Hell's Gate

February 15th. Exactly seventeen days after I received the second mission — and the day my mind shattered like broken glass.

The first thing that seized my attention was that line. Before the Idol Survival first-round evaluation. The phrase that had appeared with the start of the third mission left me utterly blank.

The Idol Survival I knew was a survival program that gathered newly debuted idol groups, put them through a gauntlet of stages, and crowned the next generation's greatest idol act. Being told that I — a total civilian — was supposed to walk into that made no sense at all.

And yet the truth was unmistakable.

"So Idol Survival is a public audition program for ordinary people…"

It was still Idol Survival — just not Idol Survival: The Beginning. On the surface it sounded like wordplay, but that was exactly what it was. The game system wasn't set in Idol Survival: The Beginning. It was set in Idol Survival: Step Up. Old game versus new game.

If the Beginning version was a game where trainees debuted as idols and then ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠competed on Idol Survival, then the Step Up version is a game where ordinary people debut through Idol Survival itself…

Unlike Beginning, which I had played hard for a little over a year, I had barely started Step Up before dying. I knew almost nothing about it. If I had known it would come to this, I would have ignored spoilers ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and dug through every guide I could find.

No wonder I started as a civilian instead of a trainee…

I couldn't hold back the sigh rising from deep in my chest.

"So that's why nothing quite added up."

To clear the second Guide mission, I had spent five or six hours a day busking near universities, aggressively using the trait Grow by Eating Love (R). At some point I had been handed a business card. A casting manager from a mid-tier agency — I still remembered him bragging that his company was the only one left that could still launch a boy group this year.

When I looked it up later, I found that for reasons no one outside the industry could fully explain, nearly every male idol group scheduled to debut in the latter half of the year — right when the Idol Survival project was ramping up — had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠either been delayed into oblivion or shoved into an early launch at the start of the year.

The vanishing of those debut teams was the clearest proof imaginable that this game was not set in Beginning. The foundation of Beginning's story had simply been erased.

"It's not like there weren't any hints…"

When I had pulled the trait Grow by Eating Love (R), four little puppies had popped up in the gacha window. From the presentation alone it looked like I had drawn something good — which made the fact that it was a random trait all the more confusing at the time.

Apparently, when the version shifted from Beginning to Step Up, the trash-tier random traits had been completely overhauled. That would explain why a progress tracker had appeared.

Drawing a random trait as my first trait was closer to a windfall than a problem, but I couldn't celebrate it outright.

Beginning and Step Up have completely different strategies.

People always say that half-knowledge is more dangerous than ignorance. Wrong information can get you wrecked. That was exactly where I stood now.

I thought I still had about half a year left on the deadline. Then it suddenly got yanked forward…

I searched a little further and found that the application window for the program was almost closed. Just in case, I checked the website — and there, at the very bottom of the roster assigned to Day One, were my name and date of birth. Since when? Half-convinced it was a coincidence of names, I tried to apply myself, only to get a message that duplicate applications were not allowed.

"What is this, the Truman Show…?"

I didn't have time to sit there gaping, so I started digging into Idol Survival's evaluation criteria. The first-round assessment was based on one thing and one thing only: dance. For someone who had completely neglected dancing until now, it was a bolt from the blue.

The evaluation song for the audition would be released sometime in March — which was basically a declaration that they had no intention of giving contestants much time to practice. If you can't dance, go home. That was the only way to read it. With so little rehearsal ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠time, the results would inevitably be decided by fundamentals.

So grinding one choreography to death and being good at only that one piece is meaningless…

Once I grasped the ruthlessness of it — that anyone without real, accumulated dance training would be filtered out in round one — the emergency lights in my head started screaming. I was precisely the kind of contestant that filter was designed to catch.

Separate from my dance stats, I simply did not know how to dance. I had never danced a day in my life. A complete, absolute beginner.

I thought I still had more time…

That careless assumption — treating Beginning as the baseline and figuring dance could wait until later — was now ringing in the back of my skull like a slap. But I had nothing to say for myself. The idea of an idol aspirant who couldn't dance was absurd to begin with.

"I'm fucked…"

A death rattle at the gates of hell.

Had there always been this many idol aspirants in the country?

March 31st. Day One of the open audition held in Seoul.

Seventeen-year-old Woo Cheong-hee, now a high schooler, was already a little overwhelmed by the crushing population density before the audition had even begun.

Every year at least ten kids in his class would announce they were going to be idols, but it had never felt real. Seeing this many people packed into one place made it hit him all at once: a truly staggering number of people were chasing the same dream.

Everyone came so dressed up…

The glittering accessories and heads dyed every color of the rainbow made it feel, without a doubt, like an idol audition.

Well, if you want to stand out in a crowd this big, you have to put thought into your style, right…?

Cheong-hee felt a flicker of embarrassment at his own natural hair. He hadn't thought it through. He should have at least dyed it.

He had gotten up before dawn, arrived at the gymnasium, and been assigned number 2345 and Group 79. His stomach was still rolling. Only fifty-eight groups left.

Three minutes per group…

About an hour until his turn.

Through the long wait he kept running the choreography in his head, but his eyes kept drifting to the people around him and to the stage being broadcast on the giant screen. Since everyone was dancing the same piece, watching was a form of study in itself.

"That last group was hard to read…"

Group 58 hadn't produced anyone particularly eye-catching, so he couldn't even guess who might have been selected.

Who am I to be judging, though? Still… honestly, I'm starting to see it a little.

Thirty people per group. By pure arithmetic, roughly seventeen hundred performances had already passed. He had watched the official guide video more than a hundred times and memorized it cold, and after seeing the same choreography over and over, it was impossible not to develop an eye for it.

