S-Grade, You're Mine

Why does he look like that? Does that even make sense?

Kim Sang-hee, a writer for Choose My Prince 99, rubbed her eyes in shock at the trainee who had just stepped onto the stage.

Independent trainee Ha Ye-chan.

He was one of the contestants whose application she had pulled and whose preliminary interview she had already completed. He had never trained as an idol and had no special awards to his name, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠yet his looks alone had raised her expectations sky-high. Even the photo on his application had rivaled the visual members of decent idol groups, and seeing him in person only confirmed it—this kid was going places. He had come off a little eccentric at the end of the interview, but that was perfect for drawing attention. Not a bad thing at all.

But he got even better-looking?

In the span of a single week, Ha Ye-chan’s face had begun to shine. When the accompaniment started and he hesitated for a beat out of nerves, even that looked endearing enough that Kim Sang-hee thumped her left chest with a fist. She felt the floor director beside her shoot a suspicious side-eye, but there was nothing she could do about it.

Behave yourself, heart.

This was not an object of fandom. This was a professional relationship she had encountered at work. Kim Sang-hee had been an idol fan without a single break since her after-school tutoring days as a little kid, but she knew how to separate public from private.

A familiar intro began to play. Having checked Ye-chan’s song choice before filming started, Kim Sang-hee felt her energy drain a little. The pop song he had picked was famous enough that almost anyone had hummed it absently at least once. But if you tried to perform it properly, the constantly shifting rhythm made it far too easy to get dragged along by the track. On top of that, the original artist danced while singing, so the wide range from low to high notes was easy to miss—yet it demanded everything. And because the original was so well-known, anything less than an outstanding cover would earn the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠verdict that he had ruined a good song.

Kid doesn’t have much sense, does he? Well, no agency looking out for him, so maybe it can’t be helped… Huh?

As if he had heard her disappointed inner monologue, Ye-chan snapped his head up from where it had been bowed. It was a cliché expression, but the air in the room truly changed in an instant. The trainee who had looked like nothing more than a particularly handsome face suddenly radiated the magnetic pull of a top-tier idol. Everyone in the studio held their breath and fixed their attention on him. Ye-chan smiled as if even that was far from enough. Then, with a light finger-point aimed straight at the camera, he began to sing.

The arrangement preserved the flavor of the original while shifting it just enough to lock perfectly with Ye-chan’s mid-low register, creating real synergy.

Was he a dancer or something…? That line work is no joke.

The light steps he took overflowed with ease, yet the difficulty was so high that no one watching would dare try to copy them. But the most absurd part was Ye-chan’s expression.

That’s a trainee’s expressiveness?

His face shifted constantly with the lyrics—never too much, never too little. If she hadn’t been on the clock, she would have wanted to capture every single frame and make an album out of them. Kim Sang-hee told herself several times that, as a writer, she needed to check the trainers’ reactions in the judges’ seats.

In the end, she never took her eyes off Ye-chan for a single moment until the stage was over. The professional-grade performance from an independent trainee no one had expected set the whole place buzzing. Once the judges recovered their wits, one of them delivered the standard question.

“Trainee Ha Ye-chan, what grade do you think you are?”

Ye-chan smiled faintly. The cool atmosphere transformed in an instant into something as delicate as a single white lily.

“I’ve sharpened my blade for today. S-Grade, you’re mine.”

The way he said it was a little ridiculous, but—

As expected, doing what I’ve done before is easier.

Ye-chan looked at the judges with a much lighter heart. Ever since he had pressed the first choice option while disguising it as choreography, his head had been spinning over how to deliver that line, but his body had danced diligently on its own. It was a song he had performed at concerts multiple times across his resets, so he knew exactly where to place the points that would make people cheer.

Lucky that Jung Chan-yang hasn’t stolen this one yet—I’ve only ever done it after turning twenty.

Before the full critiques began, the same question that had been asked of every other trainee came flying at him.

“Trainee Ha Ye-chan, what grade do you think you are?”

The time had come to reap the fruit of a choice he had almost forgotten. Unable to grit his teeth in front of the cameras, Ye-chan forced the corners of his mouth upward. Then he raised his index finger again, pointing it boldly straight at the front camera.

“I’ve sharpened my blade for today. S-Grade, you’re mine.”

