Spiritual Pillar Jeong Seongbin
[You’re all probably on vacation, I’m really sorry.]
[We’ve received an offer for Spark to appear on a survival program, and the manager asked me to quietly ask what everyone thinks.]
Then an emoji of a cute character lying flat on the floor and wailing came in.
Why do all the companies I work for contact people on their days off?
Is this actually an industry standard? Our society is harsh.
Cutie Pretty Visually Lee Cheonghyeon
[What program is it?]
Spiritual Pillar Jeong Seongbin
[They say it’s a newly launched program!]
Super Cute Kang Giyeon
[Is it only for debuted groups?]
Spiritual Pillar Jeong Seongbin
[Seems like it. I’ll sort out the info I just got and post it, one sec!]
Meanwhile, the ones who saw it first were already tossing out a few lines. I respect at least your passion for work.
A few minutes later, a long message arrived from Jeong Seongbin.
Spiritual Pillar Jeong Seongbin
[★ IMPORTANT ★
Classified, do not share externally under any circumstances!
Working title: Idol Annals of the Dynasty
Plan intent: A no-sanctuary survival project for K-idols that continues the lifeline of the K-pop market
Structure: Six boy groups compete over five stages; a final determines the winner
Notes: Because of the shoot schedule, they need a reply as soon as possible (please collect opinions by this coming Wednesday)]
Nice, clean summary. I’m glad I recommended “A Leader’s Communication Methods” that I’d always wanted Manager Nam to read.
Having checked the announcement, I was toweling the water out of my hair when Lee Cheonghyeon groaned.
“Why?”
“They say we have to decide fast, but can we even meet quickly? Kang Giyeon, Seongbin hyung, and I are going up to Seoul tomorrow because of school, but Jeho hyung and Juu hyung aren’t.”
“Do we really have to meet to talk?”
“Do you know how controversial survival shows are? I’ve heard that with long projects in a competitive format, it’s common for the internal opinions not to line up.”
“Then we can just discuss it well together.”
Even at my answer, Lee Cheonghyeon didn’t look satisfied.
“Why? You don’t want to go on it?”
“No, that’s not it.”
He hesitated, then spoke seriously.
“Hyung, everyone’s on vacation—do you think we can make a quick decision by text?”
“Absolutely impossible.”
“Just thinking about that already makes my chest feel tight...”
He thumped his chest.
Watching him, I reopened my laptop—it had been closed maybe thirty minutes, tops—and said,
“Cheonghyeon, what century are we in?”
“The twenty-first.”
“Right. So should we really be limited to text just because of spatial constraints?”
I dropped a short notice in the group chat.
Me
[Has everyone done a video meeting before?]
[I’ll teach you how, so first vote for when you’re free.
21:00–22:00
22:00–23:00]
If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s prepping remote meetings.
What kind of program is “Idol Annals of the Dynasty”?
“Idol Annals of the Dynasty,” shortened to IAD, was, simply put, a typical survival program.
Launched in a time when survival shows were sprouting up everywhere, IAD didn’t get much response at first.
The title was full of concept, but inside it wasn’t much different from any ordinary survival show; meanwhile, most of the others were either spin-offs swapping the cast’s gender in already successful franchises or returning with new seasons, and they showed a ratings gap right out of the gate.
The only people interested in yet another competition show were, as they say, the die-hard scene veterans.
At least until the other shows that started airing around the same time all tanked.
They each had their reasons.
It was a competition show, and the broadcaster got caught rigging the rankings.
Members caused scandals during broadcast and dropped out en masse.
There were dating rumors between the MC and a contestant, with one side admitting and the other denying... and so on.
The promising ones fell away, and what remained was IAD alone on a wide, empty field.
The production team, worried about IAD’s sluggish buzz, didn’t miss the windfall.
≫ Anyone see the benefits for IAD’s final winning group
Winner’s prize 100 million won
Comeback showcase support << this was all that was announced at first, but then
Winner’s prize upped to 300 million won
A pure-gold royal seal made in each member’s name
Season 2 appearance guaranteed plus benefits
This got added
└ They’ve clearly staked their lives on IAD
They even announced Season 2 before the show ended.
As one comment said, with third-quarter budget poured into IAD, the whole universe was praying(?) for its success.
IAD managed to establish itself over about two years as the representative boy-group survival. The groups that appeared on it were in fact the ones who got the most public recognition among teams that debuted in the same year.
This was why Spark needed to go on IAD.
If we just went on IAD, we could fully insert ourselves into the competitive landscape alongside our generation’s groups.
“If it’s not this, it’s unclear when we can even hit the KPI.”
Pulling the debut schedule forward, filming self-content without a break, and going on variety shows others avoided—all of it was to receive this IAD offer.
I’d laid out a few scenarios in case pulling our debut forward would change the schedule for IAD and other programs; fortunately, the variance was within my projected range. If I hadn’t anticipated it, I’d have been running around frantic about how the casting had been moved up half a year.
Opinion alignment, when I’m this dead set on IAD?
No chance. We’re going to show up in giant letters as a group.
As the appointed time approached, I watched them enter the Zoom video room I’d set up in advance, one by one.
Good kids. All I sent was a few lines of instructions by message, and they got themselves in just fine.
At this level, they could join a work-from-home company and not freeze up on day one.
