Surviving in The Idol Game (8)
Because of the sudden audition participation, I was mentally out of it and confused—but a lifeline was thrown my way. That lifeline’s name was Heo Jungin.
The person who had passionately spoken with a youthful face on the first day turned out not to be a casting manager but the CEO of the company. His company, Kyu Agency, was something he had built and grown from the ground up together with his former colleague and now-wife. A quick search revealed that he had an impressive background and credentials. He was well known in the industry for having a sharp eye.
Looking back now, I was embarrassed to have mistaken him for a newbie in society—he was older than he looked and had a very kind personality.
When I told him I would decline his offers and instead join this audition program, he even helped me get connected to a training academy for short-term lessons.
He called it an investment for my future after idol activities, but at that point, it felt too distant to call it an “investment.” We hadn’t even signed a contract.
My message had been a shallow, last-minute reach-out, mostly to get audition info, but CEO Heo Jungin willingly held out his hand to help without hesitation.
Of course, I had to pay for the lessons myself. But along with training from a skilled coach, I was also provided access to a personal practice room available 24/7—an incredibly practical support.
Before a large-scale public audition, it was nearly impossible for an ordinary person to secure such a space.
‘So this is the power of connections.’
I had strongly felt the need to learn dance in a structured environment, so this was a chance I couldn’t afford to miss.
‘The first step matters.’
Like with exercise—if you start with bad posture and it becomes a habit, the risk of injury skyrockets. That’s why it’s important to learn the right form and breathing from the beginning.
Since I knew nothing about dance, I used what I knew from sports to guess that dancing would be the same. So I kept putting off practicing alone. To be fair, it was hard even to find a practice space.
‘If I’d practiced at home, I probably would’ve gotten into trouble with my neighbors over noise…’
When I lived in a semi-basement, I didn’t worry about that, but now that I lived on the 4th floor, there were many things to consider.
In the end, I ended up focusing only on singing while continuously postponing dance. So I eventually booked the practice room and tried training by myself.
But, as expected, it wasn’t something I could handle alone. I couldn’t tell if I was dancing properly or practicing in the right direction.
To improve quickly, I desperately needed someone to guide me. More specifically, I needed an expert to help me catch up from the bottom in line with my boosted stats.
So even though I had shamelessly declined his scout offer, I gratefully accepted CEO Heo Jungin’s offer to introduce me to a skilled trainer and give me access to a practice room.
Even to me, it felt like I was just receiving help without offering anything in return—which felt like a jerk move. But despite that, the CEO told me he hoped we could continue this good connection. I felt the weight of his words.
He was someone I wanted to keep in touch with for a long time. I thought, “It’d be reassuring to have someone like him as my boss.”
‘How can I repay this kindness?’
It hadn’t been long since I started, but already many people were helping me in various ways. I had rarely had good luck with people before, but now I was oddly blessed—and it was amazing.
It was ironic that even with all this help, life still wasn’t easy.
But honestly, hardships were to be expected. All I remembered about Step Up was its flashy promo video, and while the general format was the same as the previous version, reviews said the story and music were quite different.
“Whew.”
I had just received my number and group assignment and stepped away to the outskirts of the venue. Now, I was lying down, reeking of pain relief patches.
My condition wasn’t great, having overworked myself trying to boost my dance skills from zero before the audition. It was inevitable—results were needed in a short time.
As I trained basic skills under the coach and learned daily choreographies, all those painful efforts flashed before my eyes like a panorama.
The choreography for the first round was released very late, on March 15, so I had to scramble just to raise my basic dance skills until then by learning and covering all sorts of routines.
I didn’t care if it was male or female choreo, group or solo—if it looked good, I learned it. Since I had no clue what the actual audition choreography would be, I had to master a variety of movements.
‘My brain felt dead, but my body kept moving.’
Thanks to the boost from [Grown on Love (R)], my dance stats had risen a lot. So even if my brain was blank, my body remembered how to move. Clearly a case of stat buff.
‘My trainer was probably really surprised…’
I had no dance experience, and yet I mimicked things like waves and popping as if I had done them before—of course it looked weird.
But regardless of stats, I still needed to get used to dancing. Even with high dance stats, my mind couldn’t keep up with my body’s movements. It felt like buffering—choppy and inconsistent. And since I lacked the vocabulary, I couldn’t understand verbal instructions either.
‘If only I had realized this was Step Up a bit earlier…’
Even while practicing desperately, I couldn’t give up busking and volunteering. I didn’t know what would affect the debut cut, so I couldn’t afford to neglect basic stat gains.
