertainment, I gave up on the dream of being a singer faster than expected.
It wasn’t, as many people thought, because of the trauma from being ostracized among the trainees.
“So that song was…. If I had to put it into words, it was like the only proof I had. That I had made music too.”
Even without music, I knew I could do many things, and there were plenty of people in the world obsessed with music besides me.
I knew well my own vague potential and the even vaguer extent of my effort.
I always exceeded the average, but if asked whether I’d ever gone at it desperately, the answer was decidedly no—I knew my past self well.
“Do you understand what I’m saying? That was like my last shred of pride. ‘At least I’m someone who’s written one original song.’ That kind of thing.”
“….”
“But that’s only impressive to people who aren’t musicians. Among people who actually do music, who’s going to think it’s amazing if you’ve only written one song in ten years?”
As time passed, my music only grew smaller.
Until my mid-twenties, I would occasionally mention to people around me that I’d been an idol trainee, but at some point, I stopped even bringing up the fact that I could play instruments.
Without any substantial work to show for it, I felt pathetically small receiving admiration from people simply because I could do something, using it as self-consolation.
“…What happened to that song?”
“What do you mean, what happened?”
“You said you tried different things. You performed it, played it for musicians. There must have been some kind of reaction.”
“Well…. Everyone told me to do it properly. Some even said I should make a decent recording and release it. Back then I didn’t have money, but I had connections, so I could have done it if I wanted. I could have at least uploaded it to AiTube….”
“And?”
“….”
I fell silent at Do-ha’s question.
And Lee Do-ha, as always, waited patiently.
Whenever my normally talkative self couldn’t open up so easily, there was always a good reason for it.
“…You know what the way to never fail at business is?”
As if I really didn’t want to talk about this, I cycled through a bitter taste in my mouth several times before bringing up a topic that seemed somewhat out of nowhere.
Do-ha, who had been thinking for a moment, gave his answer.
“Select items with low risk?”
“Wrong. Even 1% risk is still risk.”
“So what’s the answer?”
“Don’t do business at all.”
“….”
“If you never start, there’s nothing to fail at.”
The moment he heard that answer, Do-ha could instantly predict what had happened to my first song.
Why someone who seemed so confident about everything appeared to be hiding in a place deeper than a tunnel every so often.
“You said something like that to me before, right? That you weren’t sure if you were confident, or if you even wanted to be an idol.”
It was something I’d said to him back when he was struggling with Seo Tae-il’s feedback during the first mission of Miro Maze.
As Do-ha nodded, clearly remembering even the atmosphere and feeling of that moment, I continued speaking while meaninglessly pressing the keyboard keys beside me with my long fingers.
“I’m more of a coward than you think. I’d rather forfeit than place fourth mediocrely. That’s why I want to just tell myself, ‘If I’d only competed, I would’ve won first place.'”
“….”
“I’m not someone with the breadth of character to lose gracefully to people better than me and acknowledge my shortcomings.”
The reason I gave up on the idol dream so easily was similar.
I realized the world was full of people tougher, more talented, more skilled, and more hardworking than me.
When I compared my ten years to theirs, I was nothing.
Fortunately, I had diverse fields with as much potential as music, and I simply chose the one I was most confident about.
That was all.
“So how pathetic am I?”
The reason I woke from the dream I’d nurtured for ten years was this cowardly and simple.
The regret of running away without ever truly confronting even the thing I loved most—it still bound my heart even after passing through several timelines.
“….”
Do-ha found himself at a loss for words this time.
In moments like these, it felt like anything he said would ring hollow.
Would it offer some comfort to say that everyone, anyone really, experiences such feelings at least once?
Memories of his own past surfaced—how he’d abandoned athletics and fled into music much like Ha-jin had—but Do-ha chose silence once more.
It didn’t seem like Ha-jin was sharing this to seek mere self-consolation.
“So, from now on, I’m going to think about it seriously.”
The conclusion of that lengthy confession circled back to its beginning.
The spark that had seemed extinguished by regret moments ago returned to Ha-jin’s eyes.
“Why I wanted to make music, what kind of music I wanted to create, what my music truly means now…. I’m going to wrestle with these questions seriously and face them head-on.”
“….”
“No matter how I think about it, I can’t just dash off my own composition right now. Even with Kairos, you laid all the groundwork and I just added some seasoning here and there…. If I start with that same mindset, I’ll end up doing things halfway and running away again, just like before.”
