Same Team, Same Stage
This was everything I had figured out so far about the Producer-Only Quest.
There were three slots for registering trainees, and swapping them out took time. Even after a trainee was registered, intervening too aggressively—trying to force stats up without any natural progression, for instance—could trigger a penalty. And usually, the first thing to take the hit was my sense of touch.
"Hands going numb?"
I clenched and unclenched my fist a few times against the dull sensation at my fingertips. Kim Yo-han must have been watching, because he asked if my hands were tingling.
"Must've slept wrong. Just a little stiff."
I brushed it off. If it got any worse, I would start losing pain sensation intermittently, so I did need to be careful. I opened Kim Yo-han's status window.
Kim Yo-han's dance stat, which had been stuck at 78, had climbed to 80. He seemed to feel the growth himself; momentum had caught hold of him, and he was overflowing with drive even during practice hours.
"Good morning."
The same went for Yu Sang-hyeon, who had arrived at the practice room first thing in the morning.
In a short stretch of time, Yu Sang-hyeon had gained a point each in vocals, dance, and charm, and the confidence that came with it was written all over him. Honestly, if I had to name the person whose personality and values had changed the most—skill aside—Yu Sang-hyeon would take first place without question.
After being put through the wringer by Kim Seong-min, who was four years younger than him—hearing every word you could and couldn't say to someone—he had completely shed that sheltered, world-naïve air. He had grown remarkably cynical. He was mostly quiet, but every sentence that came out of his mouth landed like a knife.
Still, as confidence in his skill solidified, he had started to feel more grounded, and that was a good change. At the very least, he no longer tore himself apart because he couldn't outrun uncertainty and worry the way he used to.
And so, as I helped Kim Yo-han with his morning stretches like always, the rest of the team drifted in one by one. Somewhere in the middle of it, my eyes met Lee Won-yeong's. He had arrived a little later than usual, wearing the light expression of someone who had managed to shed a layer of something, and when our gazes locked, he offered a greeting. I dipped my head in return.
Well. If it was good, it was good.
Just like Kim Yo-han, Lee Won-yeong had also hit a dance stat of 80. The target was 81, B0—but there was still plenty of time left, and I was starting to feel it would be fine to turn a little more attention toward the other teammates.
I was beginning to get a sense of how this worked.
I skimmed the quests hanging under the status windows of Kim Yo-han, Yu Sang-hyeon, and Lee Won-yeong. For Kim Yo-han, whose flexibility was lacking, stretching was always a mandatory part of the mission. For Yu Sang-hyeon, whose body couldn't keep the beat, the main assignment was sectional repetition to burn the rhythm into his body. For Lee Won-yeong, who was born with poor physical control, precise, repeated mastery of each movement was demanded every time.
The quest changed its shape every time I identified something my registered trainees were missing, offering a solution in return. It felt like a tailored coaching plan.
Between the status windows and this trait that handed me visible fixes, I had enough of a buff that I could pass for a decent coach. Amateur methods, sure—but if the point was delivering real results, wasn't that still an excellent trainer?
While everyone was gathering into formation, I caught Hye-seong coming in half a beat late through the mirror and raised my voice.
"Hye-seong, tighten the spacing!"
"Yes!"
Since I was the one who had come up with the overall concept for the stage, I was also handling the job of checking blocking and formation during practice.
Early on, I had been so swamped my eyes were spinning—choreographing, overseeing practice, and still having to pull my weight as main dancer and center. Now that things had stabilized somewhat, it was running a lot more smoothly.
They say the role makes the person. All the work I had put into teaching them had paid off enough that my own stats had climbed along with theirs. Dance: 85. Enough that I no longer had to feel embarrassed calling myself main dancer.
That didn't mean everything was easy. There were still problems left to solve.
"Hyung, about the part where the four of us dance separately—the section for I'm living with a mask on. I feel like the moves need a little more punch there. What if just you and I try changing it like this?"
"Like this?"
"Yeah, exactly like that."
"Not bad."
I nodded at Choi An-seong, who wanted to tweak the choreography for the section where the four of us on the dance line locked in together. I wasn't without my own hunger to make the stage better, and if something looked right when I saw it, I was more than willing to change it. He also seemed to have a real talent for building choreography. Nothing to refuse there.
"Alright, let's switch it up. Tae-su, Han-seo hyung—could you come over for a second?"
I called over the two Silver-rank members. We needed to run it once to check.
"So the idea is the two of them keep doing it the same way, and the two of us add the arm work?"
I stepped onto my right foot, used my knee and waist to arch my body back, then stretched my arms and settled into a perched seat. Because we were dancing on a table, leaving my hands hanging in empty air as I sat looked a little risky—but it wasn't a bad way to sell the lyrics. And it looked good, too.
"I think it works."
Sometimes something that looked a little dangerous was cooler for it, and this was exactly that case. I was nodding at the solid feel of it when Go Ju-ha called out from the side.
"Uh, isn't that dangerous? If someone falls wrong, they could get hurt."
"…It's not even your part, so why?"
Choi An-seong's prickly reply made the practice room go quiet for a beat. Go Ju-ha's answer came back just as sideways.
"It's not just you doing it. Han-hee hyung is doing it with you. Who said I was worried about you?"
"It's not your business either way. So why are you worrying about it? Know your place."
Just do your own job properly. The sneer that followed set a spark in Go Ju-ha's eyes. Ah. So this was how it had been going.
