11 - Among Geniuses (4)
11 - Among Geniuses (4)
11.
Seolwon Arts High is one of the most elite art schools in Korea. Because of that, they never hire just anyone to teach major classes. The instructors they bring in are people with real recognition—singers, composers, and professionals who have already made a name for themselves.
And in that sense, one of the composition instructors, Ha Hyoju, was an odd case.
The other four instructors were all names anyone in the industry would recognize. But Ha Hyoju? No one had ever heard of her.
And that was only natural.
She never worked under her real name, and she never appeared in public. But did that make her a nobody?
Absolutely not.
Her stage name was CM.
If you dreamed of becoming a composer in Korean pop music, there was no way you didn’t know that name. CM was one of the central figures in Korean pop composition, with fifteen years of experience and countless hit songs to her credit. Every singer she worked with regularly was a top star.
Her defining trait was her unrestrained melodies. They changed direction as abruptly as a drop tower, yet somehow still sounded completely natural. On top of that, she ignored genres entirely, mixing all kinds of styles into a single song.
People called her music “a mess” or said it had “no roots,” but she never cared about those comments.
So why had someone like her become a teacher at Seolwon Arts?
A slump.
For reasons she couldn’t explain, she hadn’t been able to write a single song lately. It had already been a year. In fifteen years of composing, this was the first time something like this had happened, and it left her anxious and lost.
Then a friend suggested teaching at Seolwon Arts.
“Who knows? Maybe you’ll realize something while teaching students?”
“What is this, a martial arts novel?” she scoffed. “Am I supposed to achieve enlightenment or something?”
She laughed it off—but in the end, she accepted.
And today was her first day teaching.
I’m exhausted…
Teaching students was far more tiring than she’d expected. She thought it would be easy, but after just two students, she was already drained.
At least this was the last one.
After this, she would go home, drink a beer, watch a movie, and collapse into her soft bed. The thought of that small reward helped her push through as she checked the schedule.
The last student: Yoon Hajun.
Notable detail—entered as a vocal major, then switched to composition. Otherwise, nothing special. Average grades. Middle-of-the-pack entrance exam scores.
A perfectly ordinary student.
Then the door opened, and Yoon Hajun walked into the lesson room.
“Hello.”
Her first impression was exactly what she expected. He matched his grades: soft features, drowsy eyes, slightly messy hair. Still, his clothes were neat, and his greeting was polite.
Compared to the top student earlier, he was far better.
Just remembering that arrogant brat who had scoffed and said he’d never heard of “Ha Hyoju” gave her a headache.
I shouldn’t have taken this job…
She was already regretting it when Hajun sat down and spoke.
“Could you tell me how the class will be conducted?”
“Oh, right. Since this is the first lesson, I was planning to start with the basics. Do you use a DAW?”
“I use Logic.”
“Hmm. Then… have you composed anything?”
“Yes.”
“Can I hear one?”
Hajun nodded, took out a USB, and plugged it into the computer. He scrolled through the files, thinking.
What should he play?
After a moment, he opened a file in Logic.
“This is the song I’m working on right now. There’s a part I’m unsure about.”
It was the song he made with Suyeon.
The melody of Runaway.
He pressed play.
The sound flowed from the speakers—and Hyoju’s eyes widened.
What… is this?
This wasn’t the first student song she’d heard that day. The honor student earlier had presented a fairly solid piece—rough around the edges, but impressive for their age. The second student lacked skill but had that spark of inspiration geniuses often possess.
Students are always lacking in some way. Even with talent, they can’t help it. That isn’t a matter of ability—it’s a matter of experience.
So what about the song she was hearing now?
There were no rough edges. No glaring weaknesses. From beginning to end, the structure was solid and the progression smooth.
This is a high schooler’s work?
She couldn’t believe it.
It felt like the work of a professional composer with over ten years of experience. And not just experience—the highlight section was stunning.
If there was one flaw, it was the intro. It lacked a strong hook to grab attention immediately. But aside from that?
Clean. Incredibly clean.
If he fixed the opening, this song could go straight into recording.
“Did you write this?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“And the arrangement?”
“I did that too.”
He answered as if it were obvious.
Hyoju frowned slightly.
“Are you affiliated with any agency as a trainee?”
“No.”
“Did you study composition somewhere?”
“I’m self-taught.”
He wasn’t lying. He was self-taught.
It was just that his self-study spanned ten years.
Hyoju didn’t know that, so she reached a single conclusion.
This kid is a genius.
If someone like this wasn’t a genius, then who was?
And that was exactly what Hajun wanted.
He needed a scholarship. To get one, he had to leave a powerful impression on instructors and stand out in practical exams. That was why he chose to present this song first.
First impressions were everything.
Acting like a genius at Seolwon Arts—where real geniuses gathered—wasn’t easy. But it wasn’t impossible.
Because even geniuses here were still just high school students.
Hajun had something they didn’t: ten years of experience and knowledge of the future. If he used those properly, his chances weren’t just decent.
They were high.
“You said there was a part you were unsure about,” Hyoju said. “Which part?”
“The beginning. It feels too weak.”
He replayed the intro. It was exactly the section she’d noticed.
“So you’re wondering how to fix it?”
“More precisely, I have an idea—but I’m not sure if it’ll work.”
“What’s the idea?”
“I want to use white noise.”
“White noise?”
“Yes.”
Everyday sounds. The rustle of notebook pages. Pencil scratching against paper. Crumpling sheets.
About five years from now, using everyday noises in music would briefly become a trend. It wouldn’t last long—people would get tired of it quickly—but for this song, Hajun felt it could work perfectly.
The problem was balance. Forced white noise could easily ruin a track.
“Do you have a specific sound in mind?” Hyoju asked.
“…I think the sound of writing with a pencil on paper would work.”
She paused, imagining it.
A soft, calm intro melody. In the empty space, the gentle scratch of a pencil. The sound fades—and then the perfect voice for the song begins.
The moment the image formed, chills ran down her spine.
“What do you think, teacher?” Hajun asked.
“…I think it’ll be amazing,” Hyoju replied.