Have you ever thought about what it’s like for audience members who have to stand and watch stage after stage for hours?
Sometimes their favorite group performs only once. Sometimes they’re just “interested” in a group and are here to see what they’re about.
It’s true for any show, but music-broadcast audience duty isn’t easy. A survival program makes it even harder.
You don’t know when “our kids” will come out, and you just stare endlessly while unfamiliar people sing unfamiliar songs.
That’s exactly when the audience needs friendly guidance.
They need a basic understanding that says, “We’re a group with this color, and here’s the kind of song we’re going to do.”
Like businesspeople exchanging cards in a meeting.
In that sense, Parte’s stage was unfriendly.
Outside of Parte’s own fandom, who knows they use myth as a motif?
And then you do a stage this conceptual on top of that?
When something feels unfamiliar without quite sparking new curiosity—
People call that “alienating.” That’s what Parte’s stage was.
It’ll probably come off better on TV. Cameras will catch flattering angles, and the stage effects will be highlighted.
But not on-site. If you prep a stage assuming all the conditions of a MV set are in place, it’s bound to creak. With no broadcast voting at this phase, that’s a costly mistake.
The song was shoddy, too.
Since the track’s charm is that it evokes an amusement-park festival, I get that they didn’t want to lose that part.
They probably also anticipated criticism for changing too many lyrics.
But arrangement is supposed to change things.
If you wanted to put the image of longing into a mystical temple space, music-box timbres alone could have created a perfectly good effect.
On a music-competition show, a weak song is fatal. Nothing sticks in listeners’ heads for voting. I’d say MYTH’s A&R team needs some deep reflection before their next stage.
So what should Spark—less known than Parte—do?
There’s only one answer.
Lower the barrier to entry for the concept as much as possible. With an intuitive item.
“Spark, heading to standby!”
Leaving Parte’s interview behind, I stepped out of the °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° room with five one-day volleyball players.
My legs hurt.
Baek Haewon carefully rolled his ankle.
He couldn’t remember how many hours he’d been standing without a chance to stretch.
He couldn’t even check the time—phones were forbidden.
When he won the raffle for audience duty, he thought someone was gifting him for finishing his exams. Seeing it now, maybe it was punishment for a naughty student who bombed the test.
Spark—the kids who were “Baek Haewon’s children”—still hadn’t appeared.
At first he tried to have fun, cheering along, but it wasn’t easy. Human stamina isn’t infinite. And there weren’t even the kind of stages you should be able to whoop for.
At this rate, when my kids come out, I won’t even be able to cheer.
He meant it. In that narrow, dark seating area, still on his feet, Baek Haewon grew more and more tired.
About the time he’d repeated to himself for the three-thousandth time, “Viewers at home are the real winners...”
“Finally, here they are. The energizing maknae of Idol Royal Secretariat!”
Back when he was in full-on stan mode, MC Yur of Royal Secretariat wasn’t active much and escaped his radar; if the timing had overlapped, Haewon would definitely have stanned him at least once. Yur delivered the line he’d been waiting for.
Handsome and great at MCing? I love you.
“Please welcome Spark with a big round of applause!”
Baek Haewon clapped till his palms burned and waited in the dark for Spark to walk out.
Then, as the members emerged one by one, he clutched his collar.
“XX they’re handsome, XX...!”
Audience duty was a gift from heaven. He barely restrained himself from screaming like an uncultured maniac.
First out front was Jeong Seongbin in a white volleyball uniform. The mint stripes and matching headband looked insanely good on him.
From hairline to brow to the bridge of his nose—there wasn’t a single thing that wasn’t refreshing.
Who told you to go blonde with your forehead exposed. You’d deserve to be sued for this crime.
Next came Kang Giyeon and Lee Cheonghyeon in turn. Kang Giyeon wore mint, Lee Cheonghyeon white.
Kang Giyeon had white knee pads on both knees; Lee Cheonghyeon wore long sleeves on both arms.
Then came Kim Iwol and Choi Jeho with wrist guards.
One thought flashed through Baek Haewon’s head.
Wow, they’re tall as hell.
Average heights keep creeping up these days, but Spark was really tall. The oldest-line average was 185 cm.
But there’s a gap between reading a number—What? Our boys are a tall group? Sick!—and actually seeing tall kings in the flesh.
Especially when Choi Jeho was the tallest in the team. The two of them, like utility poles in uniforms, were even a little intimidating.
And XX they’re handsome...
When Kim Iwol glanced this way and gave the smallest smile, Baek Haewon murmured like a man dictating his last will.
With those sharp features, the skin looked so pale it had a hint of blue, and gray shadows sculpted the face even more.
There was nothing dull from the brow line to the nose bridge to the jaw—everything was chiseled—and yet when he looked at fans with those big eyes, the gentle smile drove people insane.
He’d lost count of how many times he’d posted on SNS that he wanted to lie down under the shadow of Kim Iwol’s long lashes and sleep forever.
That guy was really in the same class as my mom’s son? What a world.
