C Studio in Full Swing – PD's Dice Roll Perfects the Round of 32
Preparations for the stages were in full swing at C Studio. The PD had rolled the dice just right. Round of 32.
If they'd proceeded like good little kids, taking turns in order, the round of 32 stages wouldn't have wrapped up even after two weeks. But here they were, chugging along smoothly in just half a day.
"Haa. Teacher. I'm seriously gonna die. How are you doing this?"
The panels trickled in one by one after Black Label finished their performance and comment filming. Trailing main MC Joo Seong-hwan, the rest settled into their seats like old pros. Without exception, they ripped open packets of concentrated red ginseng extract and dumped them straight into their mouths. Sun-ha-rang didn't forget her line either.
"Seriously, I couldn't have lasted this long without this stuff."
The VJ captured it all naturally. PPL, after all. And it wasn't entirely empty talk either—the performers only had to nail their one shot at a cool stage and call it a day, but the judges had to do it over and over. They needed it.
"Alright, everyone. Ready?"
Jo, the assistant PD in charge of C Studio, waved his arms and flashed an OK sign. Already the fourth time. A few judges nodded without needing much prep, and the lights shut down instantly. Joo Seong-hwan, who had been groaning moments before, belted out his cue with booming energy. No wonder they called him the national MC.
The audience seats offered a clear view of the judges' crowns. Too far for properly cheering on the performers, but perfect for quietly spying without drawing fan glares.
Joo Seong-hwan cranked up the heat as he introduced the first act with gusto, and up onto the podium stepped the male idol group Fist. They hadn't even started, and already cheers and light sticks filled the dark studio. What song was it again? Seo Hyun-woo couldn't recall what stage Fist had prepared. Why bother memorizing every guy group anyway? All that mattered was the winner of this matchup—who'd face off against Black Label.
"Woooaaahhh!!!!"
"Fist!! Fist!!! "
The fans screamed and cheered like the stage might collapse, but it was all for nothing. Fist wouldn't advance to the round of 16.
"Why?"
He hadn't even muttered it aloud, but a casual follow-up popped out as if reading his mind. His head turned naturally toward the voice.
"Why's the composer here?"
Choi Jeong from Kickkick Band didn't hide her surprise. Wrong person asking, though.
"'Cause the winner of this faces us."
"Ahh—right. Yeah. My bad for messing that up."
Kickkick Band had no business tangling with the singers here right now. She didn't bite back quick. Why not read my mind again? When he stared at Choi Jeong silently, she spoke up.
"Black Label wins, then the victor faces us. That clear enough?"
Ooh—impressive. Plenty impressive. Was she the regressor? Some kind of esper? How'd she keep reading his thoughts? Anyway, scouting the round 2 opponent already?
Choi Jeong slid off her sunglasses.
"I can see everything with these eyes."
Impressive she spotted him stubbornly wearing shades in this darkness.
A majestic drum roll kicked off Fist's stage. Watching them drop sharp as knife cuts, Choi Jeong asked,
"Who do you think wins, Mr. Composer?"
"Hm... who knows."
Everything visible to you, huh? Let's see you nail this one too. Fifty-fifty odds. He was curious about her eye and what answer she'd toss out.
But an unexpected reply shot back.
"Eh... whoever advances, doesn't matter. We're winning anyway."
What a prick. No need to drag it out. Getting too tangled with her type would just give him a headache. He was more curious what trot bomb Rockwon would drop.
Choi Jeong eyed him closely. Then she sidled right up to the railing he leaned on and murmured,
"No interest in Fist's stage, Mr. Composer. Betting on Rockwon, huh?"
"Not fun?"
"Huh? What?"
Choi Jeong propped an elbow on the rail, chin in hand.
"You think Rockwon advancing sounds fun? All those genres mixing? Opposite for me."
She clicked her tongue.
"Wouldn't it be fun if Fist advances and clashes with Black Label?"
Choi Jeong straightened from her awkward crossed-leg stance.
"Two reps of third-gen idols collide!! Boy group or girl group wins? Battle for the throne. I'd be the powerhouse blocking third-gen idols' comeback dreams."
Her twisted mindset showed as she cocked her head.
"Ah—, they'd edit me as the villain, huh? Can't have that. Gotta play nice for those pretty points. Bro, this won't do. Tell our PD—skip the good triumphs evil bit. Make it bro-code unity since it's guys versus guys..."
