Live broadcasts demand far more hands than pre-recorded shoots.
The site was that busy—enough to make your head spin. Everyone moved like clockwork.
The first slot went to Parte, who had taken the overall lead in Round 3.
Smart call. In a text-vote round, it’s an advantage to perform first and gather votes over a longer window.
They stood out with a lavish stage dressed as royals vying for the throne—fitting for the final.
Spark’s outfits today were crisp white traditional attire with deep teal over-coats.
To keep it from looking too plain, we added accent points with embroidery and pendant tassels. Even if the concept is an upright, spotless scholar, Spark is still an idol group.
From running multiple survival programs in the past, I knew East-Asian-themed stages were relatively rare in finals, so we went all-in here.
As expected, many groups wore traditional outfits in Rounds 2–3, and uniforms dominated in the final.
And today the audience and viewers have to watch six stages in one go. I wanted to avoid concept overlap as much as possible; I’m glad we pulled it off.
“Your hair—looks seamless.”
“Yeah?”
Kang Giyeon peered at my head left and right, then nodded.
I usually avoid flashy add-ons, but today was different.
First, to cover the suture marks above my ear, I attached a short hairpiece.
Our stylist worked hard to make it blend naturally with my own hair.
And to prevent my hair from puffing up when I danced, we tied a silk headband over the hairpiece.
“Wouldn’t that make me stand out too much?”
“You never know when or where the camera will push in for a close-up.”
“True......”
As they say, let medicine be handled by a pharmacist and work by a professional. Thanks to that, I got to wear a headband kindly lined with gauze on the inside.
Because we prioritized aesthetics over historical accuracy, the knotted cloth trailed long down the back of my head. Since everyone said it suited me, we decided not to shorten it.
“Is Spark ready?”
“Yes!”
We answered in unison.
Spark’s concept today is the court historian.
The one who records history in a place where everyone dreams of seizing the throne.
And for today only, we’re going to rewrite this program’s definition.
Spark’s meeting footage was going up on the big screen with a VCR overlay. For the live broadcast, the edited master would be airing.
“[Spark enters in five minutes!]”
A sub-director’s voice came through the radio. On the darkened stage, staff hurried back and forth. Watching the busy silhouettes, Director Han did a quick stretch.
He thought, I really do see these kids a lot.
Director Han’s mind flicked through the recent past.
From Jang Junhu’s music video shoot to “People Who Drink,” he had run into Kim Iwol on set three jobs in a row.
Working in music programs, it would be odd not to see idols—but some people just stick in your memory.
For Director Han, that person was Kim Iwol.
At first he’d seemed genuinely thoughtful and warm.
He still remembered how Iwol came out even when it wasn’t his shoot to look after his members, bustling around to help passing staff with whatever he could.
At “People Who Drink,” the impression shifted a little.
Polite and calm—but with eyes lit sharp—Director Han saw that clearly.
And unlike other cast members who stumbled around blackout drunk, Kim Iwol handled his part cleanly and bowed a full ninety degrees, exiting like a gentleman to the very end.
That moment left such a mark. So when he saw Kim Iwol and his teammates again on Royal Secretariat, he was honestly pleased.
The meeting shoot ended up going to another group, but he still heard plenty of fun stories from Team 2, who had gone to film at UA.
They say they run meetings like office workers. They say every kid is razor-sharp.
Writers who’d seen too many entertainers to be anything but ruthless in their evaluations were full of praise.
Up to that point, Spark was, to Director Han, a distinctive but good-natured rookie idol group.
Then the Royal Secretariat PD called an emergency meeting, and Spark’s image shifted a little.
“Didn’t a Spark member get assaulted?”
“They say it was PD Yu Hansu. Is that true?”
“That bastard finally did it. From the rumors, I figured he’d cause trouble sooner or later.”
“No matter what, how do you do something like that?”
A sudden accident—an injury to a cast member.
The shockwave was enormous. The program title and Spark dominated real-time trends on social media as articles poured out.
“Is Iwol okay?”
Director Han asked. The PD sighed before answering.
“Eight weeks, minimum.”
“Ah......”
Given what happened, of course it would be serious. Hearing it directly felt even worse.
“Then is Spark dropping out? Or going on without Iwol?”
“They’ll probably withdraw, right? If it were a simple injury maybe not, but if this happened because of a guy they used to share a roof with, the members must be shattered. And they’re all young.”
