A Flaw in the Ice
"I'll be marking a fail on the double Axel."
"Fail from me as well."
Once the compulsory elements were finished, the free skate—performed to music—was scored by three judges. A majority of passes was required to clear the test, and with two fails already on the board, the outcome was sealed.
Even if I give her a pass…
Yu Hyungyeong swallowed her disappointment and marked a fail of her own. It was a shame. Seolhwa had landed the double Axel cleanly in the element test, only to miss it the moment the free program began.
There's no way she can't do it.
When young children failed a program, it was rarely because a technique had genuinely fallen apart. Most of them simply buckled under the atmosphere of the judging rink and forgot an element they were required to attempt. Failing a jump they had already shown successfully—the way Cha Seolhwa just had—was uncommon.
Still, Yu Hyungyeong handed down the fail with that lingering regret.
"The ice is wrong."
"The ice?"
"It's cracked over there. And that hole on this side, too."
The answer that came back was not an apology. It was Cha Seolhwa's quiet, indignant claim that the ice quality was the problem.
Ice quality?
It was true that today's rink had been booked on short notice; the facility was nothing special. That didn't mean they had skipped resurfacing, though…
Wait. Number four was Choi Seoha.
The skater immediately ahead of Cha Seolhwa had been a middle-school competitor named Choi Seoha. Her calling card was a powerful jump taken off an aggressively planted edge—the kind of takeoff that chewed into the ice. Pair that with a rink already in less-than-ideal condition, and—
It was more than possible.
Yu Hyungyeong finished the calculation, asked them to wait a moment, and went to fetch her own personal skates. She hardly took them out these days; age had seen to that. The thought that she was dusting them off over a problem like this almost made her smile.
She loosened up quickly, then circled the rink once.
"…Under the referee supervisor's authority, the advancement examination is suspended. We will resurface the ice."
The gaps were tiny, but they were there—scattered fractures under the surface, plain enough once you looked for them.
"So. Will you retest? If you want to, you can go right after."
"Yes. I'll do that."
Watching Cha Seolhwa leave the ice, one thought settled firmly in Yu Hyungyeong's mind.
And she's only eight?
Most children who failed over ice conditions would never have said a word. Hardly any of them even read the advancement regulations. Cha Seolhwa, though, had treated the ice as someone else's problem—as it was—and pushed back without flinching.
She's already an athlete.
Figure skating did not hand its skaters variables. A perfectly resurfaced sheet. The same program time for everyone. An indoor arena sealed off from weather and whim. A figure skater was someone who proved themselves on a stage under total control. Damage to the ice was the organizers' responsibility—and a rank test was no exception.
"How did you even think to point out the ice quality that cleanly? Seolhwa, you've really grown up."
On the freshly cut ice, I finished the Level 5 test without a single problem. Yerim seemed so proud of me she had me tucked against her side like a stuffed animal, fussing over me the whole time. I scratched at my hair and managed a sheepish laugh.
Honestly… it just slipped out because it felt so unfair.
The double Axel I tried again on the resurfaced ice went in clean, as if the first miss had been a lie. No slide on the takeoff this time. The landing sat right on center.
Those gaps in the ice had been over the line.
Basic protocol said a resurfacing machine came out after every skater. But a crowd had shown up for a Level 5 test, and the place was small enough that they had simply kept going.
"Seolhwa, you're incredible. Are you really eight? You feel more grown-up than I do."
Yerim laughed and ruffled my hair again.
"Why do you keep messing up my hair?"
"It's not even set. I can pet it a little."
She scrubbed at my head as she said it. Being treated like a puppy wasn't exactly a thrill, but I let her.
In my past life, she never used to smile like this.
Remembering that, this much felt fine. And there was one more thing.
I had passed Level 5—the rank tested under junior regulations—and everything had snapped into focus. The ice had been the problem. I had named it exactly. And more than anything, I had proven I still had the right to stand on a stage again.
Now it really begins.
