Debut or Die-Chapter 411
“Today, I’m pleased to share some meaningful news from this stage.”
Lee Se-jin’s hosting of the ceremony was flawless. Even those who had been critical because of age or tenure went quiet once the show began.
Moreover, his own group won an award, making for a great visual moment.
“Performance Award... Jairope!”
Ooh lol
Lee Se-jin walking out from the MC desk in a suit is insane, so cool—freeze that look
Haha, it’s cute how the members join him and wave
Lee Se-jin mounted the stage and joined his fellow members with a grin.
The “hyungs” (seniors) locked eyes with him and hastily returned his smile. Their eager, attentive expressions showed their diligence.
“Yeah, you’re doing great.”
No wonder. The moment Lee Se-jin reclaimed his TeSTAR persona in reality, he showed his members a dose of real-world consequences.
First, the day he returned with dyed hair:
“Wow~ Who are you?”
“Lee Se-jin’s going wild doing whatever he wants, lol”
Some laughed at first, but those buried in their phones saw him smile and say,
“Hmm... you’re smiling?”
“...?!”
“But that’s correct. I’m doing exactly as you said—I’m doing as I please!”
Then he marched straight to the office and announced his hair color.
The company, appalled by this rogue move and torn between leniency and punishment, wavered—until Lee Se-jin dropped the bomb he’d been holding:
“Oh? I thought it was fine since everyone’s so relaxed. Guess I was supposed to report it first~”
He revealed every member’s indiscretion: sprawling love affairs, secret social accounts, club connections for networking.
He’d meticulously gathered all their misdeeds to throw them back in the company’s face.
“No...!”
“Look, look, see their chat logs?”
Despite solid performance metrics, at three years in, the company panicked. They launched surveillance: phone inspections, strict monitoring of every move, emergency bells—and just before debut-level management snapped back into place, kicking their asses.
Naturally, the members were furious at Lee Se-jin.
By tacit agreement, the team protected each other and kept quiet—but he’d dared to air everything publicly. A betrayal beyond forgiveness.
How dare the youngest break ranks in a group setting?
“Are you insane?”
“Hey.”
Yet Lee Se-jin only smiled wryly, unblinking.
“Is this blackmail? Oh~ I’ll post on SNS that I’m leaving because of the hyungs’ threats and exclusion!”
“...?!”
He actually opened his social account and began typing unabashedly—complete with a moody photo quoting lines from “Lonely Stranger” poetry.
It was terrifying.
“You—you psycho?”
“I don’t know~ I guess that’s how he is!”
The youngest, once polite and socially adept, had snapped into an uncommunicative madman. A perfect “madman” meta moment.
“Wait, wait—”
“Oh, please... hey.”
Besieged by the unpredictable, the other members capitulated in less than a day.
“Wow~ Clubs! Whether you dance in the studio or a club, it’s the same, right? I’ll post proof I’m practicing hard at the club, on SNS!”
“Ah, okay. Just a sec.”
‘Oh.’
Chaos was the answer. Never before had the well-adjusted, conflict-averse Lee Se-jin tasted such lowbrow, unfiltered catharsis.
“This works.”
Tempted though he was by the thrill of reckless abandon, he soon shrugged with a wry smile.
“Refreshing, but it’s not really my style.”
So he wrapped it up the way he knew best.
Over the next two weeks, every time he had the chance to be alone with a member, he laid it on thick.
“Hyung.”
“Uh... I just need to use the restroom a moment.”
“Sure, sure. Honestly, you’re not that odd a person, hyung. I just got disappointed in the others, so now I’m like this.”
He’d moan about indiscretions that didn’t actually apply to that member.
“I mean, branching love affairs... on a bad day, that’d be devastating, right? ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) Is that okay?”
“...Yeah, that one crossed a line.”
“I don’t want to be let down by you, hyung. Let’s get our act together. We have to keep our popularity.”
“...Ah, uh.”
At twenty in the early trainee days, newly debuted and successful, it was trivial to flip the entire group’s stance.
“Scary psycho, but he’s still on my side—I’m his confidant.”
He made each member believe exactly that.
Afterward, progress was swift.
The blend of indiscriminate whipping and carrots reserved only for them created the perfect balance: everyone monitored each other to win Lee Se-jin’s favor.
“Thank you. We’ll continue to strive!”