But he was a seasoned otaku; he managed to avoid the delusion of Iwol smiled at me!
Last, Park Juu took his position in a mint uniform and knee-high socks.
The blessing of beauty had no end. Even the well-toned arm muscles peeking out from under the short sleeves were perfect. Spark in person shone like diamonds.
Baek Haewon felt all his toil wash away. Maybe his vocabulary had regressed, but who cared.
Watching Spark’s interview in a blissy haze, a question occurred to him.
Aren’t they covering a Parte song?
Just now, Parte staged something incredibly gorgeous. Their fans seemed to love it, but since Haewon didn’t really know Parte’s lore, he just thought, Cool~, and left it at that. A bit hard to parse for him, too.
If the goal is to dye it your own color, that’s fine, but will that mesh with the flashy music Parte showed? He wasn’t sure.
He didn’t dwell on it.
Whatever, if push comes to shove, Juu will shred it!
Trust born of proven skill in two promo cycles and countless self-content. Baek Haewon had that.
He just wanted them to nail the stage. With that wish, the members finished their on-stage “fighting!” in a circle and took their marks.
Spotlights fell onto the dark stage.
With uniforms matched by color, the members stood 3-on-3, and a whistle pierced the air as the song began.
The intro starts as call-and-response between me and Choi Jeho.
“You—
What do you desire?”
“If you ask, only one thing—
The one and only glory.”
The stage concept is dead simple.
A clash between the Mint team—me, Park Juu, Kang Giyeon—and the White team—Choi Jeho, Jeong Seongbin, Lee Cheonghyeon!
Just from uniform colors and the opening formation, the audience can grasp the setup. That alone gets you halfway there.
Add light but crisp choreography, foot stamps that land better in the room, and the frictiony snap of high-fives to pump in life.
“Yearn and desire—
Until it’s in your hands!”
Conceptual lyrics are written to be read different ways depending on the situation—and to sharpen the goal.
So people think, Ah, these punks are trying to win.
Once understanding kicks in, acceptance is quick.
The back-to-back shoulder check between Kang Giyeon and Jeong Seongbin reads as a mental game between teams; Lee Cheonghyeon’s hand-kiss gesture evokes a scoring celebration.
Choreo you might skip over at first glance looks different to eyes that know the backdrop.
We built it so one song reads like a single match.
Because there’s no replay for on-site voting.
And the last play to capture the room?
Pour it into the singing.
As verse three hits, the music climbs toward its peak.
We stirred in applause and cheers fitting a final, boosted the bass to make hearts thump.
“Do you hear it—
The revelation, and our plea.”
Kang Giyeon laid the bed. I set my voice on top.
“You—
Do you long for the throne?”
As the notes rose, instruments and effects stacked to create a festival feel. The metallic edge of brass and the feverish blur of synths tangled in the air.
“My answer only,
Unchanging as ever.”
Next, Jeong Seongbin burst dead-center.
Right now the audience is probably meeting his swelling expression head-on—and the voice that carries it whole.
And when the music crested—
Park Juu stepped forward with aggression dialed to max.
“I will claim—
Honor.”
A spear of high notes hurled itself between the speakers.
Is this even worth calling a “plan.”
If you want points from a stage, of course the singing has to be great.
Most of all, what makes sports fun is...
“The future we dreamed of!”
...that it makes people roar. In an instant.
With the scrape of shoe soles on the gym floor, our frugal-and-fiery sportsmanship stage ended.
Elation-salted sweat dripped onto the stage. Real applause—not something we piped into the arrangement—filled the room.
The on-site vote announcement set was quiet. Hard to believe it was the same place jammed with audience a little while ago.
Until Yur arrived, we had to huddle on stage.
Everyone’s breath was rough, but our faces gleamed. Looks like we all got our touch-ups. We powdered like crazy to hide the sweat.
Seizing the moment before the cameras rolled, I was brushing Seongbin’s bangs so his forehead would look prettier when someone approached.
“Uh, hello!”
It was Verion’s leader, Moon Yeongyu. Stage name: Onha.
Naturally they were our seniors, so we bowed at ninety degrees as always.
Onha flapped his hands, flustered, saying we didn’t need to go that far. Then he smiled, embarrassed.
“Spark, your stage was so good. I just wanted to say we really enjoyed it...”
“Really? Thank you, sunbaenim!”
Seongbin took the offered hand and shook it.
“We really enjoyed yours too. You were awesome!”
Standing beside Seongbin, I added a word. Onha, still bashful, hurried back to Verion’s side, saying, see you next taping.
Unexpected. I didn’t think there was any group that wanted to get close to Spark.
Or is it because we only gave positive marks to Verion?
Could that alone prompt someone to approach like that...? Come to think of it, that Onha kid is just twenty.
Judge people on fragments, and you get burned.
I just hoped the world wouldn’t batter Verion too harshly.
And right on cue, Yur walked in—holding a ranking chart more ruthless than the winds of the world.
