Isn't This Judging Standard Too Strict?

Ban Seongcheol clicked his tongue as he watched the live footage with me on the small monitor set up in the waiting room. “Don’t we need to pull eleven A-class trainees? If you start cutting kids like that already, how many are even left?”

“It does feel like they’re setting the bar pretty high,” I admitted.

The Counter trio from Neulbom Entertainment, who had opened the first impression test, delivered a polished performance with impeccable choreography. It was as if they were proving exactly what a debuted idol’s level of completion should look like. If the judges had been even slightly more generous, all three could have easily earned A-class without anyone batting an eye. Among them, Kim Yujin was one of the eleven girls already slated for the Girl 100 project group. Since she was being positioned for debut, her agency had clearly gone all out—her quality matched that ambition perfectly. Her dancing, in particular, showed a talent that stood out. She possessed a flexibility that surpassed even the solid performances of Han Sora and Garnet by a noticeable margin. I couldn’t be certain without seeing her in person, but I suspected her potential was around A-.

“Haa, with standards like that, I wonder if Oh Yuri will even manage a B?”

He thinks she’ll get a B after watching that?

Ban Seongcheol’s comment made it sound like the fifteen-year-old Oh Yuri—who hadn’t even debuted yet—possessed skills comparable to active idols who were already nineteen and had released a full mini album. If a kid with that kind of talent had been at Flower Entertainment, there was no way I wouldn’t have known about her. I couldn’t pinpoint exactly where my influence had begun creating variables that led to this change.

“Well, you’d probably be grateful even if she got a C,” Ban Seongcheol said, looking down at me with clear condescension. “Just because you both wrote E on your stickers doesn’t mean your kid and our Yuri are even in the same league.”

I’d only thrown out a few words after he spoke rudely, but it seemed I’d struck a nerve. He continued in a deliberately measured tone, clearly trying to scratch at my pride. “Yuri is a kid we planned with the writers for an early E and a dramatic reversal. Unlike trainees who’ve already debuted or proven themselves on other audition programs, she’s a pure new face. The concept is to show her revealing skills that don’t lose to any of them, creating that dramatic appeal. Unlike the rest of the trash, that is.”

“That kind of phrasing seems a bit dangerous, don’t you think?”

“What’s the problem? It’s true.”

Is this guy insane? What would he do if I started spreading rumors like “Ban Seongcheol is a piece of shit”? …Ah, right. I was the one who cleaned up that mess last chapter. The urge to avoid getting entangled with this bastard this time around grew even stronger.

Just then, the monitor caught Han Gyeoul sitting in the E-class section. Ban Seongcheol sneered at the sight. “…Heh heh. Looks like that kid over there thinks even E is too generous for her.”

As he said, she kept glancing uncomfortably toward the F-class seats, as if even sitting in E made her uneasy.

“This might be the first time an F-class actually appears, huh?”

“Hey.”

“…Huh?”

I’d tried to ignore him, but I couldn’t let that one slide.

“Want to make a bet?”

“…What kind of bet?”

“Whether Gyeoul gets evaluated as A-class. I’m obviously betting she does.”

“…Pfft, wow, you’re really throwing it out there. You’re not ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠about to bet some pathetic ten or fifty thousand won, are you?”

“Of course not.”

I could even bet the house, you bastard. Well, it’s not actually mine, but still….

After all the members of Neulbom Entertainment’s Counter received B-class and left the stage, vocal master Lee Eunji glanced at fellow vocal master James Oh and spoke cautiously.

“Um, Composer Oh?”

“Please, just call me James.”

“Ah, yes. Composer James.”

Only then did James Oh—who was wearing gold-rimmed glasses with a matching gold chain—stop taking notes on his tablet and look at her.

“Did you have something to say?”

The look in James’s eyes as he regarded her seemed utterly bored and indifferent. For Lee Eunji, who had built a reputation that spread throughout the industry while also possessing stunning beauty that drew the attention of countless men, it was an incredibly unpleasant gaze. However, she couldn’t point it out. Although the evaluation panel was composed of top-tier personnel who appeared equal on the surface, a clear hierarchy had been established in practice.

Even Seo Woo-baek—the choreographer so active that rumors claimed he created twenty percent of the current debut girl group’s choreography—and the unparalleled dancer who was considered the dancers’ dancer, were clearly beneath James Oh. Even Carnol, the sub-vocalist of Girls Sensation—who were evaluated as having reached the peak of second-generation groups—and May, the main dancer of ‘How,’ the only second-generation girl group song to create a national syndrome, both had to yield to him. Both women were also desperate to receive songs from him.