‘In the end, it all helps improve my dance skill anyway.’
Splitting each day into many parts and doing all this at once left me with very little time to practice. Naturally, I had to sacrifice sleep. If I had focused on dancing earlier, it wouldn’t have been this hard.
‘A problem I created, now I have to fix it…’
My body, drained of energy, was demanding rest. So I laid down somewhere remote at the audition site. I couldn’t even sit anymore.
Thanks to my oversized long padded jacket, it felt like lying on a sleeping bag. My head was cushioned, and I started to feel sleepy.
“I can’t fall asleep. I can’t…”
I was number 3000—the very last number, last group. The estimated wait time at the venue was 5–6 hours.
‘Should I just close my eyes for a bit?’
But I knew if I fell asleep now, no alarm could wake me. So I tried my best to resist. That’s how tired I was.
‘Just going to lie here quietly.’
Then, I was woken by a loud noise.
“…?”
When did I fall asleep? I checked my phone—three hours had passed.
“I completely blacked out.”
Next to me was a student clutching their butt. Must’ve fallen. That noise probably woke me.
He seemed to be limping a little, so I handed over a pain relief patch. I was grateful he woke me—it was like being saved.
The student mumbled something and then ran off. Must’ve been in a hurry. I sat there blankly for a moment before snapping out of it.
‘Time to get ready.’
I packed up and moved quickly. At least after that nap, I felt a bit better. Sitting didn’t feel torturous anymore.
‘Time to monitor things.’
I brushed my stomach where number 3000 was taped, zipped up my jacket tightly, and walked. It was almost April, but the air was still cold.
I didn’t want to draw attention, so I pulled down my cap and quietly moved to a corner to observe.
Then I walked into utter chaos.
[Contestant #2145 has passed Group 72.]
“What the hell, are the judges blind? #2157 got cut?”
“Seriously, what did #2145 even do to pass? #2157 clearly crushed it. I’d be pissed if I were them.”
The bulletin board showed Group 72’s results, and contestants watching were furious. It was obvious to everyone that 2157 had danced better, yet 2145 had passed. It felt unfair.
‘No way this won’t cause backlash.’
In idol entertainment, looks matter—but they had made it way too obvious.
If the stage video went public, #2145 would likely face a ton of hate, being labeled as someone who won unfairly despite weak skills.
‘They’ll probably edit it out to avoid backlash, but too many people saw it live.’
With survival audition formats, someone’s win always meant another’s elimination. Without clear skills to back it up, negative reactions were inevitable.
Objectively, 2145 hadn’t done badly, but compared to 2157, they were lacking. Yet they passed.
“I’m mad for them.”
“Was 2145 the PD pick?”
“They probably got in for their looks. That’s how this industry works.”
“Honestly, not that good-looking either.”
Since this was a public audition with many regular people participating, the atmosphere got nasty. With no visible cameras around, people spoke freely.
“This hits hard. So looks can get you in even if you suck at dancing?”
“Then why make us suffer through all this practice? Just line us up and pick the pretty ones.”
“Typical idol industry crap. I don’t know what I expected. So lame.”
People who were curious about idols but not totally sold on the concept were especially upset. Many had only applied out of interest.
‘It didn’t look like a fair competition.’
Since it clearly seemed like they were judging by looks instead of skills, no one felt this was fair. Even if visuals are important, showing that so blatantly just invites backlash.
Someone who passes purely on looks, beating out more skilled and desperate contestants—that’s the kind of perception I needed to avoid most.
The more this idea spreads—that looks alone can get you into idol ranks—the more it’ll degrade the industry, even among those who love and aspire to be idols.
“Is 2145 really worth the backlash? I don’t think so.”
“Agreed. There were better-looking and better-dancing contestants. Why force this?”
While heated debates continued among both waiting and passed contestants, the 79th group began performing. Among them was #2345—the student I saw earlier. That fall had sounded rough.
‘Hope he used that pain patch.’
2345 looked nervous but would probably pass without issue. After all—
[Trainee Profile]
Name: Woo Cheong-hee (17)
Singing: 83 (B0) / 95
Dancing: 82 (B0) / 95
Charm: 81 (B0) / 92
Traits: Inactive
—he had the best overall stats among the 30 on stage.
“If this were a game, they’d be a slightly low-statted but totally worth-raising hybrid SSR.”
Evaluating and rating someone’s stats and potential right in front of their face is a little revolting, but what can you do? The new trait I pulled is just like that.
