Idol Hides His Military Service

The first mission of Idol Ground 100, the group battle evaluation.
Up to now, judge Ahn Seongho, who had not taken part in training, had suddenly become very busy starting from this group battle evaluation.
Which made sense, because with two teams having to face off using the same song, the group battle evaluation by definition required them to present fundamentally different stages.
But there was no way every team would just so happen to have participants capable of rearranging the original song. To deal with this, the production side had prepared a producing team, including producer Ahn Seongho, who had been brought in beforehand to help with rearrangements, but—
“No. We’re literally just people who can give you advice so you can rearrange your song in the direction you want. We’re not people who make it for you.”
At those sharp words, the participant standing in front of Ahn Seongho flushed bright red, then quickly bowed and disappeared.
“Hyung, they just picked a really hard concept. If you don’t help them, isn’t this going to turn into a disaster?”
“If they get chewed out hard enough by the other judges at the mid-check, they’ll change it.”
“You’re totally ruthless.”
Even at the words of the junior composer who had come here as part of his crew to help, Ahn Seongho had no intention of softening what was being done right now.
‘These days idols aren’t just cranked out on an assembly line. They need °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° an identity.’
If the last mission had been about checking their ability to digest a completed song well, this mission was about how much of their own charm and individuality they could show on stage.
‘Can you actually pull this off? What were you thinking when you raised the key like this? Did you really sing it yourselves and then rearrange it?’
But having checked about half the teams so far, Ahn Seongho was very disappointed by the fact that there wasn’t a single team that had prepared a stage suitable for the mission.
Some teams had brought in rearrangements in a direction their team couldn’t even sing, and others had stripped out the original song entirely and made it all about themselves—those teams were everywhere.
“That’s just because your evaluation standards are too high, hyung. Honestly, all those idols that claim they self-produce, it’s just the company pulling the strings from behind.”
“There are some who aren’t like that.”
“Huh?”
At his junior’s grumbling that he was being too harsh on the participants, a certain group came to Ahn Seongho’s mind: WTX.
They couldn’t yet be called a top-of-the-top boy group, but WTX had been steadily presenting their music and building a solid fanbase.
‘We always have every member involved in the album. Some members take part in the composing process, some in writing lyrics, and the rest in the album concept or stage performance and so on to make our albums.’
The first time Ahn Seongho read that interview, he had snorted.
‘Ah, here we go again, another company pushing the “self-producing” concept.’
It was because of his preconceptions about the idols he had met so far.
Idols who didn’t even understand the album concept, the lyrics, or why a particular instrument had been used in the melody.
There had even been plenty who, when you explained it to them, half-listened and let it go out the other ear.
Machines.
That was why, to Ahn Seongho, idols were machines.
Existing only to sing and dance on command with a decent-looking face, never putting any of their own emotions or interpretations into it.
Of course, that was putting it in the worst possible light. Put more nicely, you could say they were pros who could pull a consistently high level of quality no matter what song or concept you handed them.
But a year ago, something happened that shattered that worldview of Ahn Seongho’s, and it was because of WTX.
By chance, he happened to listen to WTX’s new album, “The Youth Grows Old Easily,” which they said contained their own story, and in that moment he immediately understood.
The youth grows old easily. A new WTX album with the meaning that youth is short—and he realized that it truly was the members themselves who had completed it.
Having been in the music world for a long time, he could at least tell the difference between real and fake.
And the WTX album he heard then clearly contained their own story; there was no doubt it was something they had created.
And after that, for quite a while, Ahn Seongho went around telling everyone he met about WTX’s “The Youth Grows Old Easily” album.
‘Hey, from now on idols have to make music like this!’
‘I mean yeah, that album was good, but is it really that big a deal?’
‘People who hear this album, even if the numbers aren’t great right now, are definitely going to become WTX fans! This album shows the direction idols have to take from here on out!’
Of course, most people thought he was exaggerating and dismissed what he said, but even with those reactions around him, Ahn Seongho didn’t change his mind.
Like the idols of old, there was certainly value in perfectly executing works polished by the best composers, lyricists, choreographers, and other experts, rather than putting in your own subjectivity or individuality.
But the thing that moved people’s hearts, more than anything else, came from the power of a sincere story—that was what Ahn Seongho believed.
‘Still, am I expecting too much from them, wanting a level like that from trainees who aren’t even idols yet?’
