Debut or Die-Chapter 393
The responses to the aired episodes had been piling up online. Let’s sort them chronologically and scroll through.
First, from Episode 6 onward—after Cheong-woo, who wasn’t part of Team Cheongryeo, was picked up by Ryu Geon-woo to complete that sexy-keyword concept stage—the ecosystem looked like this:
“It’s like witnessing the very essence of LeTi onstage.”
“I’ve never once in my life envied a stage floor until now...”
“They might as well debut all of them as is—what’s the point of a survival if you’re just going to debut everyone?”
“The craziest thing is that two of them come from the Nouveau Renewal class, and their leader Shin Jae-hyun nails the concept perfectly...” [more]
Honestly, I expected more shallow comments since they leaned into “sexy,” but instead the top comments were detailed analyses of the performance.
‘A lot of people must be rewatching after I came back,’ I thought. And many were adding narrative to the group’s identity—signs the fandom was really starting to form an image.
‘Cha Yoo-jin’s completely been accepted, too.’ Originally so out of place, his integration now generated synergy and drew even more viewers to the stage.
By this point, viewers were already guessing the debut lineup.
“My picks for the nine debuters, with photos”
“Now it depends on who they add—will the boss stick to his guns or follow public opinion? Vote quick!” (link)
Soon enough, people were tracing the contours of the debut group after Episode 6. Even the hype bait about the National Support Supplemental Class at the end of Ep. 6 barely registered—viewers just skipped it and focused on existing contestants.
Then came Episode 7.
That’s where Ryu Cheong-woo appeared.
“Whoa!”
“Spoliers were spot-on.”
“Is he related to Geon-woo? Everyone knew except me?”
At first, everyone freaked out at this unexpected heavyweight new face from another discipline—but it was thrilling.
...probably helped by my own reaction, too.
“Now here’s the actual contestant reaction to discovering the cousin he’d been living with suddenly onstage,” the red subtitles read, as they cut to my interview.
“Ryu Geon-woo: ...so.”
“Ryu Geon-woo: (speechless)”
“It took Geon-woo a full day to recover his eloquence.”
‘Damn,’ I thought. Those broadcasting folks snapped a perfect close-up of my dumbfounded face, intercut with my equally stunned cousin’s—it fit right into the tense reality-show vibe.
“LOL, he must’ve been shocked.”
“Aww, Geon-woo’s so cute—yeah I’d be the same. What even was that?”
“Total gradient confusion.”
“How on earth did he even get on the show...?”
Then they showed sincere interviews with Ryu Cheong-woo and earnest rehearsal footage—positive on-air response, at least until spoilers spread.
—
“Have you seen the LeTiSurv spoilers?”
“They say if Cheong-woo joins, Choi Tae-jun will be eliminated—real?”
—
“??”
“No way the boss would let that happen.”
“They said they’ll pick eliminations by audience vote...”
“Whoa.”
“No... this can’t be real.”
Up to then, the consensus was that it was fake spoilers—a kind of troll. But after Ep. 8 aired, public sentiment exploded.
“All spoilers were right, insane!”
“I was sad when he quit the national team and went to some random college, now idol too—what is he doing?”
“It’s Choi Tae-jun’s own fault for screwing up, boohoo”
“Hey, stop talking to the eliminated guy—that’s actually harassment!”
“LOL full meltdown.”
“What can you do—Cheong-woo’s a total stunner and kills it onstage.”
“Think: would you say the same if you weren’t on Geon-woo’s team?”
The negative chorus: “He did great, so his cousin Cheong-woo got carried on the bus.” My challenge against the main vocalist vs. main vocalist made for compelling survival-show character. But the fact that Cheong-woo literally picked that team felt suspect.
‘I knew there’d be side effects,’ I thought. Rumors of rigging and corruption went over the line, until the general public—beyond just viewers—joined the frenzy.
“Wait, Cheong-woo is actually trying idol? LOL”
“He’s still a total knockout; didn’t expect it.”
Cheong-woo being an Olympic gold medalist guaranteed high public favor. Even if Wise was huge, it was still just one survival show—there’s a gap with the general public.
“So they’re mad he won votes? Bizarre.”
“LOL yeah this crossed the line.”
“ClubMeBo stans especially are toxic—beating up national-team gold medalists, seriously?”
Thanks to that, nonviewers piled on—and it almost became a disaster. But some self-correction kicked in and the haters quieted down. Under the surface though, resentment simmered...
Then, just before the guerrilla concert, everything blew up.
“New video: Choi Tae-jun partying with alcohol & cigarettes,” someone tweeted—an old clip from a bar birthday party surfaced, confirmed by his distinctive features.