"Every other word out of your mouth is 'know your place' this, 'know your place' that. You're really putting on a show. You're not even a Platinum hyung, and you're not Gold either. You're barely Silver yourself."
"That's rich, coming from a Bronze."
"You little—"
I watched them with mild curiosity, wondering how far they would take it, until my eyes met Go Ju-ha's. He quietly shut his mouth, and I could feel Choi An-seong reading the room as well. I honestly didn't understand fighting over something like this, but with the atmosphere gone quiet, I spoke up.
"First of all, Ju-ha—thanks for worrying."
"Yes…"
"But this is something I already signed off on. Is it really worth fighting An-seong over?"
"…"
It wasn't that he had no genuine concern for me—but it also didn't feel entirely free of him using that concern as an excuse to pick a fight with Choi An-seong.
"And An-seong. Your words are sharper than they need to be."
"…"
They had different ways of thinking and different values, so I had no intention of forcing them to understand each other. We weren't preschoolers. But a reconciliation was necessary.
"Either way, we're all the same team right now. We're going to stand on the same stage, sing the same song, and dance the same dance. If you look at each other like you can't stand the sight of one another, do you think the audience is going to enjoy that? You think people won't notice?"
"…No."
Go Ju-ha answered in a small voice; Choi An-seong still had his mouth shut. For now, I took only Choi An-seong and stepped out of the practice room. Private talk time.
"Want something to drink?"
I led Choi An-seong, who followed in silence, over to the vending machine. In moments like this, putting something in a person's mouth helped.
"…An electrolyte drink for me."
"Mm. Then let's go with these."
I bought a peach-flavored drink and one in a blue wrapper, then held out the peach. Choi An-seong stared at the bottle that had been handed to him before he finally spoke.
"I'll try not to be a burden on the team as much as I can."
"I'd appreciate that. But—any interest in telling me the reason? Why you look down on Ju-ha."
"…"
Judging by how often he threw around digs about "knowing your place," Ju-ha must have gotten under his skin pretty badly.
"He drags everyone around him down to his level."
"In what sense?"
"He barely practices, then laughs it off, has no intention of working harder, and blames everyone else. The choreo's too hard, this and that."
Choi An-seong let out a long breath. His hands fidgeted with the peach drink, unable to settle.
"I'm really desperate this time. I didn't half-give up the way he did. I'm going to throw everything I have at this, and even then it still feels like I'm not enough, so I'm getting restless. Some people look like they gave up nice and easy."
From what I had seen, Go Ju-ha didn't actually look like someone who had casually given up with a light heart. If he had, he never would have been the second person to step forward for the talent showcase when everyone else was reading the room. He must have been desperate himself.
"I don't know. Whether he really gave up or not."
"He did. That guy always shows up to practice last and leaves first."
For someone supposedly giving up, Go Ju-ha's stats were climbing just fine. Maybe he was practicing in another room?
"You said earlier you'd try not to be a burden on the team, right? After practice today, follow Ju-ha and see where he goes."
"…Is this a punishment?"
"If you want to call it that, sure. But if you're going to look down on someone and resent them, wouldn't you feel better knowing the actual reason properly?"
When you got impatient, your field of vision narrowed easily. There were more people than you might think who never put their effort and suffering on display. Not everyone exhibited their hardships—so judging by the surface alone was an easy way to make mistakes.
I brought Choi An-seong back into the practice room. Go Ju-ha came close and offered him an apology.
"Sorry."
My eyes met Kim Yo-han's, who was watching from this side; he winked one eye. Something in his eye, maybe.
I looked over at Choi An-seong, who still hadn't answered Go Ju-ha's apology. When our gazes met, Choi An-seong gave a clean nod.
"I'm sorry too."
There seemed to be some misunderstanding mixed in, but they had apologized, so the rest they could sort out themselves. There was a promise on the table, after all.
I pressed down firmly on Nam Hye-seong's head as he watched Choi An-seong and Go Ju-ha with a worried face. Worry about yourself first.
Just as I had thought the first time I saw him—blood of kings and generals—his potential alone was infinite. His base stats were low, but I later learned he hadn't even been dreaming of becoming an idol for long. He had been seriously studying dance and vocals for barely a year.
At a glance, I had wondered what kind of stats those even were—but of course. That was a Perfect UR for you. He was still young and his current numbers were low, so debuting through this audition would be hard… but two or three years from now, he would probably be a major rookie no one could ignore.
I ruffled Nam Hye-seong's hair.
Even so, having you around makes the mood a little better.
Fifteen years old—anywhere from three to nine years younger than the rest of us—so Nam Hye-seong often played the role of the spoiled youngest and reset the atmosphere when it needed it.
At this rate, it was a pretty successful group project.
I nodded to myself without meaning to, leaving Nam Hye-seong's puzzled look behind me, and clapped my hands. Things seemed settled for now—time to get back to practice.
"We'll run it ten more times."
"Okay."
"Yes~."
Everyone nodded without complaint. From where I stood, one thing was certain: there was no one here who wasn't working hard. There were only people who worked hard, people who worked harder, and people who worked even harder still.
Fierce.
Every day was so packed I wondered if I had ever lived this hard in my life—but no one's expression looked all that bad. The sense of achievement that came with it was what made it bearable.
Thinking about it, the reason I could never put down games in my previous life was probably the same. The fun of growing a little every day was profoundly addictive.
"One more time. Let's go."
Everyone was breathing hard, but the song kept going for a long time after that, without stopping.