If Life Were a Ninety-Minute Match

If we define a human lifespan as a ninety-minute match, then for the first ten minutes of my first half, I was absolutely stomping the beginner bracket.

“And the Grand Prize goes to... Contestant Number Seven! Han Se-ah! Congratulations!”

While other five- and six-year-old toddlers who hadn't even entered elementary school yet were tripping over their nursery rhyme choreography, I was honing my vocals with the solemn devotion of a master potter.

Just as a soccer player's most critical asset is the fundamental training they receive in their youth,

a singer's ultimate weapon is their natural tone.

Countless factors determine one's vocal tone, but to put it simply, it comes down to the vibration characteristics of the vocal cords, the structure of the resonant cavities, and vocal habits.

As for vocal habits, I had polished mine in my past life until my throat literally developed nodules, so that went without saying.

The remaining factors, however, could only be shaped during early childhood—a precious window when the laryngeal cartilage has not yet ossified, leaving it flexible enough to expand the density of the vocal cord muscles and the volume of the resonant cavities.

That was why, even before my baby teeth had fully grown in, I sang constantly. I meticulously controlled the vibrations of my vocal mucosa to design the texture of my harmonics, and I widened my vocal tract to secure a resonant structure far superior to anyone else's.

The result? I forged a pair of steel vocal cords that couldn't even be compared to the fragile, glass throat of my past life.

From kindergarten nursery rhyme contests to regional singing competitions, I swept the grand prize wherever I went.

“Oh my! Se-ah's mother, you must be so proud to have such a talented daughter!”

“Ahaha... Thank you...”

At the competitions, the other parents gasped in shock the moment I opened my mouth. Eventually, even my neighbors stopped complaining when I belted out songs at home.

Of course, none of this would have been possible without the trials of my past life. I would never have known these techniques, let alone executed them.

Around the time I was preparing to enter elementary school, I decided to check on the most critical piece of the puzzle.

Though my hands were still so tiny that stretching both of them out barely covered the keyboard, typing was no obstacle.

Clicking the article, a photo of him—no, her—filled the screen.

The Messiah on stage was different from the Messi I remembered. She was, of course, a woman. She wore high heels instead of cleats, and instead of the Ballon d'Or, she held some kind of music awards trophy.

Her face was different, and so was her physique.

And yet...

“...She's still just as short.”

I had confirmed Leona Messiah's existence.

Now, all that was left was to sprint toward my goal.

“Mom, I won my tenth trophy today, just like we promised. Can you send me to the Youth Academy now?”

An Idol Club Youth Academy. In the terms of my past life, it was a trainee development facility run by an entertainment agency. It was an absolute prerequisite for anyone hoping to become an idol.

I was in the first grade of elementary school. I can still vividly picture my mother's face turning pale as I held out the trophy.

“Se-ah... Can we think about this once you're a bit older? Maybe in the upper grades? Mom just doesn't want you to suffer through all that hardship when you're still so young.”

It was a ridiculous excuse, but what could I do when my highest level of education was still kindergarten? I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠had no choice but to let it slide.

That was the beginning of my mother moving the goalposts.

When I reached the fourth grade, the goalposts shifted to "after elementary school graduation." Once I became a middle schooler, they were pushed back again to "after middle school graduation" under the guise of focusing on my studies.

I got that my maternal grandfather had practically bankrupted the family chasing his dreams of traditional Korean music, but this was still too cruel to do to her only daughter.

So, starting from middle school, I made a personal executive decision to stop calling her "Mom" in my head and just refer to her as Gyeong-ja.

Honestly, anxiety was eating away at me.

Messiah had already left for Barcelona at the age of thirteen, yet here I was at fourteen, rotting away in the corner of my room.

In the end, I had no choice but to take matters into my own hands.

First, to address my absolute lack of skill and knowledge in dancing, I joined the middle school dance club.

“When you dance, you have to make every single movement as big as possible! That's what makes it satisfying to watch.”

“Ju-hee. Thank you so much...”

Under the tutelage of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the dance club president, Young Ju-hee, I learned how to move my stiff body. She was a generous soul who had accepted me into the club without hesitation, and I hoped to repay this debt to her someday. Back then, I worked tirelessly to engrave her teachings into my body every single day. Now, I had reached a level where my muscle memory ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠took over and my body moved automatically the moment music played. It was hard to believe that in my past life, I had been a mere singer-songwriter rather than a dance artist.

Next, to keep my stage presence sharp, I made sure to perform at every school festival. Honestly, since I wasn't nearly as confident in my dancing as I was in my vocals, I stuck to solo singing performances for the time being.

Then, during my second year of middle school, an incident occurred. Someone recorded my performance and uploaded it to YouTube.

In an instant, I had become the greatest pride and joy of my alma mater, Gijang Middle School.

The problem was that the one person who absolutely shouldn't have seen it, did.

“Se-ah. I am speaking to you in all seriousness.”

I can still never forget that chilling voice.

“Do you have any idea how brutal the path of an idol is? Only a tiny fraction ever succeed. Stop chasing pipe dreams and think realistically.”