The sound director spoke with regret. Since Round 2 he had been keeping an eye on Lee Cheonghyeon, who was said to handle composition and arrangement for Spark.
“But the thing is... ugh.”
The PD raked his hair hard. After hesitating like something weighed on him, he spoke with difficulty.
“I know I’m going to sound like a psychopath saying this. But it’s such a waste.”
“A waste of what?”
“Their final stage. I heard the concept from the youngest on Team 2. That stage is a compressed version of their whole arc. If we don’t show it, they’ll just go down as kids who did a decent stage and then quit halfway.”
The head writer, who had been side-eyeing the PD, cut in.
“Let’s be honest with each other—we all know the score. You’re the one who doesn’t want to lose it, PD.”
Spark had something even a music-program PD would hate to let go of?
It was puzzling. Director Han knew as well as anyone how many stubborn people this industry has.
But as if to prove the head writer right, the PD now clutched his head with both hands.
“Yeah, I don’t want to lose it! It’s a waste! You don’t feel that way?”
“I do. That stage is a Royal Secretariat highlight reel.”
“So listen, Director Han.”
The PD turned his gaze to Director Han.
“Would it be too outrageous to ask Spark to consider doing the final stage?”
“Did you really just say that? People will call you a psychopath.”
So that’s why he’d called in even people outside planning, like him and the sound director.
He knew Royal Secretariat was doing better than expected. Still, there are lines you don’t cross.
Kim Iwol is the kind of kid whose face bloomed with smiles whenever he talked about his members on “People Who Drink.” A guy who cherishes and loves them like that wouldn’t have bad blood with them.
With Kim Iwol hurt, how do you think Spark feels right now? As decent human beings, it was not a suggestion they could make.
“I don’t think that’s right either.”
The sound director waved his hands.
Thinking the discussion was over, Director Han started to get up—just then, a knock, and the junior writer opened the conference-room door.
“PD! Spark isn’t dropping out!”
The PD cheered; the head writer and the rest stared, bewildered.
The confusion lasted only a moment.
Someone who had watched Spark up close for months muttered,
“They’re really ruthless, those kids...”
Even calling it ruthless felt unfair, but Director Han couldn’t deny it.
“At the time, I was shocked just by the fact they insisted on appearing.”
There was more to be shocked by after that. Kim Iwol showed up at the station with a cap pulled low.
At first the crew thought he’d come to cheer on his members, but when he walked into rehearsal wearing a name tag, they were floored.
Kim Iwol himself was unruffled. Before rehearsal even started, he smiled as usual and meticulously checked the backing dancers’ entrance and exit paths and the audio.
“With someone injured, the stage quality won’t be what it was.”
Even so, the resolve to somehow stand on stage together came through. Fresh and passionate, Director Han thought.
That was until rehearsal began.
He should have guessed when a large number of backing dancers and multiple sets rolled out—nothing like Spark’s previous stages.
Even with the eldest injured, the group that insists [N O V E L I G H T] on doing its job, and the member who performs his role despite being hurt—there would be no compromise.
“Director Han, you’ll shoot it well as always, but... please take special care with Spark this time.”
“Spark?”
On the day Spark announced they wouldn’t withdraw, after the meeting, the PD had clapped Director Han on the shoulder and said it.
“I’m asking a favor.”
“I mean, it’s my job, so I’ll do it well, but...”
Seeing his reluctance, the PD said,
“I think they’re going to nail it. Let’s make a blockbuster stage.”
The certainty in the PD’s eyes was unmistakable.
Director Han hadn’t understood then. After reviewing the treatment, camera work, set, and rehearsal, he does now.
Spark can make an incredible stage.
For the final, Spark chose Lee Cheonghyeon’s original, “Chronicle.”
Before any music played, Jeong Seongbin walked to center stage.
Over the rustle of paper, Jeong Seongbin recited:
“Someone came here to ascend the throne.”
He remembered the treatment. It quoted a line from Volume 1 of the founding annals: “The founder ascended the throne at Suchang Palace.”
Jeong Seongbin’s steps turned back toward the members, who stood in a line with their backs to the audience.
“This is the story that holds
countless lives who passed through this land.”
His voice faded to nothing.
The song began here.
As the members turned one by one, Park Juu—who had been walking with the back of his hand over his eyes—drew his hand down from his brow.
Under the lights, Park Juu’s eyes shone a deep gray.
