Debut or Die-Chapter 307

The composition camp began almost immediately.

The assignment was to arrange a 60-second segment of the boss-theme BGM for the follow-up to 〈127 Section〉.

“Wow, why are game tracks so addictive?”

“Maybe it’s because the sections loop.”

Since it wasn’t a matter of life and death, the members relaxed, chatted, and opened their composition software.

From debut, our agency had given us basic lessons in how to use composition programs—at least formally—so everyone knew the basics.

The problem was that after about three years, that training was all but useless.

“Hmm.”

“Why is there an order here? Teach me!”

“Well, first... the top note.”

‘This is a mess.’

I looked down at my laptop screen.

I knew I had to capture the original tones and organize them, but... there was no properly learned standard method.

– Mundae, do you know how to import this?

– ...Let’s at least watch the beginner tutorial first.

Right. Frankly, we were all amateurs.

We all knew it, but none of us had bothered to study any harder than strictly necessary.

‘That wouldn’t suit our purpose.’

It was just a hobby.

“Ahem, sorry, but this is....”

“It’s the drum-machine group!”

“...Thanks.”

I watched as Kim Rae-bin swiftly manipulated his laptop without blinking, then earnestly answered everyone’s questions—only to dive right back into his screen.

The chaotic environment actually made it impossible to overthink the composition process.

‘Not bad.’

I moved my mouse and began laying down a bassline.

And a little while later—

“Three hours up! Now let’s share what we’ve got~”

“Wow!!”

Except for Kim Rae-bin, we were all pretty much equal in skill, and it was only a three-hour exercise, so we took turns playing our pieces without pressure.

As expected, the quality was a wreck... yet surprisingly inventive wrecks began popping up.

“Ha ha ha ~Nоvеl𝕚ght~ ha!”

“This is awesome!”

“Yeah, it’s cool!”

Raw, unpolished sounds blasted from the Bluetooth speaker.

Fortunately, we were in a mountain lodge—if this were a resort, we’d have been kicked out.

I shook my head at Cha Yoo-jin’s wildly aggressive arrangement.

“How is it, hyung?”

“Uh... it sounds like thunder.”

“Hee hee.”

Not exactly praise, but he was pleased, which was fine. When I looked over, Rae-bin’s pupils were trembling. He seemed flustered.

Still, giving feedback was easy now.

Instead of worrying if I was overstepping, I could freely advise.

As Seon Ah-hyun’s piece played next, even Kim Rae-bin finally spoke up.

“So, what do you think...?”

“Well....”

And I had to say only nice things.

Frankly, that expectation lifted some of his own pressure.

Rae-bin played the sound several times very seriously, then summoned all his energy to praise.

“The harmony is richer than the original, so it sounds smooth and beautiful...!”

That made sense—the original was 8-bit, after all.

“I see... th-thanks.”

Still, praise from an expert made Ah-hyun’s face brighten.

“Right, it feels more like a protagonist theme than a boss theme? As expected of Ah-hyun~”

“...It’s easy on the ears.”

It really felt like a club activity. Rae-bin quietly added:

“That’s correct. The guitar sounds pleasant, so raising its volume a bit would make it even more beautiful.”

Nice. Now he even wanted to help refine it.

He had clearly shaken off the evaluation pressure. If he kept praising these beginners’ arrangements, he’d build confidence.

Soon enough, it was time to play Rae-bin’s piece.

We’d deliberately placed it in the middle rather than at the start or end.

“O~ Rae-bin~”

“Yes. I’ll play it now.”

Rae-bin’s face lit up as he manipulated the mouse.

Then a densely woven web of notes began to flow out.

“...!”

It wasn’t in pop-song format.

Its structure was sleek, almost New Age.

He had skillfully arranged the short original BGM segments, preserving the background and thematic essence.

But the track’s resolution was different.

‘...I never imagined it could sound like this.’

It felt as if he’d drawn out the pure essence of the piece that lingers in one’s mind and rendered it perfectly.

