Debut or Die-Chapter 309
The company that acquired the production team for 127 Section—T1 Plays—had commented under the theme track that Kim Rae-bin had arranged solo.
And that comment, posted less than a day ago, was now swamped with replies full of pilgrimage devotion and eager anticipation.
“Let’s gooooo!”
“Ha haha, you’re good at this lol”
“We’ve been waiting.”
“Please adopt it!”
It felt as if this arrangement could be officially chosen for some cinematic trailer at any moment. There were even foreigners plastering the thread with emoji-laden memes.
“Uh, uh, uh....”
Kim Rae-bin was stunned. Completely unprepared, his brain seemed overloaded.
It was amusing—and I felt the same.
‘How did it get this big?’
I’d known reactions might be decent, but popularity and viral buzz are another matter entirely. What rookie account’s game parody video shoots up like this in a week?
Since it was an anonymous account, I’d left it alone—but this had to stop.
I grabbed my smartphone to find the cause of this chaos.
‘Another algorithm pick?’
No—it looked much more deliberate. 127 Section had indeed faded from its domestic heyday into a niche following, its mass appeal and sales dropped. Yet abroad, its vibe had cemented it as a steady seller among hardcore fans.
Consequently, many overseas gaming YouTubers obsessed over the series—and one of them must have spotted the video live.
That guy’s subscriber count....
[25.92 million subscribers]
Of course it skyrocketed. The company’s diligent rep saw it, and here we were.
So what now?
“What do we do?”
“I know, right.”
Since earlier, “I know, right” had become our reflexive answer. It was that absurd a situation.
I mean, we’re not some side project—we could be launching a second career as professional composers. And our own member had fallen for the bait alone.
At that moment, Cha Yoo-jin shot his hand up.
“Let’s do it! It’s fun!”
Of course he would say that.
“Hold on, hold on!”
“Let’s think this through, Yoo-jin!”
I watched Ryu Cheong-woo and Bae Se-jin try to restrain Yoo-jin’s eagerness, then spoke.
“First... if we really accept this offer, when drafting the contract we’d have to give our real names and bank details.”
“Oh, then everyone will know it’s us?”
“Exactly.”
At that moment I could see TESTAR used in game promo stories—our parent company would push it unquestioningly. A feel-good anecdote that benefits both TESTAR and the game.
‘And suspicion of manipulation will run rampant....’
Of course: a coincidence that pleases everyone looks like a marketing ruse.
“Disgusting TESTAR promotion”
“Trying to suck in fans to prop up that flop of a game again”
“What’s wrong with T1’s marketing team? Ugh”
Creating that noise right before the award ceremony would be stupid. Imagine people saying “TESTAR doesn’t deserve Rookie of the Year.” Winning’s one thing, but public acceptance that you deserve it shapes success.
‘Even if we tried to block it, one exec at headquarters could ruin everything.’
We couldn’t let that happen.
Then an unexpected voice spoke, serious.
“W-what if we register under family names...?”
It was Seon Ah-hyun. Probably suggesting it so Rae-bin wouldn’t miss out on his achievement.
“Oh, not bad.”
“I like that!”
I forced out my reply.
“No. Once they find out, we’d be accused of tax evasion.”
No question. It’s a sensitive area lately.
Bae Se-jin, who’d already dealt with a first-year income tax fiasco, swallowed.
“Then... should we just ignore it?”
“That’s risky, too.”
Once attention was drawn, if we kept posting arrangements to that account, more contact offers would come.
‘Given Rae-bin’s talent, it’s expected.’
And ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) look at how gleefully comments are pouring in. If there were zero reaction, that oddity might even attract trolls.
Then opportunists would try to exploit the buzz.
‘...Maybe we should just burn the account.’
I’d been reluctant because it symbolized Rae-bin’s slump recovery. But to avoid trouble, the standard move was clear.
“If we plan to refuse, we should post a decent explanation first.”
“Right.”
A plausible excuse everyone could accept would be perfect. Interest wanes once routine arranging stops.
“How about you come up with something clever? You’re good at that.”
“Me?”
When Big Se-jin laughed incredulously, Bae Se-jin flinched. After a couple years of polite cohabitation, their tolerance was wearing thin.
‘Still—it’s fine if it comes straight from you.’
At any rate, Big Se-jin offered a constructive idea instead of bickering.
“For this kind of thing, the key contributor’s opinion matters—Rae-bin, what do you think?”
“Eh?”
Kim Rae-bin, whose mind had been blank, snapped awake at his name.
He answered cautiously.
“I think... it’s okay to decline!”
“Wouldn’t that be a shame?”
“No! These were made as a hobby at the camp, not for commercial use. The response so far is more than enough, and it’s been fun!”
“Hm, if Rae-bin says so.”
“Okay~”
And with that sensible refusal in mind, the discussion wrapped up.
“Something about academics should do.”
“Right. Just tweak the tone.”
So this was the comment we posted under the video:
“Thank you so much for the formal contract offer, but we’re busy with studiesㅠㅠ We’re happy just sharing these on YouTube.”
It was mild enough to avoid criticism, and common enough to avoid suspicion.
That should settle it.
