The Weight of Hidden Judgments
Jo Wonhyeong stared at the stage once more, trying to decide exactly how many points to award to Yoo Yeonjeong. Even if he gave the bare minimum, seventy-five points seemed unavoidable. Her technique was flawless in every respect.
“Only three audience members…” Eighty times three equals two hundred forty. Subtracting seventy-five leaves one hundred sixty-five. One hundred sixty-five divided by two? Eighty-two point five.
“Wait… does that mean—” If one of them scored ninety or higher, the other must have been in the low seventies. Or perhaps they had both been overly kind and awarded an early eighties score.
Which was the correct answer? Jo Wonhyeong suddenly felt certain he already knew.
“Both of them gave an early eighties score, I bet.”
Jeong Jaemin and Jo Wonhyeong were both veterans who had survived the industry for decades. No one with decent eyes could have missed Yoo Yeonjeong’s flaws.
Jo Wonhyeong suddenly found his own power terrifying. This was a shockingly perceptive result.
Jo Wonhyeong had just eavesdropped on the two men’s inner thoughts. * * *
As people grow older, they learn to hide their true feelings. But Jo Wonhyeong’s ability did the opposite—it revealed even the deepest sincerity without a trace.
He remembered seeing a movie as a child about an esper who could hear everyone’s thoughts. Before entering the theater he had envied such a gift, yet after finishing the film he had thought long and hard.
That kind of power was never truly desirable. Still, his own ability was activated only when he chose.
“Thank goodness.” He had only just realized the audition’s real purpose. He could understand the situation.
“Right. They’re both watching.”
Jo Wonhyeong had met many singers under Onjeong Entertainment before. If someone who knew talent as well as Jo Wonhyeong had missed Yoo Yeonjeong’s weaknesses, he must already know them.
Jo Wonhyeong recalled his friend’s personality and remembered the earlier words. “Why did he suddenly bring up song selection out of nowhere…”
Now it made sense.
—Song selection is talent too. Yeonjeong is a traditional music base, so a fitting song would be…” “But he’s aiming for the classic style.”
It was clearly a roundabout way of advising caution. Choosing the traditional route seemed too easy a conclusion. It would be a difficult path against the current.
—Hmm. I haven’t used traditional music much either…
Even Jeong Jaemin had been tipped off a second time.
—It comes from real-world experience. Skill grows through trials.
Jeong Jaemin knew that too. He had failed as a singer but had decades of experience as a vocal trainer. The names of rock and ballad singers he had mentored were endless.
“Yoo Yeonjeong comes from a traditional music elite background.”
Jo Wonhyeong had been an operatic elite himself, so he understood perfectly. Even in a short time he had sensed her exceptional self-confidence. Yoo Yeonjeong joked casually even when asked to sing for a newcomer.
“She probably knows her own weaknesses already.” Yet those weaknesses were likely difficult to fix. So she would simply double down on what she did best. Even though she understood that a strong voice would still struggle without the right trend.
Eighty-one point six was certainly not a bad score. But Jo Wonhyeong already knew the ninety-point mark.
“With this, I can’t.”
Because Yoo Yeonjeong had handled the technical aspects so well, Jo Wonhyeong had listened to “The Maiden of the Han River” and understood its meaning.
“Yoo Yeonjeong won’t fit traditional trot.”
“The Maiden of the Han River” was a song from the nineteen-seventies—a classic portrayal of a woman from that era. Could an alpha woman who had earned a doctorate in her thirties truly empathize with a character defined by that old-fashioned sorrow?
“It’s going to be hard.”
Jo Wonhyeong had used his power to discover exactly what was holding Yoo Yeonjeong back.
“The low comprehension score comes from that. The low immersion score…”
It stemmed from her personality. Her bold, forward momentum looked impressive from the outside. She had abandoned her difficult path in a single moment to choose trot. Through sweat and blood she had refined her voice until, after two years, it finally sounded right for trot. Yet could she truly feel the pain of the singer who had nothing left but to sit down and lament?
“Immersion won’t happen.”
That was why the low immersion score of fifty-six had appeared. Jo Wonhyeong had anticipated this and voiced his concern. Jeong Jaemin, being closer to her, had already given up.
“Each had their own valid reason.”
It was a difficult problem.
Jo Wonhyeong recalled Jin Seryeon’s case. The results weren’t in yet, but from Kang Seongdae’s reaction he knew that offering a little help through his power had significantly raised the odds of “Saljjakhung!” succeeding.
“Should I intervene?”
He hesitated. Jin Seryeon was the daughter of his father’s best friend from their childhood days—a girl next door, almost like a little sister. Of course he wanted to help. Jin Seryeon had no reason to refuse. Kang Seongdae was not the type to turn down advice meant to help her grow.
But Yoo Yeonjeong would be different.
“Yoo Yeonjeong won’t accept my help.”
She was far superior to him in trot. Her style was firm, her personality stubborn. How could he, a newcomer who appeared to have far less skill, suddenly offer advice? He would be lucky if she didn’t get angry. Even if she did listen…
“Wouldn’t that just be raising a competitor?”
