Debut or Die-Chapter 329

“I offer my congratulations.”

“Congratulations to you.”

In January, I bowed my head and greeted a senior I met in the hallway at the Golden Disc Awards ceremony. It was one of the final award shows of the season, but unfortunately we didn’t win the grand prize here.

‘We never really stood a chance.’

There were only two categories—physical album and digital single—so there was no singer award combining overall performance. The outcome was obvious.

‘Youngrin and VTIC each took one.’

Right... that guy I just greeted. Cheongryeo smiled brightly.

“You’ve won Best Group and Best Performance... you’ve received a lot of great awards. Your fans must really be passionate voters.”

No matter how much you argue, awards follow the numbers; we didn’t win the grand prize.

“Yes. We worked hard, and our fans voted passionately. Though it isn’t comparable to your Album of the Year.”

It was a way of saying I’m just a washed-up loser who got beaten in votes.

“Ha ha.”

“Ha ha ha.”

I laughed amicably with him. Staff in the hallway gave us warm looks as they passed by. When Cheongryeo stopped laughing, his expression changed and he asked,

“Um... have you整理 the ‘impressions’ you said you’d share when we met?”

Ah, right. I’d promised to talk with him again about what happened when I occupied Ryu Geonwoo’s body.

‘Both of us have been filthy busy with the season awards, so we never really had the chance.’

I dropped the pretense and answered succinctly.

“I’ve found the person we were looking for. He’s going to help us with what we originally planned.”

“I see.”

Cheongryeo’s eyes narrowed.

“It would be fun to meet him together sometime.”

“If there’s an opportunity.”

He seemed to understand the meaning: I’d found Keundal, and Keundal would help with the system processes.

‘This is enough for such an open hallway.’

I just needed him not to be uncooperative when things moved forward. Cheongryeo smiled wryly.

“I’m curious what kind of help he’ll provide. Other than that, any problems?”

“Problems?”

“Yes. I heard you plan to set up an independent label. That’s more complicated than people think.”

By his tone, he already knew all about the conflict between T1’s headquarters and our agency.

“Everything is going smoothly.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Next year, we’re focusing solely on working hard and achieving great results.”

After all, our true goal is to clear the “K-Pop Record Break” mission. Of course, snatching the album grand prize from those guys would be ideal. I shrugged.

He probably would have said something like, “That’s tough...” just to get under my skin. I prepared my retort, but Cheongryeo simply murmured.

“Right... good luck.”

“.......”

“Well... this year might be easier.”

“What?”

“Mundae!”

I heard someone calling my name from behind, but I stared at Cheongryeo. He merely shrugged and turned away.

“...Easier?”

“You said you’d work hard, right? Then let’s meet again when you have time.”

That was it.

‘What’s his angle?’

He had seemed eager to talk numbers, and he’s not insecure about our next performance. It felt oddly... flat. Why would a guy who serves only half a year in the military be like this? I glanced at the back of his head and looked away.

‘Should I dig up some VTIC rumors under the radar?’

Whether it’s good or bad news, I couldn’t tell.

“Sorry, for the farewell greeting.”

“Mm, ah, it’s okay.”

Seon Ah-hyun approached, a bit nervous, and watched Cheongryeo leave, then smiled at me.

“I was saying hello to Youngrin sunbae...!”

“Is that so? Let’s go.”

“Mm!”

I followed him down the hallway. Turning the corner, another grand-prize winner stood there with a smile.

“Mundae-ssi.”

“Sunbae.”

It was Youngrin, who had won the Digital Single grand prize the day before. Today she’d also received a main award at the physical-album ceremony, and performed a song.

‘Winners usually only attend the day they get their grand prize.’

It was rare to see such dedication.

“Now it really feels like a New Year. TeSTAR, I hope you all show amazing performances next year.”

“We’ll work even harder.”

Youngrin smiled plainly, but the dancers behind her began swaying and sighing as if in ecstasy. What was going on? Noticing my gaze, Youngrin introduced them.

“These are the trainees from my agency who will debut next year. Say hello.”

“Hello!!”

They’d been hired as dancers to gain stage experience. It was common. Seon Ah-hyun watched with a delighted face, then spoke quietly to Youngrin.

“You really... cherish your juniors.”

“Do I seem that way? I’m producing them.”

“Sunbae...”

The warm atmosphere between trainees, Youngrin, and Seon Ah-hyun was heartwarming. I had no intention of joining in.

‘If Youngrin is producing, the songs will be killer.’

I filed away notes about the rookie group and parted from Youngrin. Heading back to the waiting room, Seon Ah-hyun touched her hand as if newly aware.

“We’ve already become sunbaes ourselves...”

“That’s right. We’re no longer rookies.”