He had joined Idol Ground 100 wondering if he might perhaps be able to meet participants who could become idols like WTX.
Participating in the broadcast as a judge, writing the theme song, having the chance to see raw, unpolished trainee “gemstones”—that had certainly been a good opportunity. But it was disappointing that he had yet to see a participant who showed the qualities of the kind of artist he truly wanted.

“Lucid Dive A Team, we’re here to ask about rearranging!”
“Oh, you’re the team that took Boyvicious’s song?”
“Yes, that’s right!”
A voice pulled Ahn Seongho, who had briefly drifted into other thoughts, back to reality.
Looking up, he saw a participant standing there holding a tablet.
‘Boyvicious’s “Lucid Dive,” huh··· they picked quite a difficult song too.’
Seeing the participant who had come to have their rearrangement reviewed, speaking in a way that strangely reminded him of the army, the first thing that came to Ahn Seongho was worry.
If he had to pick a group at the complete opposite end from WTX, Ahn Seongho would have chosen Boyvicious without hesitation.
Pros among pros, who perfectly digested whatever concept the producer ordered at 100%.
‘They’re famous as a team that always does obscure concepts that are hard to accept even for the general public, let alone their fans.’
Conmisae.
That was the affectionate yet self-mocking nickname Boyvicious’s fans used for their group; short for “concept-crazy bastards.”
And true to that nickname, Boyvicious were famous for coming out every stage with shocking outfits and choreography, and songs with no regard for mass appeal.
Fortunately, “Lucid Dive” counted as one of the more normal songs among their tracks.
Of course, that was only “more normal” by their standards; compared to other idols’ songs, it was undeniable that “Lucid Dive” was fundamentally a song with an extremely strong concept.
Outwardly, it sounded like a refreshing love song aimed at summer, but the hidden message and content inside were the total opposite—so dark it was almost gloomy; a double-layered song.
That was the essence of “Lucid Dive.”
‘If they rearranged it just to preserve the outer shell, I won’t be able to give it a good evaluation.’
And that wouldn’t just be because he was the producer; it was obvious the average viewers watching at home would think the same.
First, Boyvicious’s fans would complain that their song “Lucid Dive” had been ruined, and the general public would see a “Lucid Dive” stripped of its double-layered structure as nothing more than a run-of-the-mill summer song.
“Our team set this song’s concept as incubi!”
“Incubi?”
“Yes! Just as Boyvicious sunbaenims took their motif from sirens and used mermaids as the concept, we’ve used incubi, demons that lure people in their dreams, as our concept.”
Hooh.
Ahn Seongho began to scrutinize the participant named Geum Shinyu, who was confidently presenting the team’s concept.
‘It’s a fun concept. Yeah, with this it won’t overlap with the original concept, and it won’t dilute the meaning of the song either.’
It felt like a concept that showed just how much they’d thought about preserving “Lucid Dive” as a song, and that alone made it appeal to Ahn Seongho.
“But why incubi instead of succubi?”
“That’s because our other concept is tomboy.”
“Tomboy too? Wow, you really went all-in.”
At Geum Shinyu’s words that they had also set a tomboy concept, Ahn Seongho’s interest was piqued in earnest.
“What about the rearrangement? You know that if you leave it to us, we’re not going to do more than the bare minimum, right?”
“Actually, I’d like to do the rearranging myself!”
“You? Have you studied composition at all?”
“Yes, I have! If it’s okay, could you listen to what I’ve made so far?”
“Okay. Play it right now.”
At Ahn Seongho’s words, the participant, Geum Shinyu, immediately started playing the music from the tablet in her hands.
Soon, a newly reborn “Lucid Dive” began to flow out of the tablet.
***
“We got approval from Judge Ahn Seongho!”
“Oh, really? I heard all the other teams got chewed out and are moping right now.”
“I think Judge Ahn looked favorably on the fact that our team tried doing our own rearrangement!”
As far as I could see, Geum Shinyu was a very modest kid.
‘Honestly, she made the whole thing herself, but she keeps insisting it was all of us.’
Once the concept was decided, Geum Shinyu immediately dove into the rearrangement and spent two days almost without sleep, completely absorbed in the work.
It got to the point where even I told her she should at least take breaks.
‘I really love our team right now. So I really want to do well.’
We hadn’t done a thing for her—in fact, we’d just dumped burdensome work on her—so I had no idea what she liked so much about us that she was burning with that kind of passion.
