A Blank Slate Regression For The Idol That Lost His Original Intention

“No one’s picking a fight with me, so it feels awkward.”

“Hyung, were you secretly enjoying the rivalry with KICKS?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I was.”

Back when I was just a backup member for our internal stages, joining pre-recordings was out of the question. But now, scheduled pre-recordings were a given.

Considering that around this time before the regression, we had plummeted to the level of a failed idol group that couldn’t even step foot on public broadcast music shows, this was tremendous growth.

The choreography, befitting the upbeat vibe of the song, wasn’t intense and was relatively easy. But Seo Ye-hyun didn’t seem to like it.

“Won’t people mock us again for bringing another easy choreography?”

“I understand that you want to prove you’re no longer a weak link in dancing, hyung, but this choreography doesn’t suit an intense routine. Besides, you’re still far from executing a flawless performance without some sense of urgency.”

“And what kind of urgency would that be?”

“For example, a rivalry with KICKS or Ha-jun hyung’s overwhelming aura.”

“Well, we can’t just go up against KICKS every time to push my skills further, can we?”

“True, true.”

Master and disciple, knight and mentor—it seemed like Kim Do-bin and Seo Ye-hyun had grown pretty close.

Thinking about how my relationship improvement level with Kim Do-bin was still stuck at 48%, I felt oddly annoyed.

No matter how well I treated him, his approval rating never went up. So I gave up and just treated him the way I always did before.

“Do-bin’s right. But for the full album promotions, I’ll make sure you get a chance to show off your improved skills. We’ll go for intense, razor-sharp choreography then.”

If we brought another bright and fresh concept next, public opinion would definitely start to say it was getting old, so we’d need to switch things up.

“We’ll manage to get first place again this time, right?”

“I’m not sure. The competition is tough this time. We can’t expect another easy win like last time.”

Unfortunately, this promotion coincided with the activity period of a powerful girl group that dominated digital charts.

A rookie group like REVE couldn’t easily match up to a third-year girl group with a solid fandom.

If memory served, the song they were promoting had won the triple crown on music shows. It claimed first place on all three major broadcast networks for three weeks. It was probably the biggest hit of Q2 this year.

‘This activity will truly be a chance to prove my abilities.’

Last time, it was an already-proven song combined with an easy win due to our rivals’ weaker track, and KICKS was no match for us. The good results were inevitable.

It had been a while since I felt this kind of thrill.

It was an odd feeling to relive the emotions I used to have before releasing a song in the pre-regression days.

I had vowed to ensure stable success without failures and only promote during times without major hits, using only vetted songs.

But here I was, one activity later, throwing a brand-new song into the mix and going head-to-head with a past hit. How could I not feel strange about it?

I smirked, recalling a past acquaintance’s pre-regression evaluation of me: “You’d probably be a gambler if not for music.”

Given how I was acting even when my entire future was on the line, that assessment didn’t seem entirely off.

“REVE, time to move!”

At the staff’s call, I snapped out of my wandering thoughts and stood up. It was the first week of our comeback, so instead of stressing over rankings, I’d just enjoy the stage to the fullest.

 

***

 

“Wow, is this what a slump feels like…?”

I muttered to myself as I lay sprawled across the desk in the studio during some free time in our schedule.

The pressure to create a song that could surpass the current one seemed to be blocking all my progress.

I had prepared enough tracks for the full album’s B-sides. All that was left were the title track candidates.

A full album required immense time, resources, and effort. There was no way I could allow it to perform worse than a repackaged album.

The repackaged album’s performance had been stellar.

Despite being a repackaged release, it sold 80,2** copies in its first week—20,000 more than the previous album. On top of that, it was currently occupying the top three spots on the digital charts.

This success was probably adding to the pressure I felt for the full album.

Success and failure were no longer the issues; it was a matter of whether I could surpass the previous results.

“Was I always this scared?”

Unable to make any progress and with my mind refusing to work, I decided to try my luck with the expiring random tickets in the upgraded system.

[Do you want to use a random ticket? Yes/No]

After tapping “Yes” three times, three status windows appeared in succession.

[Item ‘Someday’s USB’ acquired!]

[Item ‘Lucid Dream’ acquired!]

[Item ‘Potion of Truth’ acquired!]

I had opened three random tickets, all of which were nearing their one-month expiration date.

The USB contained some of my pre-regression work, the Lucid Dream item allowed me to work in my dreams while resting, and the Potion of Truth brought out one’s deepest truths.

The USB contained a song that had once won a major music award pre-regression. But I didn’t want to use an old song as the title track for my first full album.

In the end, none of these items helped me overcome the slump.

Come to think of it, this was my first slump.

Was I less pressured before because I wasn’t the one performing the songs?

‘Should I ask G1 for tips on overcoming a slump?’

This guy is surprisingly firm. He’d probably draw a line and tell me that overcoming it is my responsibility.

G1 didn’t like discussing personal matters with people he wasn’t particularly close to.

I couldn’t let a connection I’d worked so hard to build be severed over something so trivial.

“Well, this too shall pass.”

Sighing deeply, I buried my face into the desk in the studio.