Yoo Yeonjeong’s singing was extraordinary. It was so good that he doubted he could beat her even with trot. Honestly, the moment he heard her song he had been stunned. But if she could overcome her weaknesses…
“Unless it’s a hundred-point stage like Seokho hyung’s wedding day… I have no guarantee I’ll beat her in a direct competition.”
After listening to Yoo Yeonjeong’s song, the words of the original track echoed in his mind. —Of course there will be competition. That side will be watching closely, eyes burning, to see what scores I give you.
Every trot newcomer he faced from now on would be a competitor eyeing the niche of the performance scene. The market was still rich, but it wouldn’t last forever in such a small field.
“Fine. I’ll just watch for now.”
There was nothing to gain by stepping in right now.
Jo Wonhyeong fell silent and stayed seated.
At that moment Yoo Yeonjeong stepped out of the booth, smiling and asking, “How was my performance?”
Jo Wonhyeong thought for a moment before answering. “…It was a valuable learning experience.”
“Oh?”
Yoo Yeonjeong looked at him with a slightly mysterious expression.
* * *
Unlike Yoo Yeonjeong, Han Taejin was completely tense. “Hoo…”
Two years. A full two years. While Yoo Yeonjeong came from a wealthy family, he had supported his grandmother alone after leaving his ordinary job. When he was selected for the Paldo Song Festival, he had been overjoyed. —Grandma will love this so much.
Seeing his mother cry made Han Taejin think deeply. He had always been the disappointing son who did nothing. “Could she really be this proud of me?”
The moment Jeong Jaemin called, he quit his job and moved to Seoul. He had believed that once he became a singer his life would change. He had thought he would debut immediately after winning. But that had been naive.
The last two years had been hell. The wall between amateurs and professionals was terrifyingly high. Especially since he had joined at the same time as Yoo Yeonjeong and had no choice but to watch her rise. Her voice had felt like an unbreachable wall.
“Damn it. I threw everything into this…”
With no job and no home behind him, he had nowhere left to retreat. —Hey. You’re really good. Don’t get discouraged. People like me make a living singing, don’t they?
If it weren’t for Bang-gun’s encouragement and help, he would have gone home halfway. For two years he had earned not a single won. Bang-gun had steady income, Yoo Yeonjeong occasional gigs and family support. But Han Taejin had nothing.
—Don’t worry. Just practice. They provide the accommodation and food. What else could you be concerned about?
Thanks to Onjeong Entertainment, as Jeong Jaemin had said, he was never hungry. But when Bang-gun and Yoo Yeonjeong were gone, eating free lunch alone in the first-floor cafeteria felt awkward. So he had often skipped meals.
As time passed he secretly started visiting staffing agencies. He wanted to send a little money to his lonely grandmother in the countryside.
He endured it all for two years…
“Now it’s time to debut.”
The moment he heard those words, the resentment in his chest melted away. Of course, he had seen through Bang-gun’s messages that the real debut would be tougher. Still, it would be better than eating for free.
“Where is there a singer who never had a nameless period?”
Even the legendary trot singer Jeong Nam had been nameless for twenty years. Even the current celebrity president, National MC Yoo Juhun, had lived without fame for nearly ten years.
“Han Taejin, you can do it.”
Today was the first button of his singing life.
Han Taejin, steeling himself, strode into the recording studio.
* * *
When Han Taejin’s song selection was shown, Jo Wonhyeong asked, “‘Parkrikoegye’? He still can’t sing anything but slow traditional songs?”
“He’s grown a lot. Today he wants to show his best work. Actually, practice has a limit… now he needs real experience. He’s releasing a medley album and wants to experience live night gigs. Before long he’ll adapt to faster songs too.”
“Is this the start of real-world training…?”
“That’s going to be rough.”
Jo Wonhyeong smiled bitterly at the original track. Compared to his short active years, he had more stage experience. His former agency CEO had never let him rest. He had thought that as long as you could sing you could be a singer, but that was completely wrong. The stage was nothing like the recording studio—unpredictable situations arose constantly. Maintaining consistent skill and condition in such chaos was an entirely different matter. Especially night gigs, which were on another level of intensity.
Jeong Jaemin’s coaching style was never easy. When he led bands in the underground, he was pure rough-and-tumble. If Jo Wonhyeong was the drill sergeant for b-boy crews, then Jeong Jaemin was the drill sergeant of the entire underground scene. A one-eighty-five-centimeter, one-hundred-twenty-kilogram former baseball player, he could silence even the toughest gangsters just by staring.
“Back then it was really scary.”
When he suddenly challenged him to an impossible high note, there was no way to refuse. He couldn’t let himself lose either. It had been an awkward situation. If Jeong Jaemin hadn’t given the proper advice and had simply whispered, Jo Wonhyeong might have lost and been teased later.
As he recalled the past, Han Taejin’s song began. The moment he opened his mouth, all stray thoughts vanished.
“Wow… this is good.”