Chapter 15
Chapter 15
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 15
Chapter Title: First Vocal Lesson
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Song A-ri was perplexed.
Is this person really here to learn how to sing from me?
Gyeon-u had definitely signed up for the advanced utaite class—the one aimed at people whose career goal was singing Japanese songs professionally.
Her objective was crystal clear.
Virtual broadcasting.
Targeting viewers more familiar with subculture songs than K-pop.
However, the person she'd spoken to on the phone during registration wasn't Gyeon-u.
It was President Kim Mi-myo.
So Song A-ri wasn't entirely convinced.
Was this girl truly serious about learning Japanese subculture-style songs?
Just taking two hours of lessons a week wouldn't improve her skills.
Lessons only taught concepts and checked progress.
Without the student's own effort and practice, there'd be no growth.
And if the student's motivation was close to zero, it was just a waste of money and time.
Some might think instructors only cared about getting paid, but Song A-ri didn't want students like that.
She wanted at least someone who pretended to try hard.
So she had to ask.
"Do you usually listen to a lot of Japanese songs? And do you sing them often?"
Gyeon-u had hidden her otaku side throughout her school years, but this was a training ground for going pro. It was time to speak the truth.
Still, confessing boldly to someone she'd just met felt embarrassing.
Her voice ended up booming uncontrollably.
"Yes!"
And her face stiffened from tension.
'Eek!?'
Song A-ri couldn't help but flinch in fear.
'Did she get mad because I asked if she's an otaku?'
Even so, the lesson had to go on.
Because she was the instructor.
A professional.
And she'd been paid.
"Any songs or genres you particularly like?"
"Vo.... cal...."
Jang Gyeon-u hesitated, stuttering and twitching as she tried to speak.
Confessing her tastes to someone she'd just met required major resolve.
But Gyeon-u mustered her courage.
Time to go pro.
"I like Vocaloid songs."
Of course, Vocaloid was just a vocal synthesis engine, and the music produced varied wildly depending on the producer—from atmosphere to genre.
But there was a mainstream vibe and sensibility in that scene, so Song A-ri understood easily.
'She's pretty deep into it.'
J-pop, sometimes called "in-crowd picks."
Anisongs, mocked as "fashion otaku bait."
And Vocaloid, which true otakus loved but often repelled casuals.
Among the specialties Song A-ri taught, Vocaloid had the highest "otaku density."
💖 AFFINITY UP 💖 A-ri's internal affinity for Gyeon-u +10P At least she didn't seem like a fashion otaku.
Gyeon-u, having revealed such tastes, felt like she'd lifted her skirt to flash her panties—her face flushed bright red.
'She's cute.'
Tall, intimidating features, otherworldly beauty that made her hard to even approach—and now Gyeon-u was starting to seem adorable to A-ri.
"Let's check your vocal range first. I'll play do-re-mi-fa-sol-la-ti-do, so follow along one by one."
Song A-ri sat at the piano and pressed the C4 key—the most basic, universal scale in music.
The do-re-mi-fa-sol-la-ti corresponding to C-D-E-F-G-A-B.
C4, the piano's reference pitch, meant the fourth "do" on the keyboard.
A range most men could hit without strain, and women could produce as naturally as breathing.
"Do~."
"Do~."
'Nice tone.'
Tone color was like proportions.
Muscle mass or body fat could change drastically with diet and exercise, but head size or limb length stayed the same.
You might look slimmer, but your bone structure didn't shift.
Gyeon-u had great proportions and great tone.
Like she'd been blessed by the gods.
"Do-re-mi~."
"Do-re-mi~."
'Not a total tone-deaf disaster, thank goodness.'
Song A-ri, trained professionally in music, had drilled ear training endlessly.
Pitch sense divided into perfect pitch and relative pitch. Perfect pitch let you identify a note's exact height without reference, just by hearing it.
It sounded amazing, but having it didn't make you a musical genius or great singer on its own.
It was just a nice bonus.