After the first thirty seconds, new elements blended in and the track rose.

“...!”

“This is our song! Right?”

He’d sampled and woven in the signature rap part from our collaborative OST, “Bonus Book.”

The minor key, somehow tinged with melancholy, fell like droplets on that web-like structure.

It fit the characters’ narratives perfectly, and the development felt exhilarating.

“Wow~”

“Rae-bin, this is amazing!!”

Yeah. It was great.

It might not sell as a mainstream song, but I was moved enough to describe it as “web-like.”

And although we’d agreed only to give positive feedback, our gestures and voices were sincere.

“This is really pleasant to listen to!”

Rae-bin seemed a bit taken aback by the torrent of praise—and maybe a little moved.

I offered a brief verdict.

No further words were needed.

“It sounds even more original than the original.”

“...!!”

Rae-bin lifted his head. I nodded.

“...Thank you.”

I heard his voice tremble, but I didn’t point it out.

Even after the one-minute arrangement finished playing, Rae-bin kept staring at the laptop screen, fingers on the touchpad.

We let him be for a moment.

Then, just as Rae-bin was regaining his composure, it was time for the next person—an almost public execution.

“Next is Mundae!”

That was me.

I inwardly sighed—but I’d volunteered for this hell.

‘Keep it short and sharp.’

I hit play.

Vrooom.

Since this character was associated with drones, I emphasized electronic sounds to make it feel ominous.

I even added that crackling, complex instrument effect.

The others nodded.

“It’s decent.”

Is that so? I didn’t need pity.

After listening to a perfect pro’s track and then this, it felt like stepping backward in dog-style reverse.

It was like my ears were screaming, ‘Catch me!’

I crossed my arms without enthusiasm, but opposite me, Kim Rae-bin raised a hand.

“The elements are interesting, and your melodic edits show inventive sense...!”

“See? Mundae’s got talent.”

Even Rae-bin was flattering me... wait.

I looked at his face.

Rae-bin’s expression was as focused as when he’d checked the prompt on the TV earlier.

“...?”

Was he sincere?

He actually moved to look at my laptop screen and examined my notes.

Then he clenched his fist.

As if he wanted to grab the mouse.

“Hyung! If it’s not too much trouble, could I... tweak this track a bit?”

“Sure.”

Rae-bin looked up at me, stunned.

“I’d be happy if you polished it.”

A bright smile spread across his face—unexpectedly pure, for such a sharp kid.

Thus, the first day of composition camp turned into Rae-bin’s arrangement masterclass.

“Among your VSTs, you have a lot of harsh, powerful sounds—if you adjust their levels here....”

“WOW!”

Rae-bin joyfully sprinkled advice to accentuate each member’s arrangement strengths, and everyone happily revised their tracks.

And my piece... well, it was almost entirely overhauled by Rae-bin.

Strangely, though, he preserved the original vibe.

“Your concept was so excellent and clear that the revisions progressed quickly!”

In other words, he couldn’t find any obvious imbalance in my version to fix.

...Well, whatever. If he was satisfied, that was fine.

After Rae-bin had remixed all seven theme tracks in his own versions, he ate dinner contentedly, then called it a night.

And now it was dawn.

“Hmm.”

Since I woke up before the alarm, I decided to review today’s schedule.

Avoiding the lumps of blankets likely to trip me, I stepped on the quilt and sat at the kitchen table.

Then I ruffled my hair.

‘Today....’

I planned to pick one nursery rhyme and one idol title and mash them together.

Of course, I’d pick a promising junior as the idol so we couldn’t officially use it.

‘And if there’s time, since Ryu Cheong-woo even brought hiking boots...’

“?”

Just then, the blanket-covered occupant by the kitchen stirred awake.

It was Kim Rae-bin.

“Wake up.”

“No, I’m fine...”

He clambered up and sat opposite me.

“I really want to express my gratitude.”

Now?

“My ego might be inflated, but it feels like you were very considerate in helping me recover my compositional skills....”

“That wasn’t consideration.”

