Angel Versus Devil

“In the third team mission, Angel Versus Devil, you’ll treat the angel teams and the devil teams as two camps. Angels stick with angels, devils with devils—and the side that racks up more wins gets the bonus points!”

Angels and devils. Both were concepts this industry had milked for decades. Picking one over the other barely meant anything, either. Linking angel to good and devil to evil was far too simplistic.

They twist it all the time—fallen angels, redeemed demons…

What actually mattered wasn’t the angel-or-devil packaging. It was the song itself. Whichever side we landed on, the track they handed us would decide everything.

And on that front, the angel concept’s song list was a dead end. Beating Kwon Do-ha’s team was one thing, but camp victory mattered too.

“We’ll take the devil side.”

The devil list wasn’t spectacular either, but it beat the angel one. After we finished conferring, Lee Jae-jin chose devil, and Kwon Do-ha’s team took angel as a matter of course. While the other teams claimed their concepts, we went straight into a meeting.

Nam Hye-seong had drawn the placard marked 1, so our team was Group 1—which meant we got first pick among the seven songs on offer. Which one should we take?

“What about Love Me Again?”

Seo Woo-ri, who’d looked drained all day, spoke up first. The moment song selection opened, his eyes lit up—maybe the hunger for a track had brought his drive back online.

“It’s a great song, but…”

I let the sentence trail off.

Love Me Again was alt-hip-hop with a heavy pop edge. At its peak, people used to say that if you stepped into a café even once, the chorus followed you home—looping so hard it stuck in your head for days. The lyrics weren’t bad either: a man repenting his arrogance, begging mercy from the lover he’d driven away.

We could lean into the original’s regret, or twist it into something brazen and unrepentant. Either way could be fun.

Still, something snagged. Woo Cheong-hee seemed to share the thought, because he picked up the thread.

“Can we even do it justice? It’s a Vesta song…”

Love Me Again, a B-side from Vesta’s second mini album, was eight years old and still beloved. Even I, who’d only looked it up later, already knew it cold.

It hadn’t been the title track, but it had drawn almost as much attention and affection as one. Grabbing it with half-baked skill would be like kicking a beehive.

Covering living legends who were still active was never easy. Domestic and international success had half-deified Vesta, and their fandom was infamous for how tightly it closed ranks.

Vesta—the brightest star, the greatest of them all—and their fandom, Sirius, had been attacked from every direction for so long that they weren’t in the habit of cutting junior groups any slack.

They treat them like threats, if anything.

A few minutes of searching turned up plenty of Sirius accounts who hated the whole premise of Idol Survival—that it was supposed to create a new generation of top idols to succeed Vesta. Vesta was still shining in first place, so why was the company treating them like has-beens?

When Vesta’s leader Huey was named as a judge, the backlash over dragging him out during a rest period had been nuclear. Word was the other judges’ screen time had been slashed as a result.

The fan reaction had been so bad that separate coaches handled dance and vocals; Huey and the rest of the panel only showed their faces for evaluations.

That was how hard Sirius was grinding their teeth right now.

They’re already irritated with us. If we go and sing Vesta’s Love Me Again on top of that…

They might explode and tell us to stop clinging. Great song or not, we’d be walking in with a built-in penalty. I had no interest in pouring oil on a fire already burning.

“Then what about Antithese?”

“I was going to suggest Antithese too.”

Nam Hye-seong’s proposal got an immediate yes from Lee Jae-jin. I agreed. When we’d chosen devil, this was the track I’d had in mind from the start.

“Yusu’s fourth-album title track?”

In a way, the song even had a thread to me. Yuna—the one who’d sung Drizzle, the piece I’d performed in the second audition—had led the idol group Yusu. A five-member girl group. They’d been active for over five years before scattering, and at their peak their popularity had been enormous.

Five members matches our count, and the risk of getting compared to the original artists is lower.

“I think Yusu’s Antithese is the right call too.”

Yusu had drawn a high proportion of female fans and specialized in delicate material. If we respected that texture and simply fitted the concept in carefully, the arrangement wouldn’t be a problem.

They’re disbanded, so reinterpreting the song doesn’t give the old fanbase much reason to rally and attack.

Once Jae-jin, Hye-seong, and I locked onto Antithese, Seo Woo-ri’s face fell. Woo Cheong-hee hadn’t taken a side, but he’d already looked uneasy about Love Me Again, so the decision was essentially made.

“We’ll go with the majority, but… it’s a shame.”

Vesta was so legendary they were called the idols’ idols; plenty of trainees idolized them for real or for show. Seo Woo-ri, apparently, was the real kind.

I felt bad for how sincerely he regretted losing Love Me Again, but there was no helping it. The risk was too high.

“All right—time to choose. Representatives from both Group 1 teams, please come forward!”

I gave Jae-jin a light shove between the shoulder blades. This kind of thing was easier for the older one to handle.

“We’ll take Yusu’s Antithese.”

“Ah—!”

Jae-jin walked up and claimed Yusu’s Antithese. Sighs erupted from every direction. A lot of teams must have been eyeing it.

The lyrics—exquisitely spun from a woman betrayed in love—were praised for their beauty. Slightly mournful yet clean at the same time. The original stage was so strong that the song had leapt off the devil list as one of the most eye-catching options.

After Jae-jin picked, Kwon Do-ha chose his track.

“We’ll take END’s Twenty-Five.”

He’d gone with Twenty-Five. An odd choice. Not a bad song, but not the optimal one either. Everyone had expected ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠him to take a different track, and most of the people watching were probably thinking the same thing.

Why leave Fill Me Up on the table?

Fill Me Up was infamous for its insane high notes. Among everyone gathered here, Kwon Do-ha was probably the only one who could actually land them cleanly. It was a custom-fit for his team—for him, specifically. Instead, he’d chosen the quiet, emotional Twenty-Five.