“Choi Jeho, what’s with your background?”
While I waited for everyone to gather, I asked the guy who was in Hawaii by himself.
『Noona said the room was messy and made me turn this on.』
“You could’ve cleaned while you were at your parents’.”
『This is my sister’s room?』
“How a room is kept is up to its owner, indeed.”
From afar, someone was laying into Choi Jeho. He talked back, but since he was putting up at his sister’s place, I told him to mind himself.
Once the ones who’d gathered on time agreed, I started the recording and we began in earnest discussing whether to go on IAD.
The tally for wanting to go was four to two. Park Juu was against it, and Lee Cheonghyeon said he wasn’t sure.
What surprised me more was that Kang Giyeon wanted to go on.
It wouldn’t be strange to feel pressure since it wasn’t a one-off program, but he calmly said, “We can’t only do the things we want.”
Eighteen-year-old Kang Giyeon seems a hundred times more mature than twenty-nine-year-old Kim Iwol, who cried inside because he didn’t want to work.
“Listen, I want to respect all of your opinions.”
At my words, all their gazes turned toward the camera.
“But this chance is too good to pass up.”
Then I pulled up a PPT I’d rushed to make before the meeting and switched the camera to screen-share mode.
After about forty minutes of presenting fifty-eight thousand reasons why we had to go on IAD—
“With this kind of case, how are we supposed to oppose it?! Ugh, I’m in favor.”
『...Me too.』
Lee Cheonghyeon and Park Juu readily changed their minds. I expressed deep thanks.
『So what should we prepare now?』
In the wholesome mood, Kang Giyeon asked a very good question.
“Actually, I wanted to use this chance to say something.”
『What is it?』
“How about all of you drop the honorifics.”
Dismantling Spark’s polite speech had been my pet project since last year.
Because there was a premise that I used casual speech with the younger ones, I’d ended up speaking informally without context, and I never had a day of ease.
Even if I couldn’t bow my head to the teachers who were dragging a klutz like me along, as a learner, saying “thank you” in casual speech felt unbearably arrogant.
It’s best to keep honorifics with each other, but that mainly applies at the company.
Given the tendency of these kids to be very polite to elders, if I or Choi Jeho used honorifics, it was obvious it would make the younger ones more uncomfortable.
So I concluded it would be better for everyone to be equally casual.
I’d even sounded out Choi Jeho about it...
“How do you think the kids would feel if we dropped honorifics?”
“Yeah. You’ve been with them for years.”
“Doesn’t really matter to me.”
...That’s what he said.
“Once we’re in the program, we’ll have to plan stages and practice in a short period. We won’t have the time or mental margin we do preparing a comeback. I don’t think a vibe where people hold back good ideas because they’re being overly polite or watching the elders helps the team.”
The guys I’m asking to speak casually aren’t the types to forget basic respect, which is why I can make the suggestion.
Maybe because it was unexpected, all the faces on my monitor flushed with bewilderment.
“Hyung, what if you end up regretting it because the younger ones get too cheeky?”
“Right. I’m ➤ NоvеⅠight ➤ (Read more on our source) not worried about the others, but you, Cheonghyeon, give me pause.”
At my words, Lee Cheonghyeon burst out laughing.
“It’s not mandatory. If it’s easier, drop them; if you need more time, do what you’ve been doing. Just know there’s no need to be overly cautious when proposing something or giving feedback.”
“Got it, Iwol.”
“See how easily Cheonghyeon dropped them? Everyone, try to relax even half as much as him.”
With the liberalization of casual speech approved, Park Juu and Lee Cheonghyeon went informal, while Jeong Seongbin and Kang Giyeon stayed with honorifics. Seriously, the Uprightness Brothers.
I imagined Jeong Seongbin or Kang Giyeon saying, “Hyung, are you going to dance properly?” I let out a laugh before I knew it.
Come to think of it, this isn’t the time to laugh. I should brace myself.
The next day, Lee Cheonghyeon and I wrapped up our short trip and returned to Seoul.
At the dorm, Kang Giyeon had arrived first.
“Why’d you come so early? Because you have school tomorrow?”
“That too.”
I figured he’d come early with Monday classes ahead.
“We said we’d practice a few cover dances to prepare for Idol Annals of the Dynasty.”
“Right.”
“I talked to Jeho hyung separately, and he said it’ll take him some time to learn covers. Until he gets here, I’ll watch your choreography.”
“Good. Anyone who can’t keep up with the team isn’t needed.”
Turns out he’d come to handle wild-card Kim Iwol. The dance line uniting because of me—I like the sight; it brings tears to my eyes.
I threw myself into Kang Giyeon’s one-on-one lessons so Choi Jeho wouldn’t have to rush up from Gwangju.
“Didn’t you say anyone who can’t keep up isn’t needed, hyung?”
“Leave me behind.”
However, becoming a dancing machine was not in the cards.
The world is truly unforgiving. In this way, I was reminded yet again that I’m not an official member of Spark.
Even after that, my dancing was a disaster, but I didn’t drop everything else for it.
I honed the personal skill an idol is supposed to have at least one of, trimmed and burned away some fat, and was raising my idol-power when—
“If you’re all set, can we start Spark’s interview?”
Spring had leapt toward early summer, and the first IAD meeting was upon us.