A terrible silence he never wanted to grow used to settled over the set.

Only the tactless hologram window bounced around, unable to contain its excitement. Ye-chan crushed down his unsettled feelings and lifted his head with dignity.

“……Ah, I see. Haha, it really does feel like you came out with a sharpened blade. You did incredibly well. I forgot we were even judging and just enjoyed the show.”

The one who broke the silence was Lee Ga-won, main ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠vocal of Jupiter, who at this point in time was in his seventh year since debut. During the original broadcast of Chumaf 99, he had been famous for spitting venom from a good-natured face—but with skilled trainees, he had always been this kind.

“Thank you.”

Ye-chan bowed deeply at the waist. To avoid giving any ammunition to Jupiter’s notoriously aggressive fans, the best approach was to show nothing but gratitude, more gratitude, and pure gratitude toward a senior of that caliber.

“The song was really good. You could debut right now, honestly. If you’d said any grade other than S, I would’ve asked if you were joking.”

“I thought the arrangement was fantastic. Can you tell us who did it?”

When the vocal trainer sitting beside Lee Ga-won heaped on praise, the dance trainer piled on as well.

“I did the arrangement myself.”

“Trainee Ha Ye-chan?”

Exactly as expected, the judges started fussing about genius this and genius that. Ye-chan soaked up the flood of compliments with an attitude that looked bashful yet never servile—confident instead.

“The concept’s fun too. This handsome kid is really unique.”

“Thank you.”

At the judge’s words that even embraced Ye-chan’s four-dimensional behavior, he bowed politely once more. Inside, however, he was ice-cold.

Of course they think that. Do they have any idea how many years I’ve been doing this?

Counting the resets, there was no one here qualified to evaluate him. Receiving praise for a stage this basic was almost embarrassing.

After finishing his polite greetings toward the cameras, Ye-chan stepped down from the stage and walked to the S-Grade seats right beside the judges’ panel. The chairs were a bit tacky from excess glitter, but they were properly soft and comfortable. Settling into one without looking too relaxed, Ye-chan called up the status window.

Status window.

It was still far from enough, but compared to when he had first returned, the stats were remarkable. This was the achievement Ye-chan had carved out over the past week. The sub-quests that told him to sing or dance had been nothing but endless repetition—first ten times, then twenty, then thirty. One-off quests also appeared now and then: drink several liters of water, run a certain number of kilometers, sing a specific song. Ye-chan completed every quest that came his way and poured every point he earned straight into Visual. Once he raised it to S-, the required points ballooned without a shred of conscience.

Visual: S- (1/10000)

Not a thousand—ten thousand. Realizing that each grade demanded different points, Ye-chan tested investing in Dance.

Dance: B (1/10)

From B-Grade, it only took a measly ten points. He hurriedly gathered twenty points and pushed it to A-. It wasn’t what it used to be, but at least no one would call him clumsy anymore. The Sparkle stat that couldn’t take points still bothered him every time he opened the window, but he had done everything he could.

Since his turn had ended early, it was time to focus on memorizing the other trainees’ names while watching their stages—necessary for succeeding at the linked quest. Remembering the failure penalty, Ye-chan’s eyes turned murderous. The idea of those stats he had ground so hard to raise getting cut down was something he would never allow, not even if dirt filled both his eyes.

For a while after that, nothing special happened. Trainees finished their performances one after another and found their seats. Ye-chan was still the only one in S-Grade.

There’ll be two of us soon, though.

Hiding his indifferent thoughts, Ye-chan clapped with an expectant expression toward the trainee just stepping onto the stage.

“Wow, this trainee is huge. How tall are you?”

“One hundred eighty-eight centimeters.”

“Oof. Voice is good too.”

At the judges’ banter, independent trainee Woo Hwi-gyum bowed his head. Ye-chan knew this trainee well. Woo Hwi-gyum—the only one on Chumaf 99 who had briefly threatened Beom Se-hyuk’s dominance. Same age as Ye-chan, vocal position. His looks leaned a bit fierce, so his character overlapped with Ye-chan’s more than Beom Se-hyuk’s did. Yet across six resets, Woo Hwi-gyum had never once become a wall for Ye-chan.

What good is talent when you’re a school-violence perpetrator?