With the New Year, TeSTAR reached its fifth year. Having debuted three and a half years ago, we could drop the rookie label. Now we had to watch over the rookies climbing up.

‘We even have two direct juniors.’

I thought of the two AJUSA junior groups. Whether they stay under our wing or break away would depend on our actions. Will we bail to T1’s direct label or stay and punch back?

“Hmm.”

Actually, the conclusion had formed the moment Kim Rae-bin voiced his opinion.

‘There aren’t that many members who’ve grown attached to the planning and AR teams.’

Regardless of the agency decision-makers being infuriating, I couldn’t bear to see the staff we worked with suffer. And young people feel that even more. As the award season went on, I saw members considering the latter. Bae Sejin was the same: after various deliberations, he concluded during last night’s practice,

“If the effect is the same, staying might be better. It’d be a good lesson.”

It was effectively a unanimous decision. I chuckled and spoke.

“Seon Ah-hyun.”

“Mm?”

“If you stay here, who do you want to shut up first?”

“Shut up...?”

She looked startled, then composed herself.

“Rather than making someone shut up... I hope we treat people who work with us with more consideration and don’t bully them. Our staff, other employees, even other idols...”

“Right.”

Don’t mentally torment the staff. Treat them with respect. That was a great justification. I grinned.

“That’s a good point.”

“Th-thanks...!”

A few days later, we won the single grand prize at the Korea Music Awards, our final awards show, bringing the season to a triumphant close. And as we entered a brief rest before the tour, our agency finally began to bend. Of course, their hearts were different.

“Vulgar scumbags...”

The Head of Division was sitting at his desk, muttering curses he usually wouldn’t utter. The reason was clear: because of those underaged pop idols, their performance was about to be ruined at the most crucial moment.

“Do you think your sales are thanks to you? It’s all corporate-made marketability!”

They’d gotten the grand prize thanks to enormous financial support and quick decisions! He’d planned to add that award performance to his portfolio and step aside for a new project! Then the next person could handle label issues. But these morons couldn’t restrain themselves.

“Damn them! No patience, can’t hold back!”

He couldn’t believe they’d caused this situation by making such a fuss over one grand prize. Especially that guy who blew everything up in his acceptance speech—Park Mundae.

“That conniving punk.”

He should’ve seen it coming from the moment he maneuvered for an additional contract. Illiterate, so resorting to base, vulgar means—witch-hunt style agitprop.

The Head of Division set his hands on the Bluetooth keyboard, fuming. Because of the board’s idiocy, he now had limited cards to play. But at the same time, he glimpsed hope.

“If we fix this, it’ll be a blessing in disguise.”

TeSTAR was still /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ dragging their feet instead of immediately agreeing to T1 HQ’s offer. Clearly they feared and hesitated about a fresh start on their own. In this scenario, even if he just kept them under the current label, he’d still leave praised as a competent executive for boosting the financials.

“I’ll strike here!”

He abandoned his usual jargon and crafted a sincere, candid letter to TeSTAR.

[To artist TeSTAR:

I hesitate to write after recent incidents have hurt you. What I can say firmly is that I’ve agonized over those events countless times...]

‘The company lacked consideration.’

‘Yet there were many communication errors.’

‘Please don’t hate me or the staff.’

A four-stage apology—acknowledgment, apology, subtle excuse, emotional appeal—always worked. He typed enthusiastically.

[Of course, your departure would greatly harm this label. I understand that, but please believe that our staff meant no ill will...]

He even emphasized the staff again. An industry veteran, he pinpointed TeSTAR’s weakest sentiments. And as if in response, the next-day reply arrived.

“...!”

It was a written response delivered via Ryu Cheong-woo, TeSTAR’s leader.

[We have read your letter.]

It began with that. It contained discomfort, a polite rebuttal, and a bit of gloom.

[You haven’t even honored the contract terms, so how can we trust you? I don’t know.]

‘Yes!’

They were truly conflicted. A reply—without sarcasm or personal attacks—meant room to negotiate. He drafted another letter, head ablaze with passion.

‘I never intended to break contract terms. It’s just that year-end resource shortages prevented...’

Several exchanges followed. They even tried an in-person meeting, but TeSTAR canceled, citing schedules. He noticed right away.

‘They’re wavering.’

People confide more face-to-face. Their fear of being convinced showed.

‘It’s within reach.’

He analyzed their letters and read their desires perfectly. In his next letter, he dangled bait.

‘Okay to expand the independent label staff.’

‘We’ll integrate management for it.’

‘Frame it as forming a direct AR team, and they’ll have no choice.’

With each letter he sent, TeSTAR’s replies grew more emotional.

‘Yes!’

Pass. Another pass—like clearing levels in a game. Finally, on the fifth letter, TeSTAR accepted the meeting.