And the slump I had taken lightly…

“Damn it, I just made the same mistake as Seo Ye-hyun.”

[A mistake on stage has been detected.]

[Initial Intention -7]

Although I quickly adjusted my footing, the loss to my Initial intention was already recorded—seven points gone, just like that.

It stung my pride even more since I hadn’t seen this status window since the end of the second loop.

Absentmindedly rubbing my stiff, tired eyes after several sleepless nights, I suddenly realized I still had makeup on and lowered my hand.

This slump had come with a hefty price: insomnia.

I couldn’t even use the lucid dream item out of fear I’d just end up sitting idly in my dreams, just as I did in reality.

The only relief was that I still had about a month and a half left until the meeting about the full album’s title track and concept.

While monitoring the recordings, I noticed the mistake had been covered by the camera focusing on my upper body. Relieved, I let out a breath—only to be interrupted.

“Eden, you haven’t been sleeping well, have you?”

Of course, it was Gyeon Ha-jun who noticed my condition first.

Thanks to the system forcibly including body maintenance in the weekly quests, I was healthy except for the lack of sleep. On the surface, aside from faint dark circles—which makeup easily covered—I looked fine.

“No, I’ve been sleeping just fine.”

Admitting I had insomnia caused by the slump in front of the others felt like too much of a blow to my pride, so I denied it immediately.

“Ye-hyun hyung, has this guy been sleeping well in your room?”

When Ha-jun turned to ask Seo Ye-hyun, my roommate, he didn’t answer.

It made sense—Ye-hyun religiously stuck to his seven-hour sleep schedule, so whether I slept or not, he peacefully snored away.

Watching me rub my tired eyes after removing my makeup, Ha-jun sighed deeply.

“You’re going to collapse again at this rate. What’s the point of those thorough checkups at the university hospital if you’re just making yourself sick?”

And so, my trip to the studio was banned for the day.

Sure, I could’ve ignored him and gone anyway, but I was already worn out from sitting idly in the studio, producing no results. So, I obediently stayed at the dorm.

Doing nothing felt the same, whether in the dorm or the studio. The only difference was that without the equipment in front of me, the pressure to “do something” was less intense.

With Kim Do-bin and Seo Ye-hyun off to the practice room for more dance training—and Ryu Jae-hee tagging along to watch—I was left alone in the dorm with Ha-jun.

As I sat blankly on the couch, Ha-jun handed me a mug of chamomile tea before sitting beside me.

“You need to learn to lean on others sometimes. We’re a team, but you always try to handle everything alone.”

“Do I?”

“Yes, you’ve been like that since One Chance.”

I guess I had been running full-speed ever since, trying to avoid endless regressions.

Sure, being this busy was better than the long forced hiatus before the regression. But no matter how bad things got, I couldn’t let myself yearn for our failed idol days.

Taking a sip of the chamomile tea, my foggy mind settled a little.

“I can’t seem to write anything. I think I’m in a slump.”

Since Ha-jun wasn’t someone I needed to maintain pride with, I admitted it easily.

“I figured… So the insomnia is from that too?”

“Probably.”

I nodded slightly, half agreeing, and Ha-jun lightly patted my back.

“Don’t stress yourself out too much. Even if the album doesn’t do well, no one in REVE will blame you. And look at our CEO—he’s been through worse flops and still carries on without a dent in his confidence.”

“Why are you jumping to such extremes? I was only picturing a result that’s slightly less than this album’s performance. No way my song would actually flop.”

“Well, at least it’s clear you haven’t hit the depression stage yet.”

Ha-jun looked at me with relief, breaking into a wide grin.

“If you really can’t do it, you can let another producer handle it. Just not anyone the CEO knows.”

His hasty addition made me chuckle.

“Obviously. What, you think I’d let him pull another My Universe-esque track?”

“Knowing him, he absolutely would.”

“Agreed. If I really can’t manage, I’ll just call G1 hyung. He told me to reach out whenever I need a song.”

At some point, the chamomile tea was gone.

Simply talking about it didn’t magically inspire new ideas or completely lift my slump, but it did make me sleepy.

Seeing me nodding off, Ha-jun took the empty mug from my hands and insisted I go to bed while I could still fall asleep. He practically pushed me into my room.

The moment the door shut, I collapsed onto the bed and drifted into a deep, refreshing sleep for the first time in days.

When I woke up feeling refreshed, I walked into the living room and found Seo Ye-hyun curled up on the sofa, asleep.

I gently shook him awake, and he pulled the blanket over his head.

“Why are you sleeping here instead of in your room?”

“Ha-jun told me not to go into the room since you were finally sleeping. He said he’d take the couch, but I just took it instead.”

Touched by the fact that they’d both gone out of their way to ensure I could sleep peacefully, I felt a pang of gratitude.

“Thanks.”

Ye-hyun peeked out from under the blanket and squinted at me.

“You’re not some other soul possessing Yoon Eden’s body, right?”

I guess hanging around Kim Do-bin was rubbing off on him.

I decided to shove aside the memory of having the exact same thought a few weeks ago.

Good thing I didn’t say it out loud then—it would’ve made me seem like a complete nerd.

***

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