Woo Hwi-gyum had been riding high from the first grade test until a school-violence scandal mid-program forced him off. Chumaf, which had just been taking off on the twin wings of Beom Se-hyuk and Woo Hwi-gyum, staggered for a moment but ultimately shook off Hwi-gyum’s shadow and succeeded massively. That was why, whenever Ye-chan had been grinding Chumaf into the dirt, he had made sure the public never forgot Woo Hwi-gyum.

I kept reminding the big communities whenever I was bored that there was a school-violence trainee on Chumaf.

He had also neatly bundled other trainees with school-life noise—lesser than Hwi-gyum’s, but still—and sent their images straight to hell.

When Woo Hwi-gyum’s prepared performance ended, Ye-chan clapped again. The skill was still astonishing no matter how many times he saw it. That only made the guy more unpleasant to look at.

“Trainee Woo Hwi-gyum, what grade do you think you are?”

The fixed question came again. Ye-chan remembered Hwi-gyum’s answer perfectly.

“I did my best. I believe my best is S.”

The answer that left Woo Hwi-gyum’s mouth was identical down to the last syllable. Ye-chan carefully composed his face so he wouldn’t snort. Back before the resets had even begun—before he knew Woo Hwi-gyum was a school-violence perpetrator—trainee Ha Ye-chan had thought that answer was truly cool.

Woo Hwi-gyum, who received an easy S, walked over and sat in the seat beside Ye-chan. Sitting farther away would have looked stranger, so Ye-chan understood, but the thought of being stuck next to him for the rest of filming was unpleasant.

Might as well just give him a nod of greeting.

The moment he turned his head with that thought, a hologram window shoved itself into his face.

What was with the temperature difference on these options? If the hologram window had a collar, he would have grabbed it and shaken it right then. Confirming that the next trainee had not yet taken the stage, Ye-chan held out his hand toward Woo Hwi-gyum. When Hwi-gyum carefully took it, Ye-chan beamed brilliantly.

“I think I’m falling for you! Can I call you Hwi-gyum hyung?”

When they spoon-fed him the choice that blatantly, there was no way he was picking it.

Even the hologram window seemed flustered—the congratulatory popup appeared later than usual. Or maybe that was just his imagination. The trainee in front of him, however, was definitely flustered. Woo Hwi-gyum sat half-risen in an awkward posture, just blinking. Looking thoroughly conflicted, he finally opened his mouth with hesitation.

“I, uh… I thought I heard on stage that you were twenty…”

“I’m the same age as you, Woo Hwi-gyum-ssi. What I just said was a joke.”

Ye-chan dropped the smile in an instant and met Hwi-gyum’s eyes with a serious face.

“Ah, a joke…”

Woo Hwi-gyum sat down with an unconvinced expression. He looked like he had something more to say, but since getting involved would bring nothing good, Ye-chan quickly released the hand he had been holding and pretended to focus on the next trainee’s stage.

After a couple of breaks, ninety-eight trainees had finished their performances, and the final trainee took the stage. The long recording time had left the room a little unfocused and floating, but it fell silent in an instant. The production team must have deliberately saved him for last. Wasn’t this first stage the beginning of Beom Se-hyuk being called the Ending Prince?

While Ye-chan was recalling the past, Beom Se-hyuk’s performance began. It was overwhelming. In contrast to his soft face, intense choreography poured out without pause. Beom Se-hyuk controlled every single movement that shifted with the fast beat perfectly down to his fingertips, never once muddying a single one. It almost looked as if even his swaying hair moved exactly as he intended—impossible as that was. Ye-chan realized it had been quite a while since he had watched Beom Se-hyuk’s stage in person.

“I believe I’m S-Grade.”

His answer to the judges’ polite question sounded less like a personal hope and more like simple truth. Receiving the inevitable S-Grade, Beom Se-hyuk approached to sit in the empty seat behind Ye-chan. No choice window appeared, but this time Ye-chan held out his hand of his own will.

“Ha Ye-chan. Your stage left an impression.”

Beom Se-hyuk took the hand and smiled brightly.

“I should be saying that—I really enjoyed your stage. Looking forward to working with you.”

The moment he faced that sunlight smile, Ye-chan admitted it. He looked forward to smashing the remnants of the past together with this man—but he also looked forward to beating this bastard down and claiming the throne himself. A thin competitive fire lit inside him.