“Phew...!!”

A triumphant achievement in a week. He messaged the board “Proceeding positively” and prepared for the negotiations.

‘Once they sign, it’s over.’

Last time they dragged him into a lawsuit scandal. Manipulating guys in their early twenties was nothing. He thought.

“Hello.”

On the day, only leader Ryu Cheong-woo arrived.

“We discussed with the members; they thought it best for me as leader to represent us alone.”

“Ah, I see.”

Even better.

‘Perfect setup.’

They’d told staff he was mild-mannered and unlikely to cause surprises. A predictable model is easiest to persuade. And he came alone.

He must have considered the possibility that Park Mundae might show up. They probably cut him from representation, not wanting an impulsive element.

‘They value this meeting.’

It felt like victory was in sight. The Head of Division offered Ryu Cheong-woo a coffee as they began.

“Latte?”

“Thank you.”

After brief small talk, they moved to the main topic in a gentle atmosphere. Ryu Cheong-woo held his cup and spoke in a low voice.

“There’s still division among us. More want to leave, but some have changed stances after exchanging letters with you.”

“I see. I’m curious—what concerns them most?”

“That is....”

He seemed conflicted, sighed several times.

‘Hurry up and open up!’

Just as the Head of Division’s patience waned, Ryu Cheong-woo spoke again.

“Still, trust is an issue.”

“Trust?”

“Yes. We’re lucky to create a label, but other idols couldn’t. That suspicion remains.”

He gave a bitter smile.

“Some members believe your words are just talk. One with a strong interest in idol rights is especially hard-line.”

It was the idealistic mindset of dreamers.

‘Rich kids whining about ethics—ridiculous.’

Despite thinking it nonsense, the Head of Division formulated a fitting response. They wanted a moral gesture to satisfy their ethical vanity.

‘They can’t do it elsewhere.’

“Then...”

At that moment, a brilliant idea struck him: a concession that cost nothing. With an inward grin and a solemn outer expression, he began.

“We got it.”

“Ohhh!”

“You must’ve worked hard in this rain!”

After the meeting, Ryu Cheong-woo cheerfully shared the document in the group chat.

[Artists of T1 Stars may contract with an affiliated label upon renewal, with prior agreement.]

It was proof: “Anyone can choose the label at renewal.”

“They really gave it.”

“They did.”

Ryu Cheong-woo shrugged.

“I didn’t expect them to agree so much in writing.”

“Right!”

“Mundae-hyung, you’re a magician!”

They all wrote praise, but what were they saying?

“We hold the cards. We just made it smoother.”

If we’re leaving, everything resets. Of course they’d sweeten the deal to retain us. We just wanted it to come voluntarily from them.

‘So they can’t backtrack later.’

But the others giggled.

“Oh~ humble~”

Enough. I shook my head, smiling.

“Cheong-woo-hyung is the real hero. They accepted almost everything we asked.”

“Well... they offered it themselves.”

Bae Sejin raised his hand.

“...Excellent!”

“Um, thanks.”

He looked tremendously impressed that corporate policy had changed. His face said “We did it!”

‘It’s astonishing.’

Allowing optional label choice at renewal? Few majors do that.

‘Only possible because of this agency’s structure.’

They supply the hottest idols via audition programs, then rotate them. TeSTAR was a special case; after five years, they’ll replace us once our peak passes. Meanwhile, revenue still counts under their umbrella.

‘Stupid assholes.’

On the flip side, painting us as a thriving group shields them from scrutiny. As long as we shine, no one cares. Eventually, influence matters. I swiped the revised document from the screen.

‘Phase it out one piece at a time.’

If it continues, the label grows and the agency becomes a hollow shell. I grinned and spoke.

“I’m glad it’s wrapped up. Great job, everyone.”

“Thank you for your efforts!”

“Oh—let’s decide on the label name quickly!”

High-fives and laughter filled the living room. It was warm and heartening. But before we used this label for fun...

“There’s something we need to do first.”

“Mm?”

“The preparation plan for the next album.”

Kim Rae-bin tilted his head.

“Wasn’t that supposed to run alongside the tour?”

“That’s right.”

I crossed my arms with a smile.

“My proposal is a bit different.”

“Hm?”

“Not once a week, but every three days.”

“.......”

“Our tour schedule is generous enough. And there’s one more difference.”

“What is it?”

I looked at Bae Sejin and smiled.

“It’s an album, so we’ll work like hell on it.”

“...!”

“This isn’t a hobby camp, but a death-by-overtime camp.”

Kra-kaw!*

Just then, a thunderclap cast dramatic shadows over their agape faces. And so the proposal for “K-Pop Hell Camp—TeSTAR ver.” was unveiled.