I'll Take This One

"I'll take this one."

The moment I heard the event—rope climbing—I stepped forward. Truth be told, I'd known it was my turn the second I laid eyes on the equipment. Beside me, Kwon Do-ha narrowed his eyes. Whether he'd meant to take it himself or not, I had no intention of yielding.

Rope climbing. A full-body exercise where you hauled your own weight up a single line with nothing but bare strength. It demanded solid fundamentals—arm strength, core, lower back, lats, the works.

"Han-hee hyung, that looks pretty dangerous. You don't have to push yourself."

"Yeah, if you wipe out doing something like that, we're screwed."

Song A-seong and Han Min-hyeok voiced their concern. Six meters wasn't that high on its own, but with the platform height added on top, it must have looked riskier than it was. And they weren't entirely wrong—mess it up and you could absolutely get hurt.

"If you try to pull yourself up with just your shoulders, you'll get injured, so be careful. Coming down is even more important. It's not that high, but if you slide, you can burn your palms. The basic technique is wrapping the rope with your feet to brace yourself… above all, make sure your face and limbs don't get scraped up on the rope."

"Got it. I'll be careful."

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

Han Sang-jin clearly knew his way around physical training; after the pull-ups, it seemed rope climbing was something he'd done often as well. He rattled off precautions one after another, his expression dark the whole time. If it hadn't been limited to one event per person, he probably would have insisted on going himself.

The way he focused so hard on how to fall safely made it pretty clear he wasn't even expecting me to make it up in the first place.

"Han-hee-ssi, do you actually know how to do that?"

"Yeah. I've done it before."

Kwon Do-ha asked about my experience. Of course I had. I wouldn't have stepped up otherwise. I gave a firm nod to my worried teammates.

"Alright, then! Representatives from each team, please come forward!"

"Fighting~."

"Don't get hurt!"

"You've got this."

"Just do what you can. Don't worry too much about everyone else."

My teammates were more concerned about me not getting injured than about winning—but I fully intended to bring home the gold badge.

The Golden Badge. First-place team is right around the corner.

And while the Daily Mission and titles were nice, this was a résumé line all on its own. Athletic idols were in demand. Being good at something was always better than being bad at it.

They split us ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠into groups of ten—Team A and Team B—and since I was second, I got to watch the people ahead of me first. My takeaway: unlike the other events, a surprising number of them looked completely unmotivated.

It almost seemed like they'd been shoved out here during event selection. Plenty of them clearly weren't expecting to place anywhere near the top.

Sacrificial pawns?

Most of them barely climbed at all, just dangling there until their turn was over. Watching them hang and squeal might have been good television, but from a competitive standpoint it was underwhelming. I wasn't going to get any nail-biting, dramatic ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠victories out of this bunch.

Honestly, this whole lineup looks like a bunch of people who just drew the short straw in some punishment game.

Come to think of it, the people waiting had looked oddly dejected—which made sense, given that this was the fourth event and an unfamiliar one at that. Anyone who was actually athletic had probably already been cleaned out in the pull-ups and the race. Or they were saving themselves for the final event.

Hmm. This situation might not be so bad after all.

Nobody hated winning. Winning looked better than losing, and if you were going to win, the best version was a win so absolute no one could even challenge it. If Team B had the same atmosphere as Team A, I was confident I could take this cleanly.

Aim for a leisurely first place, just like Han Sang-jin.

My eyes caught on the Daily Mission, already filled to 40. Only 60 more to go.

That dance stat was hard-earned.

Every point was precious, stacked carefully over time. Sure, the system had given them to me—but taking something back after handing it over was always worse.

Team B, Groups 11 through 20—ten selected contestants lined up in front of the ropes. I was Group 16, so my spot was right in the middle. Just in case, I scanned the stats of the people around me. No one had a Dance stat of 86 or higher. Most sat in the high 70s to low 80s.

Judging purely by Dance stats was a stretch, of course. Dancing and this kind of athletic performance didn't have much to do with each other. Different muscle groups, different kinds of strength required.

Still, it wasn't a bad way to gauge who could control their body well, who had real physical sense.

Barely anyone looks like they've built real muscle, either.

Back in the day, a lot of fans wanted idols to stay slender—no muscle, no bulk. These days tastes had diversified, so muscular idols weren't unheard of. But in an industry full of teenagers, people who seriously committed to training were still rare. Growth periods and all that.

"Alright! Before we climb, how about we loosen up a bit? Stretch it out~."

Conveniently, I had a perfect example standing right next to me. Min Ho-su—the contestant who'd been shooting desperate looks earlier, trying to drag Woo Cheong-hee over to his side.

