Debut or Die-Chapter 254

The popup before my eyes still showered holographic sparkles and petals.

But no matter how surreal that sight was, the problem lay in the popup’s content. Was that really the end?

‘What the hell is this?’

It felt like I’d been hit over the head.

Of course I’d wanted out of the insane threat that I’d spontaneously die if I couldn’t debut as an idol within a year.

But this method, this timing... was this some kind of joke?

“What the fuck are you?”

First, it flashed me scenes of a life I had no memory of—my friendship with “Park Mundae,” my post-exam-failure years—then showed me that last insane suicide attempt, and now it just ends as if I’d cut ties with someone.

“Then why show me all this?”

If not for that damn “Truth Confirmation,” I could have accepted my success and lived on feeling good about myself.

So “Ryu Geonwoo” is already someone who gave up on life, and I’m not supposed to care about that life anymore? Just go live as Park Mundae?

“Where did the original guy go, then?”

What happened to the real Park Mundae? And what about the “Ryu Geonwoo” I saw in Cheong-woo’s video?

That stupid “Truth Confirmation” hadn’t clarified a single thing, and nothing made sense.

Yet the popup didn’t change.

“...sigh.”

Fine.

Instead of shouting at the hologram, first I needed to figure out what was going on.

I took a deep breath and examined the popup more closely.

First, the newly granted title:

[Title: The One Who Succeeded (Idol)]

– You have succeeded.

: All status ailments permanently removed

“...”

So that meant it wouldn’t randomly throw ailments at me again.

But the system that guaranteed it was the same system that inflicted those ailments—hardly trustworthy. Pass.

And... in the rewards tab, besides the title, there was one more item:

[Permanent Status Screen]

Meaning I can continue to view my own and others’ conditions like stats.

“...hmm.”

I folded my arms. Now that I’d seen this much, my head cleared again.

It was absurd.

‘Isn’t this too advantageous for me?’

There was nothing here that could harm me. No ability more useful in this industry. If needed, I could start my own agency and never fail.

To leave me with supernatural rewards and then just end the service—without any prior notice?

“....”

I’d been furious and ready to quit, but this wasn’t quitting so much as the service simply shutting down.

The system was done unloading all the status ailments assigned to me.

It had no reason to explain my questions or the cause of this chaos.

“...damn.”

I didn’t know what to do.

Feeling empty, I stared at the popup and then just lay back.

Fuck it—at least I’m “graduated” from status ailments. I can live freely without fear of sudden death; that’s good, right?

Still, a bitter aftertaste lingered.

Only after a long time did I finally fall asleep.

The “Congratulations” popup stayed up until morning.

My thoughts were tangled, so moving my hands felt easiest.

“It’s fine, really!”

“I’m fine too.”

I made seafood pancake and meat patties, then unexpectedly decided to cook seasoned short ribs. I happened to have fresh ribs among the meat I’d bought.

The landlord couple fretted, but after tasting them, their worries dissolved.

“Tastes good?”

“...Mm.”

“It really is delicious, but—well, feeding guests like this...”

Guests.

Right. Unlike Bae Sejin, I’d never bought a separate place beyond the dorm.

Other members had their own homes, so no need to buy, but I—living in this body—might need to start looking at houses if I’m going to stay here.

Even though it seemed rational, I felt no enthusiasm.

‘This is insane.’

It was ridiculous to complain with a full stomach, which made it worse.

“Thanks, that was great.”

“Don’t worry about dishes—just watch TV~”

The meal was nice, appropriate for the holiday.

Then, as I zoned out in front of the TV, my phone buzzed.

[Ryu Cheong-woo hyung]

“...!”

They’d promised to ask his clan registry about “Ryu Geonwoo,” hadn’t they?

‘Quick.’

I answered immediately.

“Hyung.”

— Oh, Mundae. You picked up fast.

Behind Cheong-woo’s voice, I faintly heard a dog barking.

Not important. What mattered was the content.

— About that “Ryu Geonwoo” you asked about...

“Yes?”

— Well, apparently he hasn’t been in touch since college.

“.......”

Oh.

Cheong-woo sounded sorry he couldn’t provide contact info, but this was a major clue.

‘So “Ryu Geonwoo” at least went to university.’

I folded my arms.

This was... indeed my own past.

But after relying on relatives in high school, I’d cut off contact entirely. Reaching out only reminded me of useless thoughts.

“Got it. Thanks for telling me.”

— A bit disappointing, huh?

“No. I’m relieved he really existed. Thanks for looking into it.”

— It was just one call.

Cheong-woo joked lightly.

— If you want to repay him for saving you, you’ll have to do more.

“.......”

Fine. If that makes him feel better.

I skipped correcting him, chatted about the holiday, then hung up.

Then I set my next course.

“What now?”

“I’ll use my laptop.”

Time to try a different approach.

As soon as I entered this body, I’d already checked all the “Ryu Geonwoo” data I could—portal accounts, phone numbers, school records.

This time, I’d go the opposite direction.

‘Not what’s still living, but what’s left behind.’

I’d deleted or let accounts go dormant; I could trace those.

‘My old fancam account data and videos should still be there.’

The “gun1234” clips.

Like Yeongrin’s legendary rainy-day fancam—that gave me the idea.

I fired up the search engine’s advanced search and set the date range.

Into the past.

“.......”