“Whoa...”
“LOL.”
And everyone switched sides.
“Prophetic vision, wow.”
“Tae-in gets one win.”
“The studio audience has 1% of our country’s insight—sorry I was clueless.”
“Dodged a bullet there.”
If that had surfaced mid-season, fans would’ve been in agony—Tae-jun’s skilled and a boss pick, elimination was unlikely, so fans would’ve lost sleep worrying. A participant scandal hurts the show’s image too.
‘But Cheong-woo literally sniped that scandal at the last second,’ I realized. And suddenly he was being treated like a hero.
“Ryu brothers... how far did you see?”
“Now looks like Geon-woo is the real MVP—true.”
“LOL they’re brainwashing us.”
Reappraisals were so amusing that fans of every contestant chimed in supportively.
‘No wonder ClubMeBo and others unrelated to the show’s factions were the loudest,’ I thought.
Then, when Cheong-woo recaptured his TeSTAR-level skill at the guerrilla concert, dance-cams went up, and the game was over.
“How is that kind of improvement even possible?”
“Right, let’s both become idols.”
“He nearly lost him to archery—understood.”
Now Cheong-woo was safe at least through the finals.
‘So clean,’ I thought, as if someone had drawn the script.
“...unbelievable.”
And who but Shin Jae-hyun could have orchestrated that?
“Shin Jae-hyun: delighting in smooth progress (^-^)”
I dialed my teammates at once.
“Shin Jae-hyun: answering a teammate’s call (^▽^)”
Once connected, I asked directly:
“Did you ever think this would break out at this timing?”
“Well, if the timing was too perfect, someone must’ve staged it.”
He laughed on the other end—practically an admission.
“How did it not break sooner?”
“Originally... maybe the uploader got hacked and the account quietly vanished.”
Ah, so that’s how it played out. He’d managed every controversy around VTIC perfectly—no wonder they stayed top-tier for ten years.
‘Credit where it’s due.’
I paused, then asked conspiratorially, “Finals are coming up—anyone else to send off?”
“You want to try?”
“Why not.”
He laughed, then said, “There is one... but for balance, they need to be eliminated organically by the show.”
“Who?”
“Well...”
“I’ll leave it to your speculation.”
That one really knew how to drive people nuts. If he were here, I’d’ve thrown a punch.
“Then rest up; see you in practice.”
“Be ready to talk.”
“Got it.”
We hung up.
‘I need to stir the pot before filming starts,’ I thought, grinding my teeth as I closed the call screen.
Then I saw unread message pop-ups:
– Bae Se-jin hyung: Good job. I still remember that choreography.
That was someone who’d heard about today’s shoot and reached out. The next was just received:
– “Cool little bro Se-jin: Hyung, shoot’s over? How was the guerrilla concert? LOL”
Lee Se-jin.
He’d timed it to today’s wrap. After the tour questions last time, here came this.
I replied casually:
– “It was a bit short, but fun.”
“Cool little bro Se-jin: Right? Hehe.”
“Cool little bro Se-jin: But short? Ambitious! Hyung, when you debut, you’re going to kill it, right?”
He wanted us to hype each other up, I guess. I laughed and answered:
– “You were killing it on tour yourself.”
Instant reply:
“Cool little bro Se-jin: Right answer! 🎉 Se-jin’s the best lol”
“Cool little bro Se-jin: Oh, our tour video drops tomorrow!”
“Cool little bro Se-jin: Want to watch together tonight? Also hear your guerrilla concert thoughts.”
Huh? Given our management cycle, he didn’t need to rush. I thought we’d talk post-finals.
‘Well... since shoot’s done, no reason to refuse.’ He reads public opinion well and might catch things I missed.
I answered, “If you can make time.” And the plan was set.
Going out would be too conspicuous, so it’d be at his place or mine. Excluding the dorm, that was the choice.
Ding-dong.
“Hello~”
9 PM. Lee Se-jin arrived at the officetel with a gift set.
Of course I wasn’t alone at home.
“Hey—welcome! I heard you’re living with «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» us now! I’ve been watching the show.”
“Welcome!”
“Hmm.”
“...?”
Beyond the waving Cha Yoo-jin, Ryu Cheong-woo studied the returning teammate and grinned.
“Make yourself at home. Um, is it weird to say that to a senior?”
“Come on—be comfortable! I know you’re my hyung.”
“Haha, really? Thanks.”
Lee Se-jin handed over the gift set and entered, commenting sociably “Your place is so cool,” until he reached the living-room sofa.