“...I understand.”

Gyeong-ja had finally shown her true colors, ruthlessly attempting to crush her only daughter's sole dream. Of course, I had absolutely no intention of giving up. I hadn't given up in my past life even when I was five hundred million won in debt; there was no way a little parental opposition was going to stop me now.

However, it was painfully clear that even after graduating from middle school, I wouldn't be allowed anywhere near ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the front gates of a Youth Academy.

To debut as an idol, I had to find a way into the system.

Even if I went rogue, auditioned for an Idol Club on my own, and passed, it would all be meaningless if I couldn't solve the issue of parental consent.

Time flew, and soon it was winter, right before my high school entrance.

The year 2015 was drawing to a close.

In my past life, Messiah had left Barcelona in the summer of 2021.

“Only six years left...”

Before, I had simply wanted to be on the same team as Messiah. But now, if possible, I wanted to be in Barcelona with her.

Her home club, and the very team I had passionately supported in my past life.

If I could stand alongside her there, I could die with no regrets.

“Seriously, what am I supposed to do...?”

I flopped backward onto my bed, punching my pillow and screaming, but no answers came.

Messiah, if you're watching over me, please show me the way.

“Isn't there some massive audition or something?”

Suddenly, a memory flashed through my mind.

“Ah! That's right, there was that!”

A program from my past life, a specific audition.

Even as someone who knew absolutely nothing about idols in my past life, I still vividly remembered this legendary show and its theme song.

Pick Your Idol.

Commonly abbreviated as Pick Yu-Ah, the survival show gathered one hundred contestants and selected only six to debut as an idol group.

Its selection method set it completely apart from other programs.

It relied entirely on 100% viewer votes.

Some criticized it for fostering excessive competition, but I couldn't care less about that right now. The crucial point was that the contestants would live together in a dorm during the show's run.

Even if it bled slightly past the school break, once I debuted, even Gyeong-ja would have to accept it.

“Yes, this is it!”

I could lie to Lady Gyeong-ja, claiming I was going to a boarding academy to prepare for my high school grades, and secretly participate in the audition.

What about the parental consent form?

I could just borrow my maternal grandfather's authority.

It was a brilliant strategy that would make Zhuge Liang and Sir Alex Ferguson weep with admiration.

“First... let's verify the facts...!”

I dashed straight to the living room where the computer was and glared at my younger brother, who was sitting in the desk chair.

The colorful, flashing light radiating from the monitor illuminated his face.

A strange silence hung in the living room, punctuated only by the tense sound effects of his game. My gaze was locked onto the crown of his head,

but it seemed my brother had yet to sense the impending danger.

“Hey. My turn.”

Looking at the screen, he seemed fully engrossed in a match of League of Valley.

Silence.

It took me a mere two seconds to raise my fist, lock onto my target, and prepare to strike.

“Ah, Sis, seriously, just a second, please! We're in a team fight right now!”

From the looks of it, they were fighting right in front of their Nexus.

In other words, they were on the verge of defeat. Still, that was no excuse, little brother.

“Ten...”

“Nine...”

“Ah, seriously!”

“Six...”

“Three...”

In an instant, the monitor screen faded to grayscale.

“Ah, damn it! I died because of you, Sis!!”

The unpleasant, metallic screech of a boy going through puberty pierced my eardrums.

“'Damn it'?”

He was so cute just a few years ago when he was toddling around. To think he would downgrade so drastically in the blink of an eye.

This older sister felt utterly devastated.

“A mere fourteen-year-old dares to talk back to his older sister, who stands as high as the heavens?”

It seemed he thought he could crawl all over me now that he wasn't an elementary schooler anymore. It was high time I reestablished some discipline.

“I'm going to break you.”

That day, my brother was thoroughly pulverized.

“Ugh...”

Leaving my brother groaning on the floor clutching his solar plexus, I triumphantly claimed the computer chair and immediately opened a search portal.

Pick Your Idol.

Fortunately, the program existed. I searched for it and clicked on the official website that appeared at the very top of the results.

With a flashy burst of visual effects, the recruitment notice in the center of the homepage caught my eye.

I checked my smartphone.

“CODE REEEEEED!!!”

I immediately began drafting an email according to the application format.

The application required personal details, a brief self-introduction, and a promotional video. The problem was the video.

I had plenty of practice singing videos saved, so that was fine, but I didn't have a single dance video.

I immediately sprinted to the youth community center about three kilometers away, rented a dance studio with mirrors, and recorded myself.

It was only possible because I managed to dig up the choreography I had learned back in the dance club.

Thank you, dance club president Young Ju-hee! I will never forget this debt!

Finally, in my self-introduction, I subtly slipped in the fact that I was the star of that legendary festival video with over five million views—the true identity of the Siren of Gijang Middle School!

Surely, they would have to pick me now.

The entire process took less than a single day.

“Please let me pass, please! Messiah, GOAT, God of Soccer, please help me!”

All that was left now was to pray.