The self-PR stages on Royal Secretariat proceeded in debut order.
Parte came out in jewel-studded finery and threw such a flashy performance that the self-PR segment hit its finale right from the start.
As they say, even if you’re a farmhand, do your labor at a noble’s house. For all the glitter on the surface, it was crude—basically the original choreography with a light rearrangement.
The stages that followed were mostly fine.
Nothing really stood out, so I just watched, while cheers and applause poured in from both sides.
I thought the Spark brats would put on extra-active reactions at least to stay in the staff’s good graces, but not really.
If anything, they kept their mouths shut tighter than I did and watched the stages.
Well, from the position of a team that tore up the bass line and rebuilt the choreography from scratch, the others probably look like they came on a picnic.
It wasn’t like they were rudely ignoring other teams’ stages, so I didn’t say anything.
There was at least one team that caught the eye.
The act right before us—in other words, the group that would have been the youngest on Royal Secretariat originally—Verion.
Compared to hard-hitting choreography, rough visuals, and gaudy acrobatic shows, Verion’s stage evoked bright, bubbly boys blowing balloons.
In the pre-monitoring they’d actually felt closer in vibe to other groups. Seems they tried something new for the first stage of a new program.
People who only ever repeat what they’ve done are scary in their own way, but people with lots of fighting spirit deserve caution. It means they can awaken something latent at any time.
In that sense, Verion’s stage was good. The physical color alone was different from the earlier performances that got blasted with deep dark blue lighting nonstop; whatever Verion’s aim was, they succeeded to a degree in standing out.
Smiling, I applauded Verion as they finished and lined up, and while Kang Giyeon was clapping hard too, he tilted his head toward me and whispered.
“Verion seniors were cool.”
“Right? Watch and learn a lot.”
He must have been thinking along the same lines as me.
“Verion’s stage was truly a pleasure. It reminded me of Hellas’s early-debut days—very striking.”
I looked up at Mr. Yur, hosting on the platform, and spoke.
“Before that—”
Mr. Yur’s palm—holding a cue card—faced our way.
“Last up now. Royal Secretariat’s youngest group, Spark—please come out!”
“Let’s finish ours well too.”
The lyrics of “Flowering” carry certain keywords:
Dream, power, wish, drive, cheers.
And depending on how you cook them, it becomes a challenge story for starry-eyed idols.
Spark—idols who still carry their pre-debut daily lives—sit in a circle, heads resting on each other’s shoulders, and open their eyes as if waking from sleep.
“When a single dream
feels vivid”
Originally the intro was my part, but for this stage, Choi Jeho took it.
He’s the member who suits glasses—the perfect prop for showing the daily-life part—and he’s the center carrying Spark’s identity.
Choi Jeho played the late-sleeper to perfection, then handed the part to the next singer.
“Through all the long dawn
a power
that keeps me too excited to sleep”
Besides swapping parts, we also edited the lyrics.
Words that evoked night were replaced as needed with dawn, blue sky, and so on. For idols saying they’re just now starting to step forward, we stripped anything that might read like a hardship narrative.
Thanks to that, today’s Spark is perfectly one with the image of pure-passion idols running toward a dream—crisp white tees, jeans as refreshing as a summer sky, and visuals clearer than the sea of Jeju.
From a distance, the camera might catch them like next-door slackers who wandered into a crowd of glitzy top-tier boy-group members by mistake.
But zoom those faces in with a broadcast camera?
That’s an instant summer-resort booking-app commercial. Say whatever you want—those visuals have never once been dragged.
With face-first offense by Choi Jeho and Lee Cheonghyeon making it feel like a giant fan is suddenly gusting,
with Kang Giyeon sometimes slipping but acting a trainee who keeps pressing forward with a bright smile,
and with Park Juu and Jung Seongbin proving the live cred with the changed lyrics, verse two passed.
“Since this isn’t a main stage, there won’t be many stage effects, so it’ll feel bare. If the outfits and makeup are plain too, won’t it all read empty? I’m worried.”
That’s what Jung Seongbin had said in the meeting.
His point was reasonable. He was so on the nose, it was like he’d watched Royal Secretariat from the future.
To prepare for that, I had the flashy photo of Mr. Polo next to the handsome actor shot.
Giyeon and I walked out from either side of Choi Jeho and, behind him as he finished his dance break, we spread an aviator jacket patched with multiple large and small badges.
They were jackets we had stashed beforehand in one corner before the stage began.
How many laps did I make around Dongdaemun Market to find the right patches that matched each member’s keywords?
Choi Jeho slid his arms into the sleeves and took off his glasses. Then, at ease, he swept up his bangs.