Unless someone was outstanding, they all started to look more or less the same.

The evaluation assistants seemed to feel the same way. Group 58 produced zero selections. All thirty people had been cut.

"Ugh, that's brutal. Couldn't they have sent even one through? Isn't the bar a little high?"

"Two people advanced from the group before that. They're probably trying to hit exactly a hundred a day."

"There are this many people here and they're only taking a hundred?"

"It's not just today. And they're holding rounds in Busan too. Honestly, a hundred is already a lot."

"Whoa, so you've already made it, is that it? You sound so damn smug."

"Yeah. If you're jealous, go pass yourself."

"Aigoo, fuck."

Out of the roughly three thousand people gathered in this gymnasium, only one hundred would make it. Thirty to one — it might sound generous when you put it that way, but Cheong-hee honestly had no confidence. Every so often, truly insane talents appeared.

Like the person on the screen right now.

"Holy shit, is he for real?"

"The gap is so huge it doesn't even feel like losing."

Groans of awe leaked out among the people who had already passed and were watching, and among those still waiting their turn.

A guy who was handsome in a vaguely fierce way filled Camera 1 with a playful smile. Not even a full minute in, and he was already getting a one-shot?

Could I even win against someone like that?

Number 1741. Of course he would be selected from Group 59. The looks were one thing, but his dancing was, quite literally, another level. The reactions around him were just as intense.

"Why the hell hadn't he debuted already…"

"I can't even see the people next to him."

"I feel bad for his group. They're just props."

"Ah, I'm done. Done."

Cheong-hee watched a few people crumple the number tags stuck to their stomachs. Even if it wasn't right this second, they would eventually have to compete against people like that head-on. Their motivation was draining away.

Maybe it was the pressure of lining thirty people up on stage and knowing only the single best one would be chosen. Some of them seemed stressed out by the stage itself.

"Ha. I can already see the video getting archived and me getting roasted alive. I'm out."

They had already been told that every single stage from Group 1 through Group 100 would be filmed. Apparently the reality of that was only now sinking in for some of them.

Well — if a gap that overwhelming got preserved on video, it would be a heavy burden to carry.

Twenty-nine props for one person…

Group 59's stage was going to be a cruel piece of footage for the ones who didn't make it. It would be edited somewhat, sure, but if he ended up as one of those props, it would still hurt.

Voices muttering that there was no hope either way reached his ears. A few people slipped out. Even while Group 60 was dancing, the conversation about Group 59 didn't stop.

Number 1741 was apparently someone known; Cheong-hee overheard that he had once been a member of a famous dance crew.

So that's why he danced like that.

He wasn't as despairing as the people who had already left, but even Cheong-hee pulled a face — just watching that stage had felt like being sucked in.

"Okay, yeah, that was a total balance break…"

He had thought he prepared a lot for this audition, but the longer he waited, the more his confidence dripped away. That was the level you needed to even get noticed.

Was I just a frog in a well?

He still had another hour before Group 79, and he already felt defeated. His heart was cracking.

"Still — I have to go out there and do what I prepared…!"

Even if there were a lot of people better than him — even if that hyung, Number 1741, and his overwhelming performance had knocked the wind out of him — this wasn't a dream light enough to throw away.

Cheong-hee repeated the vow to himself and started walking. His mood had been bouncing up and down so hard that he suddenly needed the bathroom. Outside, noisy clusters of people were scattered everywhere.

Looks like a lot of friends came to cheer people on. Nice for them.

His own friend was testing on Day Four. When Cheong-hee had asked him to come watch and cheer, the guy had coldly refused a full week ago, saying that would let him see the testing format in advance and wouldn't be fair.

Everyone else is here watching anyway…

Feeling a little lonely, he reached the bathroom and found a line so long it looked endless.

"Whoa, there are way too many people."

Waiting here would take forever, so he decided to wander. There had to be more than one bathroom.

I've been to this school a few times for volleyball games…

Drawing on memories of field trips, he drifted toward the outer edges of the complex, turning in circles looking for another restroom — and then he saw it.

Something white was stretched out long on a chair. Like a caterpillar.

"Eugh—!"

He stumbled backward without thinking, feet tangled, and went down hard. His butt hit the floor with a solid thump, but he was on his feet again before he could even register the pain.

All those people had somehow vanished; the only thing filling the quiet space was the clattering racket of his fall.

Ah, so embarrassing!

He was still gritting his teeth against the delayed ache when a voice reached him.

"Hey — are you okay?"

"Y-yes? Ah, I'm fine!"

He answered in a flustered rush and tried to leave, only for a hand to catch his wrist and stop him.

"Just in case, take this with you."

"Huh? Oh — thank you."

Cheong-hee reflexively bowed as the hand held out a pain-relief patch — and then froze solid.

"Whoa. Insane."

"…What?"

"…What?"

The world was so unfair…

"Is that a human face?"

"…"

"Did I say that out loud?"

"…Excuse me?"

"…I'm so sorry!"

Cheong-hee bolted. Even as he ran, the stream of awed noises wouldn't stop. Holy crap. His face is glowing.

"Insane. Completely insane."

Somewhere along the way he completely forgot about the bathroom and headed back to the waiting area.

"I have to brag to my friend later."

The thought of boasting that he'd seen a celebrity made his steps light. He'd even gotten a pain patch. Super nice guy.

"But who was that?"

A judge, maybe? But no one had said any celebrities were coming to the first-round auditions.

No idea. I'll look it up later!

Without even realizing that the weight of the stage had already lifted off his shoulders, Woo Cheong-hee busied himself replaying the face he had just seen, determined not to forget a single detail.