Ha-jin’s expression was more earnest than ever as he spoke.
The mere fact that his words carried no negative conclusions like “I can’t” or “I won’t” was enough to ease the tension from Do-ha’s shoulders.
Ha-jin, noticing this shift, let out a small laugh and shrugged.
“And even if I write a song, I won’t release it under the name Kairos Kang Ha-jin. I’ve been pathetically patting myself on the back just for being ‘myself’ and getting applause.”
“You mean you’ll use a stage name?”
“Well, there are plenty of ways. Upload anonymously to SoundCloud, whatever…. Anyway, the important thing is this resolve to actually try. You understand?”
“Understand.”
Do-ha matched Ha-jin’s rhythm as he returned to his usual playful tone.
After making that declaration, Ha-jin seemed to feel lighter. He straightened his slouched posture, reclined his chair back as far as it would go, and extended one hand toward Do-ha like a petulant child.
“So you’re writing the congratulatory song for Ha-jin’s wedding. A whole week has already passed because of you, and now I’m really out of time.”
Give me the song.
Watching Ha-jin shamelessly make demands as if he’d already entrusted the task, Do-ha naturally pushed his hand down and replied flatly.
“Why is it my fault that a week passed? You could’ve written it yourself.”
“Hey, how could I use someone else’s wedding congratulatory song as my experimental work? Are you that shameless? We run clinical trials multiple times even when developing new medicines, and you want me to sell an unverified song of mine as a congratulatory piece…. Come on, give me the song. I don’t know anything, I’m just counting on you and haven’t prepared a thing.”
His demanding attitude was practically that of a hooligan.
Watching Ha-jin half-slide out of his chair and stubbornly insist, Do-ha let out a scoff of disbelief and slowly rolled his chair forward with his feet.
As he moved the mouse slightly, the equipment that Do-ha had turned on earlier before Ha-jin arrived began to light up and activate rapidly.
Do-ha lightly pressed a few keys, and a brilliant, beautiful melody flowed from the studio’s high-quality speakers.
“…? What? …Whoa!”
At the bright, cheerful melody that naturally evoked images of a joyful wedding, Ha-jin’s eyes snapped open and he bolted upright. In the process, his chair rolled backward and he landed hard on his backside, but Ha-jin paid it no mind, his face radiant with joy as he looked at Do-ha.
‘Just a minute ago he was wallowing in despair….’
Quick to pick up on things and quick to shift moods—Do-ha found himself utterly unable to compete with his friend.
Shaking his head in resignation, Do-ha crossed his arms and spoke.
“You write the lyrics. You’re better at those pretty, lyrical words anyway.”
“Oh man, Lee Do-ha, you absolute genius composer!”
“…Just keep your promise to write that song.”
Watching Ha-jin nod enthusiastically, Do-ha smiled and stopped the music.
Regardless, Ha-jin was already lost in effusive praise—claiming the melody was catchy, that lyrics were coming to him—whether flattery or genuine, Do-ha couldn’t tell.
“And….”
“Wow, Lee Do-ha, you really are something else. Your sense of loyalty is absolutely insane… Huh? Wait. And?”
“I have something to say too.”
“…? Something to say?”
Do-ha picked up the tumbler beside him and took a sip of the warm water inside.
Here, in this moment.
He had a resolution of his own to reveal, just as Ha-jin did.
“I’m the same age as you and we’re both members of the group. No matter how I think about it, it doesn’t feel fair to push a new challenge only on you, Ha-jin.”
“…?”
At Do-ha’s solemn preamble, Ha-jin’s face filled with question marks.
Toward Ha-jin, who was curious about what he was about to say, Do-ha announced his own ‘challenge’ with the most serious and grave expression imaginable.
“I’ve decided to take on a solo performance at the year-end stage.”
“…Oh, I thought you were going to say something else. Sure, go ahead. Just don’t do any of that cool rap stuff.”
“No.”
“…?”
“Dancing.”
“…What?”
“I’m going to do my solo performance with dancing.”
“…What↗?”
Did he just say Lee Do-ha was going to do a dance break…?
Wait, he’s actually going to do a dance break?
Kairos’s CEO, Lee Do-ha, had voluntarily launched himself into a skydive without a parachute!

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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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