‘I can’t just sit on my hands here.’
I seemed to have a weakness for people who were unusually passionate.
Maybe because I myself was armored head to toe with nothing but laziness and bone-deep apathy, rather than being passionate?
Even now, watching the team members throwing everything they had into doing the best stage they could, I kept finding this emotion called responsibility bubbling up.
“I just talked to the directing team about our stage costume concept. They said if things go quickly, they’ll have them ready for us within two days.”
“I’ve tried tweaking the choreography to fit the song this time, so I’ll polish it a bit more so I can show it to Trainer Lee Jungyoon when they come tomorrow.”
And maybe because they’d been influenced by that same Geum Shinyu, the other team members were also busy moving around, each doing their part.
First, the team’s oldest unni, Lee Gahyeon, had gone to the show’s directing team early in the morning to submit our stage costume request.
‘Hey! Costumes are not all the same! If we just submit the costume sheet like this, they’re definitely going to send us some cheap-looking junk!’
She’d edited the costume list that the members had written into specific brands and designs, then skipped breakfast to sprint off and be the first to submit it.
And the one among us with the strongest basic skill, Suyeon, was in the middle of modifying the original choreography to fit the new “Lucid Dive” that Shinyu had created.
‘You said it yourself, unni. I’m the only one who can do this, so I’m the one who should.’
Suyeon had said it like it was nothing.
But even I, who knew nothing about choreography, could tell that even partially creating new choreography was by no means easy.
“Unni, why do you look so serious?”
“Yunkyung. Don’t you think we should be doing something too?”
“Ah! That’s why I went and worked with Shinyu unni today to rewrite the lyrics to fit this rearrangement.”
“What?”
To think even my only hope, Yunkyung, had betrayed me by doing something too.
All excited, she showed me the notebook she’d filled to the brim with handwriting, saying it was the lyrics they’d written today. At a glance, it looked like the lyrics of “Lucid Dive” had been quite plausibly revised.
“Ah··· no. I’m··· the only useless freeloader in our team?”
“Unni, nobody called you a freeloader.”
At my words, Yunkyung started soothing me, asking why I was suddenly acting like this, and that made it feel even more humiliating.
Lee Sion.
Back in my Saenarae Kindergarten days, with my overwhelming intellect, I had been the greatest output in Saenarae Kindergarten history, the first ever to get into the gifted program.
In my previous life’s elementary, middle, and high school days, I had been called the Ronaldo of Haan-dong as I dominated every sports day, and in my current life, people called me the Widow-Maker of the Top Lane in Legend of Valley—me, Lee Sion.
For someone like me to be a burden to my teammates was a reality I simply could not accept.
– Participants, please gather in the auditorium immediately.
Just as I was drowning in self-loathing, a voice rang out over the PA calling us to assemble.
“What is it? There wasn’t anything on the schedule for today.”
“Let’s gather the team and go check it out.”
At the sudden announcement, the participants, who had been practicing and discussing in their teams, started moving busily.
Our team also gathered and headed straight for the auditorium.
And there in the auditorium, waiting for us, was MC Jang Junseok, who had arrived before us.
“Has everyone been practicing hard for the first mission?”
When Jang Junseok addressed the participants, a loud answer rang out.
‘Damn it, no wonder I’ve been dreaming about the army lately.’
More than an idol dorm, this atmosphere felt like we were in the army, and lately it had gotten to the point where I really was dreaming about the military.
“The reason we’ve gathered you all here like this when you’re busy practicing today is precisely because of that mission!”
At his next words, I could see the participants’ focus sharpen.
An auditorium assembly that hadn’t been on the schedule.
And then the announcement that this assembly was related to the mission—there was no way anyone could fail to pay attention.
“Next Sunday, you’ll be performing the stages you’ve prepared in front of an audience. In that case, do you think the order of those stages will just be decided at random?”
No answer could be heard, but it didn’t seem like he had actually expected one; after a brief pause, Jang Junseok began to speak again.
“Today, right now! You’re going to play a game as teams! And based on the results of that game, you’ll gain the right to decide the performance order!”
Shocking news: the order would be decided through a game.
Other participants clearly looked rattled by Jang Junseok’s words, but I wasn’t.
‘This is it! I just have to pull it off here!’
It was finally time for me to escape being the team’s freeloader.