Judging by how he was hauling Cheong-hee around, he can't be completely weak…

Even accounting for the fact that he was only seventeen, he had almost no flesh or muscle on him. Classic slender build. Following the MC's count, I rolled my wrists and ankles and exchanged a quick nod with him. He was stretching half-heartedly, clearly with no real ambition to climb high.

A wider look around confirmed it—I didn't need to worry about dropping my Dance stat here. I was going for gold.

If I get any free time during the dorm stay, maybe I should start training properly.

The fact that I still had some height left to grow was a little annoying, but core work wouldn't hurt. The job was brutal for building muscle anyway, so getting a head start whenever I had breathing room might be the smart move.

I was loosening up, feeling an old passion for training flare back to life at the long-overdue return of rope climbing, when a muttered voice drifted in from my left.

"I can do this. I can do this."

I followed the mantra-like whisper and found a guy with big eyes. The face was familiar—I spent a second trying to place him, then it clicked.

Contestant 2145, the one who'd passed the first audition after knocking out number 2157. The unlucky guy whose bad matchup had left him saddled with a dance controversy bomb. So he'd made it through the second round too—he'd cracked the top 100.

Getting this far, he's probably vocal-focused.

In the first round he could only show dance, but in the second he could sing as well. That must have been where he showed his real strength. I'd only glanced past him earlier and hadn't retained anything, so this time I focused and pulled up his status window.

As expected, his Song stat outpaced his Dance. A pretty lopsided vocal specialist—he'd drawn an especially rotten matchup in the first audition. His Dance was a bit low, but depending on his traits, with proper development he could still become a solid main vocal. Getting torn apart over his dancing in round one must have felt pretty unfair.

Though with Kwon Do-ha around, it won't be easy going forward either…

If I remembered right, Do-ha's Song sat at 96. As long as someone like that was in the mix, the main vocal seat was basically spoken for. This guy was going to have a rough time when positioning competition kicked in.

Anyone specializing in vocals was carrying a built-in penalty just by existing in the same program as Kwon Do-ha. The comparison would be brutal.

It wasn't just Contestant 2145, Lee Won-yeong—almost no one could survive a direct comparison with Kwon Do-ha. I was in the same awkward boat when it came to position battles.

Song 85, Dance 82. Not bad stats—but compared to Kwon Do-ha and Lee Jae-jin, main positions were out of reach. Lead vocal, or maybe sub?

Looking at the program as a whole, Kwon Do-ha as main vocal and Lee Jae-jin as main dancer are locked in way too hard.

Kwon Do-ha with a Song of 96, and Lee Jae-jin with Dance 92 that jumped to 95 once his "Stats +3 on stage" trait kicked in for dance. Anyone in this program would want to avoid those two. A 96 and a 95 were the kind of numbers you should be filing a complaint over—why hadn't they debuted already?

Stats like that shouldn't even be here as contestants. They should be brought in as trainers.

If I ever ended up on the same team as Kwon Do-ha and Lee Jae-jin, the question of how to survive between them would turn my vision black. Forget skill comparisons—I could just get completely buried. A firefly under the sun.

Even on different teams, sharing a position with either of them meant unavoidable comparisons. Which meant all these fledglings here needed to start building their personal image before the team missions, when individual positioning became critical. That was the only real way to survive the naked skill comparisons that would inevitably follow.

If you didn't leave a strong impression on fans early, you'd just fade into "that one guy" later on.

The others don't seem to have noticed yet.

But it looked like at least a few people had. Was that why Contestant 2145 was so tense? Trying to carve out a survival path starting now?

"We'll pass gloves from the front—everyone put them on!"

He'd already carried a penalty from the dance-only first audition, and with Kwon Do-ha around he couldn't even escape skill comparisons in his actual strength—vocals. So he had to craft his own color carefully. That tension made sense. When skill alone wasn't enough, idols had to fight with story.

"Hoo…"

I watched Lee Won-yeong clamp down on his trembling hands and take the gloves from the person in front of him. There was something almost grimly determined about it—someone watching might have thought he was making a huge deal out of nothing. The guy handing him the gloves sure looked like he thought so.

But it wasn't overreacting. Everyone here needed to give it everything they had.

Is he naturally good at seeing the bigger picture?

I had the advantage of having played the game and seeing status windows, so my view was artificially wide. This guy had none of that, and he was still sharp.

Looked at properly, this sports festival was an incredibly important chance to build and stamp your personal image.

It was a sports meet framed around room assignments, which meant it would air early in the broadcast—the first time viewers would really meet the contestants off-stage. The importance of a first impression needed no explanation.

"Thank you."

Ah. Is that why they slapped such a vicious penalty on the sports festival? Because it matters that much?

I was mulling over that idle thought as I reached for the gloves coming from Lee Won-yeong—and before I could take them, the whole stack tumbled onto the mat.