Well-trained relative pitch was plenty for an excellent singer or musician.
If relative pitch was abysmal, music was tough.
Say you're practicing do-re-mi but can't internalize the gap between do and re, so you sing do-mi-sol instead? Normal singing would be impossible.
For tone-deaf folks with pitch issues, the ear was often the culprit first.
It could be trained with effort, but a weak foundation meant extra time.
How was Gyeon-u?
She didn't nail the piano's exact pitch perfectly on the first try.
But she grasped the intervals between notes well.
Pitch sense alone wasn't enough.
You had to vocalize those differences too.
Gyeon-u handled her vocal cords—the instrument of her voice—quite adeptly.
This level meant she was primed material.
"Do-re-mi-fa-sol-la-ti-do~."
"Do-re-mi-fa-sol-la-ti-do~."
Smooth head voice ascending.
But this was a range many average people could manage.
"Up one octave. Reference is C5. Do~. Do-re-mi~."
From here, it entered high territory even for women.
In Korea, female singers' top notes often hovered around F5.
The "fa" in this do-re-mi scale.
A-ri herself could hit about G5 in head voice, mixing falsetto at the end.
"Do-re-mi-fa-sol-la-ti-do~."
Beyond this was rarely used without special effects.
For aspiring singers, mastering up to here was sufficient.
And Gyeon-u tackling that high range.
"Do-re-mi-fa-sol-la-ti-do~."
'Perfect!'
She hit C6 flawlessly without falsetto.
Of course, despite misconceptions, nailing high notes didn't automatically mean superior skill or better singing.
Too high, and it turned into dolphin squeals, whistles, or pterodactyl shrieks—unpleasant sounds.
But those were expressions too. Not having them wasn't a loss, but having them added arsenal—like more weapons in your kit.
"One more time? Do-re-mi-fa-sol-la-ti-do~."
"Do-re-mi-fa-sol-la-ti-do~."
'Why is it so natural?'
High notes strained untrained vocal cords; average people risked wrecking their throats trying.
But Gyeon-u produced them as effortlessly as breathing.
A-ri, intrigued, asked for one more.
"Once more."
"Um, am I doing something wrong?"
But Gyeon-u's expression soured.
Why would the teacher keep making her repeat without explanation?
She started worrying she'd messed up big time.
"No, you're doing too well. Just checking how far it goes."
"R-really?"
'Big frame, total shy type.'
It took A-ri less than ten minutes to see through Gyeon-u's core.
Her shyness was too obvious to hide.
'How'd a face like that end up so timid?'
Princess at home, idol at school, superstar just walking the street.
Why join a virtual company instead of a real idol agency?
She was still an idol, technically.
Was she?
Close enough, anyway.
"Your tone is incredible—innate talent. And your pitch sense is great too. That's basic-of-basics, but weak there takes forever to fix. You've got sky-high fundamentals. You'll improve fast. Plus, insane range. Not the be-all-end-all of skill, but wider is better than narrower. Overall? Massive talent."
A-ri's praise barrage turned Gyeon-u's face scarlet.
But her timid fidgeting persisted, mumbling through pursed lips in a crawling voice.
"But... I've hardly ever been told I sing well."
"Then you're wasting it! Good thing you came. Let's unleash that talent together!"
Honestly, she envied the talent.
Craved it for herself.
But she'd long since burned through despair and jealousy.
What remained for A-ri was a strange anticipation.
Wondering how far this talent bomb could go—imagination, fantasy, dreams.
'Gotta teach her everything I know.'
Even geniuses started with teachers.
You had to teach speaking before communication happened.
This disciple might surpass her in a flash, but for now, enjoy the moment.
A-ri sucked in her gut with resolve.
"Let's aim high! Billboard number one!"
"Out of nowhere?"
To Gyeon-u, clueless about A-ri's life or mindset, it sounded utterly random.
Just like the president shouting for 100 million subscribers.
So many big dreamers around her.