I’d bet we all thought that, but events didn’t unfold so neatly.
“Amazing how persistent they are.”
A few days later, we spotted another comment from the company rep beneath our pinned reply.
“Wouldn’t this go even bigger if money were involved? 😉
We could contract your existing arrangements—feel free to contact us! Good luck with your studies! 😊”
And for some reason, people were even more ecstatic in the thread afterward.
‘...It’s already spreading to forums.’
[That guy really going three times for this]
[Is that arrangement really a masterpiece? I found it weird]
[Look at the hardworking corporate behemoth]
Someone even screenshot and shared it.
“lolololol”
“Get your updates right instead of this”
“Do it! Do it!”
It felt like if we refused now, we’d be rude monsters. Of course, some would also mock the rep: “Why hassle us when we said no?”
‘That’d be a disaster. Nothing sparks drama like a debate.’
If it turned into a free-for-all and people discovered TESTAR was behind the arrangements, it’d be utter chaos.
‘Could spark serious controversy.’
Moreover, non-musical elements were drawing focus, and trolls with agendas would start posting bad or good reviews. The account’s original purpose was already blurred.
‘Damn, this is annoying.’
I’m busy enough prepping for the concert—what’s with this nonsense?
Rae-bin even got a bit depressed.
“Sorry for causing you worry at such a critical time....”
I chuckled.
“Are you apologizing for having talent?”
“I didn’t mean it like that...!”
Rae-bin was horrified but had no retort. I steered the conversation again.
“You agreed to refuse not out of pressure, but because it’s the cleanest move, right?”
“Ah, yes. That’s true, but....”
“Then that’s settled. You can ignore it all. The concert comes first.”
“...Yes. Understood!”
Rae-bin looked relieved. Big Se-jin strolled in, linking arms with him and grinning.
“That’s right~ Let’s give our best performance this concert~ We’re working so hard!”
He wasn’t wrong.
Actually, few of us had energy to waste on the game company’s drama. The more we focused on the swapped setlist, the more details we had to cover.
‘He’s something else.’
I looked at Big Se-jin anew. If there’s any benefit to be had, he’ll engineer the path to reach it—a valuable member indeed.
‘He was the biggest factor in my plan.’
That’s right. The curriculum I devised for the lodge trip was still incomplete.
One final stage remained.
Composition Camp Phase Three.
Having regained confidence by Phase Two, now we’d tackle preventing mental collapse during future slumps.
‘Namely...’
Granting authority over production and creating a sense of achievement in a disconnected setting.
That was this concert.
“My heart’s going to explode.”
“Mine too.”
The graduate student chatted excitedly with her friend, Park Mundae’s home manager, sitting diagonally in front of her.
Yet nearby sat a third person, looking uneasy.
‘Why am I here....’
She was their friend, drafted as a ticket broker—surprisingly, her friends all succeeded, so she got stuck with the extra seat.
Persuaded by friends and curiosity, she’d come, but already regretted it.
‘I should’ve sold it on the black market.’
She worried about employment issues if caught, but now, squirming in the hard seat, she was kicking herself.
‘That money could’ve gotten me a hundred gacha pulls!’
Indeed. She was the modern mobile gamer unafraid to spend on RNG hell.
‘I was tempted by the famous idols, but... sigh.’
Watching her friends chatter excitedly, she shook her head.
‘This is embarrassing.’
She wanted to stash the gloriously flashy lightstick, but surrounded by everyone sharing the thrill, she had to hold it.
‘Ugh, seriously.’
Just then.
Whiiiiiir
A soft-voiced announcement began.
“Hello.”
Waaagh!!
“Oh shit.”
So thrilling a start? She was startled by the roars around her.
“Today we welcome you to TESTAR’s ‘Wave for Me.’ Please allow us to share a few courtesy reminders.”
The male voice, politely outlining audience etiquette, sounded pleasant yet somewhat displaced—like terminology more suited to a theatrical performance than a concert. But she didn’t pinpoint it.
“Enjoy the show.”
At that moment, the graduate student mouthed with a grin to her.
‘That’s Mundae!’
Huh?
Instantly, the lights cut to black.
“Now, we dive beneath the waves....”
The performer’s final prompt echoed.
And in an instant, the silent hall began to fill with sound.
The ocean.
Gradually, orchestra and electronics blended into it, then emerged fully.
A gentle, clear melody.
She recognized the piece.
‘TESTAR’s debut song, right?’
But the next instant, another striking melody wove in.
She knew this one too. Yet within seconds, another accompaniment appeared....
‘What’s this?’
It was an overture. The opening prelude typical of opera or musicals.
But unlike any mere introduction, this wasn’t to preview songs—the audience already knew every track.
This was immersion.
‘...This is atmospheric.’
Then lights returned over the hall.
Intense blue washed over every seat. Yet it wasn’t silent.
“...!”
Waves of pale and deep blue rippled, flooding the indoor venue.
The air moved.
Ssss—.
Dry ice rolled at their feet, the mist undulating softly.
“Wow.”
The lights, the ripple, the cool scent, the faintly echoing instrumentation....
All five senses joined the metaphor.
The concert hall was underwater!
