Chapter 4: Boomer System (3)
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 4: Boomer System (3)
Getting grilled by the Spark punks one by one was a near-death experience.
First, there were the gods of dance, Choi Je-ho and Kang Gi-yeon.
They looked at me like I was some fascinating alien life form. Their teaching method was traumatizing: they’d perform a move packed with all sorts of flashy flourishes and then ask, “Got it?”
I flailed about as awkwardly as possible to show them that their “lecture” was woefully inadequate. Both of their faces turned pale.
But what could I do? I’d been a corporate lifer through and through.
My head was such a mess that I almost blurted out to Choi Je-ho, “Center Emperor Choi Je-ho, sir, am I moving correctly right now?”
Ever since I simulated the look of utter contempt I’d receive from him, I’ve been secretly practicing dropping the nicknames even in my thoughts.
The next to go down after the “Stoic Boys” were Jeong Seong-bin and Park Ju-woo.
Unlike the “artists” before them, these two master vocalists tried to pass on their knowledge in a more... human way. Unfortunately for them, my stamina was better, so they were the ones who ended up keeling over first.
Lee Cheong-hyeon, who had been watching the whole disaster unfold, caught my eye and gave me a thumbs-up.
“Hyung, you’re seriously incredible! Fighting!”
He even threw in a wink. His personality was perfectly optimized for being an idol.
You should’ve done that more in our self-produced content. If you had, I could’ve made a “Wink Compilation” of you in a single day.
Thanks to Lee Cheong-hyeon’s sparkling encouragement, I finally managed to extend my arms straight out to the sides while facing forward. It had only taken four hours.
Beside me, Kang Gi-yeon was clapping while biting his lip hard.
That was the exact expression I used to wear whenever the CEO’s son showed up for a part-time gig. This second life is really no joke.
I couldn't help but wonder: what on earth did the casting manager see in me to scout me for UA?
I’m sure the Spark punks were just as curious. Wouldn't you be suspicious if some kid who joined as a trainee out of nowhere couldn't even control his own left and right feet?
They didn't let it show, but I could tell. Reading the room was one of my few actual talents.
But there was nothing I could do. It was a tall order for an office worker whose entire life had revolved around WebCell to suddenly become a good dancer in a single day. Especially when the “reward” experience points were only 20 at a time.
I’d been in a similar situation before... specifically, when Department Head Nam dumped five years' worth of unorganized documents on my desk and told me to have them sorted by the end of the day.
When you can’t believe the situation you’re in and there’s no clever way out, there’s only one thing to do.
And that is...
Simple, mindless repetition.
My eyes felt a bit moist. It felt like the sweat I was shedding was synchronizing with my tear ducts.
Still, there was one clear advantage: at least Department Head Nam wasn't here. I should be grateful to even have people helping me, even if they were the “Enemy Legion” from my first life.
It felt wrong to ignore their effort in teaching me, so I used my rage as fuel and worked myself to the bone just as they instructed.
If I thought of it as a 20% salary raise... well, that’s a pretty significant hike. Winning the mental battle is all about perspective.
I don't know how long I’d been moving in a trance, but when I heard the sound of heavy panting nearby, I looked over to see the Spark punks slumped in the corners of the practice room one by one.
Weaklings. With that kind of stamina, they wouldn't even be able to hike up Bukak Mountain while carrying the executives' thermoses.
Taking advantage of the lull in instruction, I grabbed a water bottle to wet my throat.
Just then, the door opened, and a somewhat familiar face walked in.
At the same time, the Spark punks, who had been sprawled out like office workers after a night of overtime, scrambled to their feet. The way they snapped to attention was exactly how Spark had been in their early debut days. It made my stomach churn.
“You guys are working hard, aren't you?”
“We're fine, sir!”
“Fine, my foot. This is the first time I've seen Iwol since the casting. Have you introduced yourself to the others?”
Clean business casual attire that didn't scream “trainer” and a kind tone. Above all, that comment confirmed my suspicions.
So it was you. You're the one who threw me into this pit of despair?