“You can climb up by tilting the backrest.”
“I’ll remove the cushion.”
“...Ah—okay.”
I matched his preference instinctively; his face flickered “How did you know?” before he covered it. Lee Se-jin recovered and made small talk, but not long later, Cheong-woo and Cha Yoo-jin rose.
“We’ll go grocery shopping.”
“If I find something tasty, I’ll bring it back!”
I’m in charge of late-night cooking, so they’d handle ingredients.
“Oops—mind if I order delivery instead?”
“It’s totally OK—enjoy!”
Cha Yoo-jin answered lightly, and they left.
ding
Lee Se-jin looked at the closed front door, reacted politely.
“Oh dear... sorry.”
“Don’t worry; that’s just how we are.”
I chuckled. “Show me some tour stuff.”
“Hmm, okay?”
He switched gears and operated the player. His Blu-ray played successfully on the TV:
[GY-ROP – FIRST DROP: THE OPENING CONCERT]
“They made the text huge—nice.”
“If it’s readable, that’s fine.”
The first number at a sizable venue began.
“Oh.”
A fierce hip-hop bass opener gave way to a light reggaeton dance track.
‘I can see the group’s identity here,’ I mused. A classic rebellious feel with precision choreography—good quality, so they must have many fans.
“You’re good.”
“Ahaha... thanks.”
He spoke breezily, but his eyes were more subdued—a strange look for the guy excited to show his video.
I understood why.
‘He’s heard he sticks out too much,’ I thought. In group dances he’s obsessed with blend, always steadying Cha Yoo-jin or helping Bae Se-jin.
Meaning...
‘He’s holding back so he won’t overshadow.’
Under the pretense of “live vocals,” his moves were smaller; when he danced correctly, he stood out. And being big-built, he was self-conscious—yet as the song went on, immersion made his motions expand again.
On unit songs, the quality gap was obvious.
[Yes—step forward, step forward! More to the front~]
I suspected he was faking effort. I bent into a gesture and called him out.
“Doesn’t that feel like a waste?”
He’d obviously deny it, but sometimes damn straight is the best medicine.
“It feels like a waste.”
“...!”
Flat, deadpan voice.
Then he brightened again:
“Well, Hyung was hurt at that part—so we both felt it was a shameful moment!”
I nodded.
“...I see.”
“...”
A brief silence.
“Oh—still, showing my stage to you like this is embarrassing. Want a drink? You’d need non-alcoholic—ah.”
He stopped midsentence just as I did.
“No? I thought you said last time. Sorry~”
“...”
I moved again.
“I mean, non-alcoholic is good.”
“Really? Should I grab some?”
“But we don’t have any at home.”
He burst out laughing.
“Hyung, what is that?”
I fetched a soda. Lee Se-jin accepted it politely.
“Thank you~”
“It’s nothing.”
The mood warmed again. I sat back and resumed watching the GY-ROP tour footage.
I thought of those who’d originally done this with me but now worked elsewhere: Bae Se-jin, Seon Ah-hyun...and the one on screen, Big Se-jin.
“...”
Rationally, I’d already made up my mind:
‘Spinning the gacha again is pointless.’
Unless Kim Rae-bin appeared, I might as well funnel my Awakening Points into myself and max out all stats—an absurd cheat. But...
‘I’m pissed.’
Watching a teammate struggle at his limits onstage felt infuriating. He’d be happier knowing his true standing.
‘And he has plenty of breathing room.’
His Reputation Points were steadily climbing.
After a moment’s conflict, I opened the status window and, with a discreet flick, tapped the “Draw 10 Teammates” button repeatedly.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
...But what if Seon Ah-hyun pops up?
‘I don’t care!’
I’ll deal with that later. Starlight sparkles around the GY-ROP video.
“I think I used about a hundred thousand points...?! A hundred draws!”
Really? I kept tapping.
About the twelfth tap...
“Whoa?”
A burst of radiant light from the pop-up—bright enough to obscure the video.
And stars appeared in my status.
[Hoo~]
[★★★★★ Lee Se-jin / Main Dancer]
“...”
I’d drawn him.
[“Accept as is?”] the status window asked.
I kept my gaze on the soda and spoke—to Lee Se-jin.
“I’m just saying...”
“Hm?”
“If there’s another success of yours you haven’t realized yet...”
“...”
“I mean, if there’s another fruit of your effort you haven’t noticed yet...”
I asked,
“If there were a way to find it, would you want to try?”
“Yeah.”
“...!”
He answered without hesitation. I looked at him—expressionless.
“Go ahead.”
“...”
“What is it?”
I reached out my hand.