"…?"

I bent down to pick them up and found Contestant 2145, Lee Won-yeong, slumped on his knees in front of me with a face that looked ready to cry.

"Ah… I'm s-sorry…"

"No, it's fine."

He wasn't some major criminal—why was he on his knees? I reached out to pull him up by the hand, but felt him resisting.

"…?"

Why is he fighting me on this?

"I-I'll pick them all up… I'm sorry…"

His head was down, eyes flicking up now and then, full of panic and anxiety. Combined with his relentlessly shaking voice, he looked completely cowed. What on earth was going on?

I slid my hands under his arms and hoisted him up in one motion. His skinny frame—maybe 172 or 173 cm—came up like it weighed nothing. Forced to his feet, he met my eyes with a thoroughly awkward expression.

"…"

"…"

What is this? It felt like he was going for something, but I genuinely couldn't tell what character he was trying to play.

Fragility? Timidity? Is that supposed to be charming?

We traded awkward looks for a second before I set him down. His feet landed lightly on the mat. Maybe just over fifty kilos. Ridiculously light. I gathered the fallen gloves, passed them to Cheong-hee's friend from Group 17, and pulled on my own pair. The rope was rougher than I'd expected.

"Alright, Team B! This is a very exciting group. Looking at the scores so far, Groups 15, 16, and 17 have been doing extremely well, right? Let's hear each of your resolves. First up—Group 15, who already took home one silver and one bronze badge! Contestant Lee Won-yeong?"

"I-I'll work hard so I don't hold my teammates back!"

Once everyone had more or less finished prepping, MC Cheon Tae-rim launched into a short pre-match interview.

"Yes~ love that! Next, Group 16! Gold, silver, gold—they're sweeping the badges! Contestant Lee Han-hee?"

"Thanks to my teammates, I think we're going to have a very comfortable dorm life. I'm happy about that."

"Ah, right! You've already secured a two-bathroom room. Does that take some pressure off?"

"No. All we have left now is honor—so I'll repay my teammates who've done so well with another badge. Group 16, fighting!"

"Fighting~."

"You've got this, hyung!"

I answered while alternating my gaze between Cheon Tae-rim and the camera, then finished by shouting toward my teammates gathered below. Their answering voices came back to me as I locked eyes with Kwon Do-ha. I've got this. You're next.

"Ah, what a magnificent ambition, befitting the strongest first-place team! Then Group 17, holding one bronze and two silver badges—Contestant Min Ho-su? Are you also planning to repay them with a badge?"

"I… I'm sorry! Hyung-nims! I'm sorry, Cheong-hee!"

"Excellent rapid-fire apology! Well noted! Alright, everyone get ready!"

Out of nowhere, I remembered: before I died, our unit's fitness room had a rope installed.

In general, units that put a rope in their PT room were rare. Ceiling height was an issue, and most places just had the basics—dumbbells, barbells, bikes, a pull-up bar, a bench.

But our unit had an unusually high concentration of people who were dead serious about physical training, top to bottom. So even if the other facilities were mediocre, the fitness room was excellent.

A fitness room built by everyone together, I guess you could say.

We weren't some hardcore special-mission unit like recon or special forces, but brand-new equipment kept showing up—donated from who-knows-where. Internally, they actively encouraged using the room to the point that even the initiation ceremony happened there. It was extreme.

My squadmates used to call it gym-rat heaven.

I adapted to the unit culture and trained hard myself, but unlike my weight-obsessed peers, I focused more on bodyweight work. And rather than annihilating one muscle group the way they did, I preferred ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠exercises that used the whole body whenever possible.

Those were the ones that actually helped me get my broken rhythm back.

I'd never been a bad athlete in school, but years of exam prep had carved deep into my stamina. I clawed my body back with everything I had.

There was a stretch where something like depression hit and I dropped it for a while, but by the end I was in and out of that fitness room more passionately than anyone. Even when I was living buried in mobile games, I never skipped training.

Once I roughly understood my situation, not working out just wasn't an option.

After my father died, the only thing I had left was my own body. So if I wanted to live, exercise was mandatory. Once I got out into society, that body was what I'd have to grind for money.

Anyway—around the time I was starting to build calluses and get a real feel for the pull-up bar, not long after the World Military Games, a rope went up on one side of the fitness room ceiling. Apparently in this era, rope climbing was considered essential for any soldier.

Because it was indoors, the rope in the fitness room was only about three meters. Later they set up outdoor ones at six and even eleven meters, the lengths growing over time.

The unit members screamed with joy. After going that far, you couldn't not use them. The muscle pigs who couldn't handle their own body weight especially loved it. Having to climb while carrying that much mass made it relatively harder for them, after all.

And me—when it came to rope climbing, I was the ace of the unit.