I wanted to grab him right then and there and ask what part of me looked like idol material. Was Hongdae really that devoid of talent that day?
“Yes, they've been helping me a lot.”
I barely managed to hold it in, thanks to my extreme, battle-hardened patience.
“Aha! We have high expectations for you, Iwol!”
He really should have seen the lifeless eyes of the Spark members earlier. If he had, he wouldn't be saying that. Even I, who had nothing but ill will toward Spark, was starting to feel sorry for them.
If the “System” would allow it, I was ready to rewrite my resume right now and apply as Spark’s rookie manager. But the System remained silent. Of course, it’s only quiet at times like this.
The sudden visitor pulled out a phone, saying he was here to film a video of the five members' group choreography.
“Since we have a new trainee, we need to check the framing again. Once Iwol has the choreography down, we'll film it again with him included.”
When you have no skills, the least you can do is be quick to respond. I answered that I understood, though I wasn't sure if such a day would ever come.
While Spark prepared for the shoot, I moved to the mirror opposite them and stood next to the staff member.
The scene that unfolded before my eyes was quite spectacular. Even to my untrained eyes, the five trainees dancing in perfect synchronization looked incredibly cool.
When I used to make those stage-mix edits, I just thought they were kids my age with healthy joints...
But seeing them up close, I realized. These guys actually have some power when they're doing their jobs. I guess the public was right—this group managed to survive for seven years despite having more controversies than staff members because of their looks and skills.
For the first time, free from the duty of video editing, I enjoyed their flashy movements to my heart's content. However, I didn't look above their necks. Looking at their faces just made me angry.
For the record, the move I’d spent hours learning just to earn a single Welfare Point passed by in the blink of an eye. It felt like... maybe 1.8 seconds?
It'll take me a full two weeks of grinding just to finish one song.
Whether grinding would actually produce that kind of power was another matter entirely.
The filming ended in one take, as it was just a simple monitoring video.
“What do you think, Iwol?”
“Pardon?”
“The boys. They're good, aren't they?”
What a difficult question.
But the answer was already decided. The only thing I could say was, “Yes, they're freaking amazing.” The problem was that as long as I was the one saying it, I doubted the compliment would actually reach them.
“Yes, they seem incredible.”
I answered as sincerely as possible, putting my whole soul into it while making sure not to overstep and look like a suck-up. It reminded me of my early days at Hanpyeong Industry, when I learned the ways of the world by eating “reading the room” for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I didn't miss it one bit, though.
Fortunately, my bland answer didn't seem to leave much of an impression. It was the result of 29 years of conversational skills honed by a desire to never stand out. However, there was one thing bothering me. After a moment of hesitation, I spoke up.
“But...”
All eyes turned to me. Their gazes seemed to ask if this clueless rookie was really about to nitpick that amazing dance. I took a deep breath.
“Gi-yeon, are you sure you should be dancing?”
“Huh?”
“You looked like you were struggling a bit.”
When a “clumsy flailer” who couldn't even handle his own body started chiming in, even Choi Je-ho’s gaze fixed on me. It was the kind of look I’d only seen in fan-sign fancams. I really didn't want to speak up because I knew it would draw attention.
But to justify myself, the situation was too much to just shut up and ignore. Regardless of anything else, it’s just wrong to turn a blind eye to someone who looks like they're in pain, isn't it?
I’d been unsure when he was teaching me one-on-one, but seeing several people doing the same dance made it impossible to miss. I wondered if no one else noticed since nobody was telling him to rest.
My hunch must have been right, because the eyes that were on me immediately shifted to Kang Gi-yeon.
“Gi-yeon, are you hurt somewhere?”
“No, I'm fine,” Kang Gi-yeon replied with his usual expression.
But he couldn't fool my eyes.
That punk is 100% lying.
Even before I traveled back in time, Kang Gi-yeon had said with that exact same face, “We will continue to work hard in the future.” You say that at a New Year's concert and then disband less than a year later? You shameless brat.
“He says he's fine, though?”
