The Master's Shadow and Group Sound's Debut
Junhong paused to collect his thoughts on YouTube. "Could she be... his disciple? The last one Master Myeongjeon took in? The one whose talent he recognized and taught...?" That seemed the most logical conclusion. But if she really was his disciple, then when he'd asked about the guitar's origins earlier, she could've just said so, right?
Yet Junhong couldn't come up with a more convincing hypothesis. Of course not—he was your average citizen, a proud 21st-century South Korean who believed only in science and scoffed at anything supernatural like superhuman strength or divine interventions. A damn good guitarist, sure, but otherwise ordinary.
Instead of pressing her on what she hadn't revealed, he decided to ponder why she might keep it hidden. "Did he tell her not to say anything?" It made sense to Junhong. Master Myeongjeon had been picky, but also a bit eccentric.
Junhong wasn't the only one who'd learned guitar from him. Several other session guitarists had crashed at Myeongjeon's place back then and picked up a few things. But Myeongjeon never let any of them call him "master" or "teacher" or claim he'd taught them.
"If you learned, you learned. What master or teacher bullshit? If you've got nothing better to do, get the hell out!"
That was it—he'd kick them out. The scene respected Myeongjeon plenty, but no formal group or gatherings ever formed. Why? Because none of them knew each other existed.
"Did he tell her the same thing?" If so, she couldn't very well go around saying she was his disciple. How could a student defy such a direct order from their master and brag, "I learned from that guy"?
It was only natural. Watching Junhong nod to himself in convinced satisfaction, Myeongjeon inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. "Good thing I laid down the law back then..." He was grateful to his past self.
The reason Myeongjeon had forbidden anyone from claiming he'd taught them stemmed from his own self-loathing and jealousy toward others. What good was being a great guitarist if you lagged so far behind in the truly important part: music itself? Strutting around boasting about disciples was just pathetic, he'd thought at the time.
But Myeongjeon was dead now, and only Suyeon remained. No one would ever know the real reason.
And during the broadcast, as Suyeon played Eric Clapton's Change the World.
"Great performance. How about you all? Wasn't it amazing? Right? I was blown away. And moved. To think Korea has a guitarist of this caliber—young, and such a beauty too..."
Chats flooded in from every direction. Junhong picked through them to keep the stream going: the best guitar track he'd heard lately, skills unbelievable for a teen, and so on.
"So, WhiteRoom..., you're not aiming for an arts university or anything like that?"
"No. I don't really plan on going that route."
"Aw, come on. From what you've played, you could kick down the doors of any arts school."
Junhong meant it. If she could get in, why not? He was an arts school grad himself.
"Do I really need to go somewhere like that? Nothing to learn there."
"Ooh, confidence."
But Myeongjeon replied indifferently. He'd learned everything in the field, so the idea of going to academies or schools just to learn didn't resonate.
"Ever thought about Berklee or places like that? Even if not in Korea, abroad there are..."
"Eh..."
Of course, a place like Berklee, packed with monsters like Tomo Fujita, might have something to offer. John Mayer went there too, right? But Myeongjeon had forged his own style over decades. Mayer even dropped out of Berklee—why would he bother now?
"You might change your mind, but for now, no plans like that."
"Got it."
Junhong glanced at the chat.
He banned the troublemakers while thinking, "Confidence is great, but she borders on arrogance."
Of course, she had the skills to back it up. If Junhong had her talent at that age, he'd have acted like the world was his footstool. She earned it.
But separately, it could stir controversy. Online communities might boil it down to "High school girl says arts school kids are talentless losers.jpg."
"If she were just some average invited YouTuber, I'd let it slide, but..."
Presumed disciple of his master or not, he couldn't ignore it. Junhong figured he'd offer some support beyond this and tossed out the next line.
"The live's wrapping up soon. If it's okay, could we hear one last original song?"
"Hm... an original?"
Myeongjeon sank into thought. They'd originally planned his second original. Back then, the first band song wasn't finished. But during their email exchanges, the band track's arrangement wrapped up.
So he'd meant to tell Junhong pre-stream about switching songs... but got sidetracked by guitar talk and forgot to mention it or send the file.
Eh, it'd be fine. No backing track might actually highlight her skills better. Sure, it could feel sparse without one, but covering that with pure guitar prowess would earn even more praise.
"Miss? One sec..."
So he decided to go for it. Junhong looked a bit awkward but nodded.
As Junhong gave the intro, Myeongjeon stepped back to tweak her gear. Time to play.
"I'm still searching for you, the you I never met that day..."
"Alright! The song WhiteRoom will play next is... the first original from her band!"
Junhong hyped it up with details. Viewers grumbled a bit.
"We get she's good on guitar, but is that all...?"
Average folks can't gauge true guitar skill. Even dedicated subscribers here couldn't. You have to try it yourself to know.
It's like that with everything. Non-soccer fans debating Premier League strikers' god-tier vs. trash status—when they'd get shredded without touching the ball in a real match.
Not a huge sin, though. People are like that. They chase the flashy visible stuff and shun the invisible grind. They obsess over showy techniques, ignoring how much harder solid fundamentals are.
But when Suyeon started strumming, viewers realized: true masters differ from the basics.
The playing wasn't flat—undulating waves, crashing tides... rhythms that rushed in and pulled back, advanced and retreated. Off-beat timings flowed without a hitch.
Pentatonic and blue-note scales wove a melancholic melody. No frantic rushing from overreaching, no sloppy timing from poor rhythm sense. Nothing.
On screen, she controlled every note, infusing her intent fully.
Chats slowed. No one wanted to miss a second typing.
Then a humming melody blended seamlessly, guiding listeners to a single scene.
It felt like a windy winter day. Sleety snow drifting past the window. Promise time approaching, no word from you. Sitting in a cafe corner, a string player strums bluesy tones... glances outside again. Time's up, somehow.
The wall clock shows 30 minutes past. But you don't come.
Heads to the counter, asks to call your house. Family says you left already. Pays for coffee, dashes out. Runs to your place.
You're not there. Sleet falls harder, but no you.
Back and forth dozens of times. Still no you.
Why? No idea. But...
The guitar, gentle till now, roars at the vocal's end—like that man's feelings, trudging streets with dried, tear-stung eyes amid the blizzardy night.
The building solo peaks in climax. Blazing speed she'd held back, pitch wavers from vibrato. Tones twist mercilessly, yet no one found it jarring.
They felt it as emotion. The fabled guitar feeling they'd only heard about.
Post-climax, it ebbs gently.
"Thank you."
Junhong clapped wildly at her bow—till his hands turned red and screamed in pain.
"Ow! Aigoo, hit too hard. Anyway... an indescribably incredible performance! Never imagined feeling this from a teen guitarist."
He meant every word. Was this why Master Myeongjeon took her on? It felt like the late master reborn.
"What's the song called?"
Chats boiled over, five times faster than usual. Junhong asked amid the frenzy.
"That Day's You. And..."
"And?"
"The band playing this... is Group Sound."
Myeongjeon declared it.