Guys versus guys... No matter how sweetly she played it, Choi Jeong rashly assumed Fist would beat Rockwon, Black Label, and face her. Wrong call.
The song wound toward its final chorus, but Fist's fandom didn't quit—hoarse voices chanting along like bees, one hand waving sticks, the other hammering online votes. No way a fandom like that crumbles easy.
It would crumble. In the Supreme Beat Contest, where they had to produce their own tracks, anything halfway decent meant Fist cruised to round of 16. Choi Jeong, Fist, even their fans. But they all underrated Rockwon's base: middle-aged fans and their filial kids—an army of devotion.
"Then good triumphs evil's better."
And Black Label too.
"As expected from a band singer—no surprise Choi Jeong assembles stray plot threads so well."
Just like the scenario she'd whipped up on the spot.
"To save you the headache, here's the answer: Round of 16—Black Label advances. Round of 8 against Kickkick Band—Black Label advances again."
He glanced down at her leather boots.
"So no tossing and turning over brackets. Wash those feet and sleep."
A bit harsh, maybe. But if she was framing this good-vs-evil setup herself, he had to lay it out. Stoke her fire now, and pre-interviews would hit the right temp.
"Heh. Fun. Seo Hyun-woo."
She tried playing cool, like cheap provocations didn't faze her. But even in the dark seats, her flushed face gave her away.
"Thank you!"
Fist bowed to fans as they exited stage. The half-dead judges raised mics one by one, and Choi Jeong, done gawking, turned to leave.
"Let's go, bro."
"Huh? Leaving already? Rockwon's stage is next, Jeong-ah."
"Bro, didn't you hear? Fist's winning."
Choi Jeong paused mid-turn.
"Fine then. Advance like you say."
Follow if you dare. The line evoked old ad vibes, but no cringe chills. Perfect timing.
With the pest gone, the awaited singer took the stage. Rockwon slotted the mic into the stand and warmed his throat.
"Alright—! Nice to see you! Trot singer Rockwoooon!"
His volume alone was killer. Boom—like a bomb, his octave soared clean. Unlike Fist’s group setup, Rockwon went solo, but his stage presence matched theirs. No, the real show was just starting.
Fist had dragged the energy to fever pitch. But Rockwon's pure 100% trot—compressed with soul—wasn't it. He flipped the stage with flashy dance rivaling any male solo act.
"We're screwed."
The composer producing Rockwon was no slouch either. Plenty felt melodies in their bones and spat lyrics, but few tailored outfits to transmit that vibe like him. He grabbed a flyer from Rockwon's fan club, Rockwon World.
The composer teamed with Rockwon.
"350."
Stage name 350? Wait—this guy rang a bell. He searched 350 online. Top result: real name Yoon Sung-bok.
"Haa—."
His wrist went slack on the phone. It clattered to the floor. He swept his empty hand over his face.
We're done. Maybe he'd misjudged. Rockwon could beat Fist, Black Label—even Kickkick Band.
"Prick. Got some nerve, talking big. Who the hell's he yakking to?"
"Jeong-ah, chill. Just posturing in front of us."
Kickkick Band's manager soothed Choi Jeong.
"You know this biz—it's momentum and public sway, no matter the vocals."
Priority one: Choi Jeong's throat. He handed over a special brew—five raw eggs mixed with honey for lubrication.
Predictably, the manager waved it off like nonsense.
"Black Label's on a roll, sure. Time to stomp 'em flat. We..."
"We what? They ain't advancing."
Choi Jeong swigged the egg-honey mix and dumped the rest down the drain. Egg yolk clung to the thermos wall, teasing a slide.
"You use rotten eggs? Tastes extra rank today."
"Huh? Nah, fresh from the convenience store today."
"Check dates next time. Upset stomach mid-stage, you ain't dancing for me."
"Uh... sorry, Jeong-ah."
She shoved the yolk-flecked thermos at the manager and grabbed her phone. The stage should be wrapping soon. Fist fake-crying gratitude to fans, no doubt.
"Upstarts mocking who?"
She tapped the streaming stage. Hoping Fist crushed Black Label quick, she queued a text vote—till a bulky guy filled the screen.
"What."
"Huh? Why?"
The manager, regretting the waste, gulped the dregs and shoved his face in hers.
"What's up, Jeong-ah."
"Fist's on their knees. They dropped?"