“I don't think he is. His left ankle.”
Since my mood was already sour, I dug my heels in with a look of exaggerated concern. Kang Gi-yeon’s expression turned strange. It seemed I’d hit the mark.
“Does your ankle hurt?”
“Since when?!”
The staff member and Lee Cheong-hyeon shouted simultaneously. Kang Gi-yeon looked flustered.
“No, I mean, it's not like I need to go to the hospital or anything...”
“What are you talking about, Gi-yeon? If it hurts, of course you have to go to the hospital!”
Now even Jeong Seong-bin was chiming in. Unlike my hypocritical self, he looked genuinely worried.
I’d said my piece, so they’d take care of it now. I turned away from Kang Gi-yeon with a lighter heart.
Just then, a memory flashed through my mind: Kang Gi-yeon singing alone on a chair at the Imjingak outdoor stage. It was because of a chronic ankle injury caused by non-stop, high-intensity practice since his trainee days. Knowing how bleak those days must have been for him just by looking at his lifeless face through low-quality radio broadcasts, I decided to help him out once as a moral adult.
I braved the hassle of talking to him again.
“Make sure you go to the hospital.”
“Pardon?”
“I had a friend who ignored his ankle pain and suffered for it. It’s a real headache if it becomes chronic.”
My conscience pricked a bit at inflating a mere classmate to “friend” status, but seeing Kang Gi-yeon’s eyes waver, I felt relieved knowing his stubbornness would break. My classmate would understand, since I was trying to get a patient to the hospital.
Thanks, buddy. You just saved a future dance genius.
After that, it ended with a heartwarming conclusion: a manager who arrived after a late-night call took Kang Gi-yeon to the hospital in a taxi.
As I saw him off, a wave of mild disillusionment hit me. Half of me wondered why I was worrying about those punks, while the other half argued that I couldn't just ignore someone in pain.
I won't care next time, no matter what happens.
Still, if I poke them a few more times like this, maybe I’ll get to see all five of them standing and dancing at Imjingak. That is, if I don't die of high blood pressure from my rising rage first.
Despite the brief disruption, practice continued until 10 PM.
“Episodes from our trainee days?”
“What was there... was there anything?”
“I think we really just practiced... Sorry, Sparklers. We're boring, aren't we?”
When I used to transcribe their live broadcasts, I’d think, “I can't sleep until I post a 10-tweet summary thread, so say something!” but now I understood. If you do nothing but practice all day, you have nothing to talk about.
All they do is eat, sleep, dance, and sing. How could there be any “episodes”? At least now Lee Cheong-hyeon would have a story about how he tried to carry Kang Gi-yeon and his bad ankle and they both fell over. A touching tale of friendship.
My first day of practice was definitely tough, but not enough to make me collapse. Besides, if I kept flailing like this, my debut would be out of the question. So, despite the internal tears, I decided to stay and practice a bit more.
Fortunately, none of the members tried to stop me. My “dynamic” movements must have been quite a shock to them too.
In three years, those punks were destined to be regulars on the list of South Korea’s most talented idols. Which meant that in this “group project,” I was the only one who needed to get my act together. It felt like being the one assigned to “data research” instead of being the “group leader” for the first time. This feeling of being carried... it was full of guilt, but it was a fresh experience.
I was confident in my ability to learn skills through repetition. My ancestors hadn't given me any special talents, but they did give me the grit to not get bored easily. Seeing two hours fly by while I just repeated basic moves, I realized once again that a person’s nature doesn't change easily.
I wonder if I'll get experience points for this.
I licked my lips in anticipation. Who knows? Maybe if I collect 1,000 points, they'll give me a free ice cream.
As if reading my thoughts, the System reappeared after half a day. However, the source of the experience points was a bit different this time.
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[SYSTEM] ‘Hidden Quest (First Overtime)’ has been completed.
▷ Reward: Experience (20)
▷ Cumulative Experience: 40
▷ Cumulative Points: 0
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“F*ck...”
I didn't want to swear, but what else could I do? The situation practically demanded it.