In the traits section of my status window, next to [Grown on Love (R)], the trait [I Am the Producer (U)] was gleaming brightly. U—it’s a rank I’ve never seen before.
Maybe it stands for “Unique” or “Ultra,” I’m not sure, but either way, it was a trait of a rank that had never appeared in the game before.
‘There’s no additional explanation, either.’
Maybe it was the system’s usual unkindness at play—there was no flavor text or description explaining what this trait actually did. The only thing I could infer from it was that after acquiring the trait, I could now see other people’s status windows too. So I figured it must be a trait that lets me view others’ statuses.
Having used the trait gacha immediately after surpassing a combined total of 260 in singing, dancing, and charm stats, yelling “[I Want to Keep Watching! (S) Dance +3],” this was honestly a letdown. I had nearly lost my mind trying to quickly learn the choreography and raise my dance stat, so I was really hoping for a stat-boosting trait. Wasting the opportunity and getting a trait like this instead—it almost felt unfair.
But after cooling my head, I realized it wasn’t that bad of a trait. After all, it let me see my competitors’ stats.
‘Maybe that’s what made this world feel even more like a game.’
It was like a special feature given to reincarnators, possessors, and regressors. Not the dance stat boost I so desperately wanted, but a power that helped navigate this world more easily.
‘If it feels more like a game, that’s not bad.’
If it’s a game, then every situation has a strategy, and there’s always an end. I wanted to believe it was a game, if only to feel a bit more at ease—so I’ve just accepted it now.
“Oh, um, earlier… were you…?”
“Ah.”
Before I noticed, contestant number 2345, Woo Cheonghee—whose name had appeared on the display board—was standing in front of me. Looks like he passed with no problem.
“Congrats on passing.”
“Ah! Thank you. I worked hard!”
His smiling face was youthful. Considering his potential for growth, he might belong to a major agency. First year of high school. Since today’s a weekday, did he skip school?
‘Come to think of it, March is almost over.’
It’s already been nearly three months since I woke up in January. More precisely, two and a half months. The memories of struggling desperately during that time flashed through my mind.
If I hadn’t done that, I’d probably have ended up as another number 2145.
‘But thinking about it, if this show is meant to launch debut groups, isn’t the prep time way too short?’
Compared to the last game where there was plenty of time before debut, this time the story’s starting fast and feels more forced. That makes the characters’ starting stats even more important. Grades will have a bigger influence early on than in the previous game. Were the developers just getting greedy during the step-up planning?
“But wait, are you… a judge or something? Why are you here?”
“Nope, I’m a contestant.”
“…Huh?”
“…What?”
he looked genuinely puzzled, as if wondering why someone who looks like a celebrity would be a contestant. Maybe he saw my face earlier when I had just woken up and hadn’t put on my mask…
I was a little flustered by the blatant compliment. Between CEO Heo Jungin and everyone else, people sure do hand out praise easily.
“I’m Lee Hanhee, 19.”
“Ah! I’m Woo Cheonghee! I’m 17.”
His smile was adorable. His pale skin and gentle features made him seem like the kind of idol fans would fall for. Definitely a face with strong demand.
Before I knew it, he was calling me “hyung” and speaking casually—he seemed very sociable. I’m not really the chatty type, but he didn’t seem to mind at all.
“We’re already on group 80. What group are you in, hyung?”
“I’m in the last one.”
“Wow, then you’ve got at least another hour to wait.”
He kept chatting beside me like a beloved youngest member (maknae)—totally carefree in a good way. He had a kind of unspoiled personality. Maybe I should help him out a little.
“Hey, are you okay staying here with me?”
“I was told to stay until everything was over anyway. Ah, but if it’s uncomfortable for you, hyung, I can move! I just realized it’s important to focus before an audition….”
“No, it’s not that. I just thought maybe you should be preparing for something.”
“…Huh? Like what?”
“It’s just my guess, but I think there’ll be another performance opportunity later today.”
Earlier on my way here, I saw a camera rehearsal happening on an outdoor stage set up off to the side. And the fact that successful candidates were still waiting, plus the tight pacing of the schedule—it all pointed to them using that stage today.
“Just in case, I think it’d be good for you to go check if they’re preparing anything near where we met earlier.”
“Thank you!”
he gave a wide-eyed thank you and ran off quickly. Guess he felt uneasy about it too.
Then, an unfamiliar voice reached my ears.
“Is it really okay to tell him that kind of thing?”
And right then, a dazzling status window appeared.
***
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