I leaned back.

And out came the words I should have said when confiscating his laptop a few days ago.

“We really needed everyone to pick up composing as a hobby. With seven members, it’s abnormal to burden one person with all the tracks.”

“.......”

“So if you hate composing, you can quit. None of us have been doing it, so what’s the difference?”

But Rae-bin opened his mouth with difficulty.

“However, many people are counting on me. The company employees and AR team said they’re waiting for my tracks.”

“You’re worried they’ll be disappointed if you can’t deliver?”

Rae-bin hesitated. It was a yes.

I stifled a sigh.

“Rae-bin. You’re great on stage and your rap’s solid—why act like you only excel at one thing?”

“...!”

“If you enjoy writing songs, go for it. If not, we can change approaches. The group will still function. We can just buy songs.”

Rae-bin looked up.

“Of course, you really do craft amazing tracks, and we benefit hugely from that. We should be grateful.”

I continued calmly.

“But it’s not your fault if you stop, and it won’t sink us. Never forget you have other options.”

“Yes.”

Rae-bin clasped both hands and bowed his head.

“I won’t forget.”

His voice quivered, but there was relief there, too.

‘He really felt the pressure.’

When he was always delivering good work, it didn’t register—but after one slip, he panicked.

Afraid his reputation would shatter and he’d damage the team.

‘And I remember he got harsh feedback during AJUSA, too.’

In the second team round, he shrank and accepted feedback blindly.

‘...Could that be the root cause?’

Well, that was just speculation—I’d move on.

Still, now that he’d made a great piece and spoken up, he’d have some breathing room.

I waited for Rae-bin to collect himself.

He wiped his face briefly with his shirt, then spoke again in a determined, husky voice.

“Um... may I say one more thing?”

“Go ahead.”

Let’s hear it.

I half-expected him to say something like, “With our current composing skills, my absence would be devastating.”

But Rae-bin spoke earnestly.

“Since all members participate in album and activity production, saying you ‘helped me alone’ feels excessive...!”

He really was consistent.

“I see.”

I smiled and uncrossed my arms.

“Thank you.”

“Not at all.”

Rae-bin replied resolutely.

Through the window, sunlight was creeping in—pushing back the darkness.

‘Good.’

And the golden cylindrical bottle gleamed....

Hmm.

[Large ₩150,000 Small ₩70,000]

[Cash Price]

I said without thinking:

“How about a drink?”

Rae-bin followed my gaze to the ginseng liquor and exclaimed brightly:

“Yes! I’ll pour for you.”

“...?”

I expected him to refuse.

But Rae-bin looked puzzled.

“Really? You said ginseng liquor is good for mind and body....”

“...Grandma said so?”

“Yes!”

Right. That makes sense. In the early dawn, 6:30 a.m., while everyone else still slept, Rae-bin and I drank ginseng liquor.

The alcohol, after a long hiatus, wasn’t as thrilling as I remembered, but the taste was good.

“You... is something bothering you?”

“Nah, it just feels like the setup’s changed.”

I ignored Bae Se-jin’s comment this morning. There was no evidence.

After grabbing a rice ball for breakfast and about to move on to the next task, one of the guys who’d been merrily replaying yesterday’s tracks spoke up.

“Hm... Rae-bin. Instead of not releasing them at all, shall we upload our tracks online? It’s too good just for us to listen to.”

“...! On TeSTAR’s SNS?”

That was the last thing I wanted.

‘...I’d planned to do it on the final day, after camp.’

Since the idea was out there, why not proceed?

I naturally moved to the next step.

“Let’s just make a YouTube channel and upload them. As long as it’s not under our own names.”

“Oh, true.”

“Yeah, that’ll work!”

Bae Se-jin got excited, cheered loudly, and quickly created an account. Good job.

I reviewed the sequence.

Camp Phase One:

And the next step:

Murabel verification.

“Hold on~ how about choosing a screen image first?”

...But that would turn into a much larger-scale verification than I’d anticipated.