With the accompaniment that Lee Cheonghyeon had painstakingly rearranged, the mood shifted from a breeze to a summer wind laced with heat.
“Till the heart boils up
and spills over!”
With surf recorded on the Busan shore by Lee Cheonghyeon, the six blue jackets fluttered on the final pose and then settled.
The hall was quiet—until someone broke the silence with a soft “wow...” and small applause.
Leaving the perfunctory claps behind, I looked past the camera at the staff.
Faces unable to take their eyes off Spark. Camera angles still pointed at Spark.
That was enough. I was very satisfied.
After everyone’s stages, the evaluations followed.
For over ten minutes, only warm words flowed among the cast. There was no expression of regret toward anyone’s stage or any move to check a stronger team.
In a way, that’s natural. No entertainer wants hate comments or criticism.
“How was Spark?”
Mr. Yur tossed meat our way as we sat there listening to the seniors with big smiles.
We’d already heard every kind of praise and cool cheer from the groups before us. Some even said it was an honor to see these stages up close. Everyone probably expected the youngest would also praise their seniors hard and share the warmth of our society.
Praise barter—great.
It’s great, but—
“What do you think is the most important thing in voting?”
When I asked that in the meeting, the Spark brats gave various answers.
My view was this:
“Votes that have lost fairness are meaningless. Same for survival shows that lose credibility. If people say it’s all rigged, the competition ends right there.”
If a stage is overwhelmingly good to anyone’s eyes, the evaluation should be clean too.
That said, I couldn’t drag the kids into a chance of getting a villain edit because of my stance.
So in a situation like this, I take the mic no matter what.
“Verion seniors’ stage was really good. We’ll make sure not to lose on youth!”
And I say only what needs to be said.
If there’s nothing to praise in another group? Then there isn’t.
Parte, which had been showered with soul-filled praise from every group so far—especially Song Minil and a few others—had expressions worth seeing.
In the evaluations that followed, I drew a ton of aggro.
With a vague scoring system that said to give +5 to teams that did better than your own group and −5 to teams that did worse, I gave −5 to every group except Verion.
Verion even looked our way nervously despite getting bonus points.
Between members who worried and my hard line of “No, let’s do it like this,” I’m curious how my stance will be edited on the broadcast. I’m already looking forward to it.
Spark, docked only by Parte, tied for first with Parte, which had been docked only by Spark.
Mr. Yur was delighted, saying it was fierce from the first result.
“No need to worry. The self-PR stage score doesn’t count toward the final result.”
At his explanation, sighs of relief rose here and there.
“But if there were no use for it, we wouldn’t have scored it, right?”
With that line, the board displayed the six group names in the order of their self-PR ranking.
“In the first round, each of you will be matched with a rival group and perform to that rival’s song.”
“Gasp!”
“The team with more votes will receive bonus ballots as a reward. Starting from first place in the self-PR, please choose your rival group!”
It was material designed to ignite competition from the jump. The cast might taste like soft tofu, but the production seems to be mala-spiced.
“However, because we have a tie for first, we need a short discussion on how to handle this.”
Then Mr. Yur called Spark and Parte to the front.
“First, I’ll ask if the two teams have preferred rivals. If the groups you want to cover don’t overlap, we’ll have each of you compete against your chosen group.”
Spark could go against anyone, so to avoid dragging out the shoot in a useless spot, I was going to pick a team other than the one Parte claimed first when—
“If Spark doesn’t mind, we’d like to name Spark as our rival!”
Parte jumped in early.
I can pretty much see what picture they’re imagining.
They want to square off with the slightly impertinent juniors, show the gap between them, and then—even so—sell their senior vibe that embraces the ⊛ Nоvеlιght ⊛ (Read the full story) juniors.
“That only works if there’s a gap to begin with...”
If they’re thinking cocky thoughts without even knowing themselves yet, MYTH staff must be having a hard time managing them.
I asked Mr. Yur and Parte for a moment and checked with our members what they wanted to do.
And the kids said okay cleanly. We said we’d win everything on skill, and it sure looks like they’re fearless in a different way from Parte.
Once Spark vs. Parte was set, someone reached for a handshake.
It was Song Minil.
“Let’s do well, the both of us.”
“Yes, please take care of us, senior!”
How can you like someone who says “let’s do well” with a face that clearly doesn’t want to do well together?
Feeling Song Minil squeeze my hand, I started to imagine the satisfying future he was drawing in his head—and stopped.
The grander the dream, the more—when it shatters—you see a human’s true face.
I decided I’d do my best to see Song Minil’s honest heart.
But as always, it was my side that broke.