They avoided a mass fan exodus this year, performed solidly, and actually won awards.
“Ah~ We truly delivered.”
Lee Se-jin reflected on the past period with genuine satisfaction, then surveyed his fellow members’ faces.
“Seriously... how did these guys debut?”
He’d once wondered if he hadn’t debuted because he lacked the position or appeal as an idol that they had. Now he wondered if he’d been mistaken even back then.
“When you debut before me, at least do it properly.”
He considered the award richly deserved and hoped they’d keep improving.
“Anyway, I’m going back soon!”
He concluded with relief—though he hadn’t expected he’d need such backup to get there.
“Huh.”
Big Se-jin (as Lee Se-jin called himself) felt a slight thrill at what was about to occur, but maintained his bright grin as he returned to the MC desk.
“Thank you!”
“Congratulations, Se-jin!”
The other two hosts applauded. Lee Se-jin bowed amiably, beaming.
“By the way, our next presenter is someone you know well, Se-jin.”
“Oh?”
Here it comes.
Big Se-jin feigned curiosity with a smile.
“Wow, who could it be? Can we see them now?”
“Of course.”
“Now presenting the Rookie of the Year Award.”
The screen behind opened, and someone familiar strode out.
“Bae Se-jin, actor from and .”
It was Bae Se-jin, set to present solo.
Dressed impeccably, she looked every bit the part of an actress.
But Big Se-jin knew that if she styled herself like an idol, she could pass as one.
“Hello. As a listener who enjoys K-pop, it’s thrilling and an honor to stand here.”
She delivered the standard award-script lines, but with such good diction and professional ease it sounded natural.
“At some point, K-pop became both a hobby and part of my daily life.”
Then, glancing toward the hosts, she added,
“There’s even an idol who shares my name, which makes it feel even more special.”
Big Se-jin chuckled and nodded; laughter and applause broke out in the audience.
She was excellent at scripted performance—and, beyond that, a hard worker.
“Hmm.”
Big Se-jin admitted it: Bae Se-jin was neither unmotivated nor careless.
Though their personalities clashed, he thought,
“Well... practice can always improve things.”
Unusually charitable, Big Se-jin granted his former rival a positive evaluation on interpersonal matters.
He couldn’t deny the “Jairope effect.”
“Now, the winner is...”
And Bae Se-jin, with a gentle smile, announced the Rookie Award: Wishes.
Escaping the underdog label!
Congrats, Lee Se-jin lol
Though her acting showed no hint, she knew exactly how this would play out.
“......”
Bae Se-jin watched Wishes’ thank-you speech with a strange mix of emotions—and Big Se-jin guessed what a namesake might feel, because he’d felt it too.
“...Memories.”
Of course, he meant the time TeSTAR won, not Jairope—but he turned away with a smile.
“I’d like to go back soon.”
Since Wishes’ stage was so good, featuring proven talents, he didn’t want that unsettled feeling over his own place.
[If we turn back the timer, let’s visit the past.]
He watched Wishes’ follow-up performance, a curious blend of anticipation and anxiety bubbling within him.
Only after some ads and a few more performances did the announcer beside him read the next cue card.
[Next up: Song of the Year Award.]
“Phew.”
This was nearly the end of Part Two. I sat among the artists, scanning the room: from TeSTAR to the VTIC guys. Thankfully, no one wore their expressions on their faces.
“Hyung, I’m so nervous.”
You... well, at least your face is hidden, so feel free to sweat.
Finally, they called the Grand Prize.
Perhaps because they award the lesser-known acts first, Song of the Year was called before the Daesang.
‘Predictable.’
It went to Wishes.
[To assist with the award... ]
The presenter opened the door and entered...
Isn’t that Seon Ah-hyun?
[Korea Music Copyright Foundation’s Director Kim Nan-joo and ballerino Seon Ah-hyun.]
What the—
I watched the suited figure approach and suddenly remembered hearing that he’d been invited.
“I heard they asked me to present... maybe I’ll get to see them!” 𝗳𝗿𝐞𝕖𝘄𝗲𝕓𝗻𝚘𝚟𝕖𝐥.𝚌𝕠𝕞
I’d assumed ToneA would be the guest—I mean, T1 usually brings in big names from other arts to boost the ceremony’s prestige.
So I’d mentally filed it as “let’s see, if I get to, I get to.” And here he was.