High notes weren’t everything, but the catharsis they delivered live was hard to ignore. Still, he’d taken Twenty-Five. Once both teams had chosen, the MC restated the rules.

“Let me explain the rules one more time. In Team Mission Round Two—Angel and Devil, the clash of good and evil—the angel teams and devil teams each form a single camp and compete. The side that brings home more wins takes the victory! Only the winning camp gets to apply their team scores to individual scores as well.”

In plain terms: if three devil teams won and four angel teams won, the seven ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠angel teams claimed victory and the points. If four devil teams won and three angel teams did, the seven devil teams took the points.

Fail to win a majority, and even beating your direct opponent might not earn you the team score. For a true win, the stronger teams had to cut the difficult songs so the weaker ones could breathe—but…

“Isn’t this just hot potato?”

Someone muttered it, and I almost nodded. Fill Me Up was the kind of song that soared if you could handle it and crashed if you couldn’t. For the angel camp as a whole, Kwon Do-ha cutting that track would have been the right move. Since he hadn’t, whatever team scooped it up was going to suffer.

You could even call it team-killing.

Not that I had room to talk. The texture was different, but we’d passed around the Love Me Again bomb ourselves.

There was still a distinction. Love Me Again would get anyone who touched it equally mauled. Fill Me Up, in Kwon Do-ha’s hands, would have been praised as paradise itself.

What was he scheming? In the first round he’d fired in every direction, friend and foe alike. Now he was shooting his own side. On purpose? A half-formed puzzle almost made me scowl before I caught myself. We were still filming.

“Twenty-eight people will be eliminated! Only forty-two contestants will remain for the next stage. Give everything you’ve got so your flowers can bloom and bear fruit. My little sprouts.”

Time passed. Group 7 finished choosing, and with MC Cheon Tae-rim’s closing remarks, filming wrapped. The contestants headed to their assigned practice rooms to start brainstorming.

“Ugh, I’m wrecked…”

“How does one day feel like a full-blown storm?”

“….”

We reached the practice room. Woo Cheong-hee collapsed onto the floor and muttered blankly. Behind him, Jae-jin rolled his shoulders in slow circles, and Seo Woo-ri was already leaning against the wall with unfocused eyes.

The second dorm stay had barely begun and already we’d run through rankings, team assignments, roommate picks, the obstacle relay, song selection, and concept work. It was a brutal load for a single day. Spending every waking hour under cameras didn’t help.

I stayed on my feet and checked the team. Nam Hye-seong wasn’t talking either; he didn’t look great.

“We don’t have that much time until the mid-evaluation, but…”

Unlike the rival match, which had split into first and second evaluations, this team mission offered only a single feedback session. The mid-evaluation was a week away.

Factor in locking the arrangement direction ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and reworking the choreography, and the real window is even shorter.

Practice time was scarce, so moving fast mattered. But before we locked a direction, we also needed rest—and a chance to clear our heads.

“How about we sleep early tonight and pick this up first thing tomorrow? We all need time to think of ideas on our own.”

Better to rest fully and start with clear heads than to grind through the night forcing ideas out of exhausted minds. It also gave everyone room to sort their thoughts alone.

We returned to the dorm, washed up in order, and by the time I finished, Jae-jin and Seo Woo-ri—who’d given up their turns—were already out cold.

I took the hair dryer into the living room. Nam Hye-seong was nodding off on the sofa, half-asleep.

With two bathrooms, we’d told the two youngest to use the room ones, but Woo Cheong-hee had washed first and apparently passed out in the bedroom. Hye-seong must have come out to the living room to dry his hair and then run out of steam, a towel still draped over his wet head.

Body, mind, and emotions—all of it had been spent today. Of course he was exhausted. I settled behind him where he sat on the floor, leaning against the sofa, and rubbed his damp hair with the loosely draped towel. Then I switched the dryer to its lowest setting. At the soft whir, Hye-seong cracked his eyes open, let me dry his hair, and started dozing again.

During To Myself practice he hadn’t shown a hint of sleepiness. Maybe it was being in the dorm instead of the practice room—fatigue was written all over his face.

“Hye-seong, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠go to bed.”

“Yes…”

Something closer to a groan than a word, and he lurched up, staggering into the two-person room. His eyes were shut—I hoped he could still find his own bed.

I finished drying my own hair, tidied the living room, and went into the two-person room. Hye-seong had managed to reach his bed, but both he and Cheong-hee were simply sprawled on top of their blankets. I tugged the covers free and pulled them over each of them. While I was at it, I swapped both of their titles.

It seemed to be a title everyone who’d finished the obstacle relay had received—some kind of full-mission effect. Better than expected. I could equip it for them overnight and swap it out during the day.

Thanks to the red ginseng, I still had some stamina left. I left the two-person room, returned to the three-person one, lay down on my bed, and opened the Producer-Only Quest window. Lee Jae-jin, Woo Cheong-hee, Nam Hye-seong—new names registered after I’d cleared Kim Yo-han, Lee Won-yeong, and Yu Sang-hyeon at the end of the first team mission.

Emptying and refilling took about five days. During the first team mission I’d learned how to manage the game-addiction penalty within safe bounds, so that wasn’t a problem. I checked the rest of the systems one by one, starting with the main mission.

D-61. Looking at the date, it was already mid-May. Two months until the final broadcast. I calculated the remaining time and pulled up my status window.

My total stats had hit 269. The third trait draw was right around the corner.

This time for sure.

One more point in vocal or dance would push the total to 270 and unlock another trait draw. The imbalance among my stats had largely evened out, but I was hitting a plateau. I needed a trait that could raise stats in a short window.

A stat-boosting trait.

Time to play it safe and go for a secure asset.