Two or three hours later...

I had my answer.

‘They exist.’

All the accounts and records “Ryu Geonwoo” once used were still out there.

For example, questions I posted on a freshman photo forum.

It took time since I rarely left traces online, but once ✪ Nоvеlіgһt ✪ (Official version) I knew they were there, it was clear.

What had vanished were all active, living internet accounts and phone numbers.

Meaning “Ryu Geonwoo”—in every corner of the internet and real world—had disappeared the moment I entered Park Mundae’s body.

‘He evaporated.’

A supernatural disappearance.

“...sigh.”

I shut the laptop.

And整理ed my thoughts again.

Since I first entered this body, I’d suspected that this wasn’t the world I came from and that Ryu Geonwoo didn’t belong here.

But no.

‘The past I saw really was my own.’

The Ryu Geonwoo in Cheong-woo’s videos and on the internet was indeed me.

So... in the process of returning to the past, some unknown force made me into Park Mundae, and “Ryu Geonwoo” was erased.

‘Why that happened...’

I have no idea. We don’t even know how people travel to the past in the first place.

Even Cheongryeo, who’d gone to the past before me, didn’t know the reason.

“.......”

‘Is there no way?’

Was I just going to have to settle down, buy a house, and prepare to live here without ever truly understanding?

As I glared at the closed laptop in a strange lassitude...

clatter—

My phone buzzed again. I picked it up without thinking.

Messages had piled up by the dozens.

‘That many already?’

It’d only been about three hours. I opened the group chat that had become active during Chuseok, then checked the newest message.

It was from Seon Ah-hyun.

[Seon Ah-hyun: Mundae, how are you? My parents were going to contact you but worried it might burden you, so I’m reaching out on their behalf.]

Her long message began with holiday greetings and wound around to updates on the group’s future activities.

Classic Ah-hyun.

[You’re truly amazing, Mundae. With the way you were going, I’m sure your new album will be great—]

But that phrase snagged me.

“‘The way you were going’...?”

I knew it was just kind words, but I reread it for no reason.

As if waiting to spark some clue...

“...!!”

Right. I got it.

[Thanks for caring. Enjoy Chuseok, and see you back at the dorm.]

After reading her reply, I locked my phone and sat up in bed, staring at the wall.

Discarding all other thoughts.

Calmly. Let me combine what I learned from this damned status-screen experience.

First, the daydream I had while unconscious.

‘In that state, the system and status screen didn’t work properly.’

Only an “Enjoy your daydream :)” popup appeared; everything was offline. No achievements unlocked.

‘Yet I still could open a gacha.’

Because I’d gotten it in advance and hadn’t deleted it.

And now, with no system response—just like in that daydream—one popup I’d kept for emergencies still remained:

[Legendary Trait Gacha ☜ Click!]

This one.

I’d earned it after the online charity concert, upon updating performance achievements.

There was exactly one.

And since I could spin it even in the daydream, I knew I could spin it now.

‘Second point...’

This status screen that appears only to me was favorable to my success.

Cheongryeo had no status screen. Probably the old man she met in the future didn’t either.

I seemed to be the only one with this. Why, I didn’t know.

‘And... this shows up most clearly in the gacha.’

Like some probability manipulation, it always gave me what I needed.

Though not always.

‘I got Time of Indulgence and Bacchus differently.’

Those I’d spun after understanding the “need” mechanism and strongly wishing for them.

Meaning, if you wish fervently, you might get what you want.

That was the key.

whirr—

The roulette-machine graphic spun.

I wished.

‘What I want is...’

One thing.

‘An effect similar to the status-ailment rewards!’

The roulette’s fanfare played.

One rainbow-lit segment:

[Acquired Trait: “Mission Disposition (S)”!]

[Mission Disposition (S)]

– Equivalent exchange for those who take on challenges

: “Mission” execution unlocked

Yes.

I banged my head against the wall.

And a new popup appeared before me.

[Mission Appeared!]

Target: ______

Deadline: D-__

Reward: ______

Penalty: ______

I looked up at the hologram.

As a “trait,” it offered far more freedom than a status ailment.

“Good.”

I immediately filled in the deadline: 500 days.

[D-365 or beyond: penalty increases.]

With only three months left this year, were they kidding? Next.

‘The reward is what matters.’

I couldn’t fill in vague things like “truth” or “reason”—I’d been burned on that.

Nor could I write something as detailed as “explanation of why and how I entered this body.” The field was too short.

‘Ridiculous.’

I chuckled and folded my arms.

Then I thought of another approach: the one candidate with whom I could ask questions and get answers.

The one whose whereabouts were unknown.

“A conversation with Park Mundae.”

How to phrase it?

[Reward: Conversation with Park Mundae]

The field accepted it normally.

And it automatically filled in the penalty:

[Penalty: Deletion of Status Screen]

“Oh.”

They’d wager my status screen?

I briefly tried deleting the reward and entering something like “Dance EX,” but the penalty became “Dance stat decreases.”

‘They demand equal exchange.’

So “conversation with Park Mundae” was indeed a reward strong enough to cost me my status screen.

“Perfect.”

No need for further proof.

I restored the reward to “Conversation with Park Mundae.”

I clicked confirm, and a final unfamiliar popup appeared:

[Do you accept?]

[Y / N]

“Let’s go.”

I accepted.