‘...Better to have insiders present.’
You never know what surprises might pop up.
I stopped Cha Yoo-jin from waving at Seon Ah-hyun and refocused on the stage.
“Good evening.”
Seon Ah-hyun entered alongside the dignified director, smiled, and listened attentively—then spoke only at the end.
Apparently she’d given up her full talking segment in favor of the director’s message, saving her lines for the award announcement.
[Lemon Music Awards Song of the Year goes to...]
He locked eyes with me and beamed:
“Congratulations, Wishes...!”
Waaaah!!
Cheers, screams, and applause filled the hall.
The members embraced and patted each other on the shoulder. Though it looked like emotion, it was more like steeling their resolve.
“Mundae hyung, go.”
“Right.”
Cha Yoo-jin patted my back. I strode toward the stage.
‘Can’t be late.’
At the top, Seon Ah-hyun handed me a bouquet. After accepting it and letting another member take the trophy, I stepped to the microphone, then looked back at Cheongryeo.
“.......”
He gave a slight nod.
It was the signal.
Without hesitation, I grabbed the standing mic and spoke.
“Hello, everyone.”
I felt the others align behind me.
In that tense moment,
“I’ll get straight to the point.”
Without a breath, I spoke as clearly as I could.
“I’m retiring.”
“...?!”
“Without reversal. Completely.”
I continued:
“I reject all future entertainment activities and all ways of gaining recognition or fame.”
No objections came from behind me.
A unanimous, unspoken agreement.
That was why I’d awakened VTIC: so they’d collapse if thrust into the fray unawares.
Down below, chaos and fear exploded.
“This is a retirement declaration.”
Screams and pandemonium in the audience. Staff rushed about, flailing signals toward the stage and crew.
I looked on, expressionless.
Someone hurriedly crawled on knees to grab a sketchbook and began scribbling.
“What the hell...”
But before they could finish the sentence—
The audience.
The stage, the podium, the lights, the air, the heat—
Everything froze.
“......”
And filling my vision was... a hologram.
A status window.
[Ending]
[Create New Chapter]
[Settling Accounts]
[Cancel]
[Ending]
[Create New Chapter]
[Settling Accounts]
[Cancel]
......
The status window berrated itself again, like an airplane in distress!
‘Right.’
It’s done!
Through gritted teeth, I watched the endlessly looping pattern, recalling when I’d planned this.
“If you want to exit quickly, you’d probably choose another method.”
Cheongryeo had shown me one of his functions:
“There’s an error-report feature, you see.”
And that implied...
“Errors can occur.”
They wouldn’t implement a feature to report nonexistent issues, would they?
Thus, I crafted the plan.
To generate an error so severe the process would become entirely impossible.
“Can you tell exactly when the quest completes?”
“Yes.”
“Then signal me.”
At the moment of game clearance, I’d simultaneously remove a critical element needed to progress.
‘Invalidate the activity.’
If done before clearing, it simply fails. After clearing, it’s meaningless. But done exactly at clearance—
‘It creates a paradox.’
They collide.
“So if the algorithm errors out...”
“It crashes.”
An error—
A massive bug arises.
[Error: Undefined.]
[□□□□□□ □□□□ □□□□□□□□]
[Time until automatic shutdown: @#$!.]
I grimaced at the changing characters across every hologram.
Automatic shutdown.
‘It’s ejecting from the program.’
Even GM Cheongryeo had no restoration privileges here.
‘In that case, if the game world overloads and collapses, the chance of returning to reality... is high.’
I was ready.
Sure enough, my mind began to blur.
A faint floating sensation, as though waking from a dream, enveloped my brain...
Then—
[------.]
Something struck my mind.
Immense.
Woooooom—
“...!!”
With agonizing shock, I bit my tongue. Instead of floating, I felt a vibration.
The thing was... meaningful.
A wordless force expressing intent:
“A mistake?”
And immediately, the stage vanished.
Like a graphic being erased, the podium disappeared, then the set pieces.
Next, the staff, the audience, the seats.
Even the glow sticks’ lights.
All gone, leaving a vague, abstract scaffold of a world.
Then a voice:
[You use that phrasing a lot.]
A voice I’d heard somewhere.
It spoke like a rumble in a dream.
[System.]
[You call it that, right?]
I clenched my fist.
It was the System.