Cheon Jonghun would become the undisputed best producer ten years from now. He was already building a reputation worthy of that title. But if you asked who the best producer in the current K-pop scene was, ninety out of a hundred people would name James Oh. He had countless songs that reached number one on music broadcasts, and several that had even charted on Billboard’s Hot 100. Beyond that, he displayed exceptional talent in vocals, dance, and art, earning him the title of a near-perfect producer.

What made him unique was that despite possessing such abilities, he worked as a freelancer without belonging to any ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠agency. Some even said it was precisely because he was a freelancer that he had risen to his current position. But one thing was certain: thanks to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠his universally desired skill and the uniqueness of being unaffiliated, he held an overwhelming position as the only freelancer who could effectively lord it over even the major agencies.

Because it was James Oh, Lee Eunji asked for his opinion while watching his mood more carefully than usual. “Don’t you think giving all the Counter kids B-class was a bit harsh?”

“Why do you think so?”

Flustered by his ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠pointed question, Lee Eunji looked around and realized the entire evaluation panel seemed to share her sentiment. Gaining a bit of confidence, she continued. “They all completed their stages stably without making a single mistake. Considering that the kids gathered here are trainees or very young idols who debuted recently, wasn’t that quality more than enough to warrant A-class?”

James Oh set his tablet down completely at her words. “Just because they didn’t make mistakes, does that make them A-class? I believe that alone is insufficient to assign the grade of ‘peak.’”

“…That’s not necessarily what I meant, but wouldn’t it have been fine to give at least one of them A-class? There are eleven A-class seats over there. At this rate, it looks like no one will be able to sit in them.”

By now, the other panel members who had been listening to their conversation all nodded in agreement. James Oh looked at them and asked, “Do the rest of you feel the same way?”

“…Yes, that’s what I think, Teacher James.”

“From a choreographer’s perspective, I also believe trainee Kim Yujin deserved an A.”

The panel members hadn’t all voiced their opinions out of deference to James Oh, but they clearly sympathized with Lee Eunji’s view. James Oh fell into thought. After a brief pause, he spoke.

“Then let’s watch three more—no, two more performances. If the average level still falls below expectations, I’ll leniently adjust the evaluation criteria and personally overturn my judgment to change trainee Kim Yujin to A-class.”

When he offered this compromise, the panel members brightened and praised his decisive judgment. They made a fuss over Lee Eunji, who had led the negotiation, patting her and offering encouragement. Lee Eunji silently raised her arm in a victory pose, enjoying the praise.

Watching this, James Oh felt a pang of disappointment. It was regrettable to see people called the best in the industry compromising themselves to fit the broadcast’s narrative. What rises to the top is ultimately overwhelming genius. And the name ‘A’ should only be attached to such children.

Despite holding such thoughts, he was also a socially capable person, so he left room for compromise. I need to see a truly talented child. Why else did I come all the way here?

In truth, for James Oh—who already possessed both wealth and fame—there was no need to appear on a show like Girl 100. He wasn’t desperate for appearance fees, nor did he need the exposure to boost his reputation. The reason he had agreed to appear on Girl 100 was to find talent that could rekindle his waning creative passion. He had hoped that in this place where agencies revealed their carefully selected secret weapons, there might be at least one muse who could spark his inspiration.

But it didn’t seem like it would be easy. While James Oh watched the stage with concern, new trainees stepped up. There were four in total, with self-assigned classes of A, C, C, and B respectively. He watched their performance, hoping the child who had boldly written A across her entire chest area would show some real talent.

The performance by the four-member Blanc Girls ended quickly.

“…All F. Any objections?”

“Still, maybe give at least one a D…”

“Didn’t you all agree to maintain proper standards for at least two more performances?”

“…Yes. All F it is.”

And so, the Blanc Girls—who had stepped onto the stage full of ambition—headed to the F-class seats with tearful expressions.

James Oh’s mood grew extremely foul. They had only seen seven trainees, but at this rate, it seemed the other panel members were right—it would be reasonable to lower the standards. Discovering talent that could provide the inspiration he sought seemed incredibly difficult.

“…Sigh.”

While the entire panel watched James Oh’s clearly upset expression, the monitor on stage displayed the self-assigned class: E.

“Aigoo,” choreographer Seo Woo-baek lamented upon seeing it. It didn’t look like the talent who could lift James Oh’s mood had arrived. From Seo Woo-baek’s perspective—hoping for someone who could improve the atmosphere regardless of the evaluation criteria—it felt utterly bleak.

In that heavy atmosphere, one trainee stepped onto the stage.

“…Ah, …h-hello! I’m Han Gyeoul, a trainee from Two Bear Entertainment!”

It was truly an unreliable sight.