The next stage was the Association President's Cup, a full comprehensive competition. From here on, I wouldn't just be facing Jin Sehee. It was the kind of meet where the strong names I already knew from women's singles could easily turn up.
"If Seolhwa's going to compete for real, we'll need a choreographer, won't we?"
"A choreographer?"
Until now I had been adapting the programs Yerim had built for me back in the beginner days. It was easy, it was cheap, and most promising skaters refined their early choreography all the way through Level 4. Level 5 was different. It was time for new music and a program built to match.
"Can't you and Coach just make it?"
Honestly, the cost of choreography stung. The program I needed for this competition ran three minutes thirty seconds, but choreography fees rounded up—so it would be billed as four minutes. Most choreographers charged five hundred thousand to a million won per minute. Dumping at least two million won into that felt painful even if I had been born with a silver spoon.
I already know this stuff. There's no reason to spend the money.
I still remembered most of the programs I had used in my past life. Editing the music would cost something, but if I had the track, I could perform nearly anything. And if I needed something original, I had the experience to build it myself.
"Even so, having a choreographer is better, don't you think…?"
Yerim tried, but I kept pushing back until she finally gave in with a sigh.
"Fine. We'll do it this way through this competition. It isn't a ranking event anyway."
The next day at the rink, the piece I asked Yerim for was a ballad by a foreign singer—a grand track with a male vocal. Not a natural fit for a female skater. But—
I'm that familiar with it.
It was familiar enough that I was sure I could cover it, so I chose it.
"Is there any choreography you want to put in here, Seolhwa?"
"I thought about a little of it at home yesterday."
"Yeah? Then I'll put the music on. Let's try it once."
A moment later the track poured out of Yerim's portable speaker. I ran the program I had adjusted into something familiar to me and not too hard for Cha Seolhwa's body. Personally, I thought the performance was solid enough.
"Let's take a look at this."
Yerim held up the phone video she had just recorded. When it finished, one thought hit me.
…Sloppy.
The choreography was a complete mess. Watching my small frame thrash through it almost looked pitiful. The difference in build between my past life and this one was not something I could ignore.
"…Should we change the music, then?"
It was a shame, but once I had seen with my own eyes how badly it mismatched, there was no point pretending. I was about to suggest switching to a song that suited my current atmosphere when—
"No. Let's just adjust the choreography a little first."
"The whole mood of the music is heavy."
"But this is what you want to do, isn't it? Then we try it."
Yerim said it, then started pulling up competition clips of skaters who had used similar music.
"Look. This one's a Russian junior. This one's American. Builds close to yours, and the music has a similar feel, right?"
On the screen, small, slender girls were drawing emotion out of weighty tracks by dropping their centers of gravity. Arms flowing like water. A gaze that turned slowly. Thin lines, but firm ones, filling the frame.
"See the common thread? The steps aren't fast. But they hold the emotional line for sure."
Not the raw force that came from a male body—something refined that still dominated the space around it. Without thinking, I looked down at my own fingertips.
In my past life I had commanded a stage with longer, more extended movement. Now I was small and light. That didn't mean light had to look weak.
"Then… should we cut the steps and center it on the arms?"
"Good. But when you lift your arms, don't break the line. Let it breathe, like you're exhaling."
Until now, technique alone had been enough to win. To stand at the peak of women's singles, though, I had to use everything I was now—one hundred percent. My face, my performance quality, even this small frame: all of it had to become an advantage.
"Your hand expression is still weak, Seolhwa. Your acting is good, but if the movement has empty spots, the audience loses the immersion."
I kept that in mind and moved my feet. Technique I had already sharpened enough. Now it was time to string those techniques into one continuous whole. Not pressing with force—riding the flow, letting the choreography carry forward.
I set a weighty gaze onto a small body, and the music began to follow me instead.
Near the end of the track, Yerim clapped lightly.
"That works much better."
I caught my breath and nodded.
It's different from my past life.
That didn't mean I had to throw away the skills and strengths I already owned. What I had, I would hone sharper. What I learned new, I would lock in completely.
And if I did that, the end of the road could only be victory.