In This Life, The Greatest Star In The Universe

Maeda-sensei’s unfiltered remarks set the crew and us roaring with laughter.

After the echo of “You’ll get divorced! Definitely!” died down, Maeda Shin exhaled with a laugh, wiping the sweat from his brow.

“Phew.”

“I got carried away without realizing it. Anyway, remember my advice, okay?”

“We will.”

“I’m saying this because I want you to take a different path than I did.”

His sincerity moved us to nod. He seemed to see his younger self in today’s NewBlack—reminiscing his idol-like heyday in Japan and hoping we wouldn’t stumble down the same road.

“No matter how much you practice singing, people will say, ‘He’s popular only because he’s good-looking,’ right?”

“Yes, we hear it sometimes.”

“And if you hear that and think, ‘I’ll prove them wrong with talent alone!’—that kind of foolishness is never good.”

He gave a thumbs-up to the camera:

“Looks are everything!”

As the crew laughed, we clapped along.

“I mean, suddenly deciding you’ll be a serious ‘artist’—growing your hair long, cultivating a beard like some false prophet!”

On the paused screen appeared his young face, hair long and mustache flowing like a Jesus figure.

“And then suddenly shifting your music to be minor and experimental—and confusing your fans!”

“Yes. Long hair forbidden. Beards forbidden...”

“Motorcycles forbidden, too. That Terminator bike.”

“Terminator bike...”

We pulled out notepads and frantically scribbled. He was urging us not to chase some misguided notion of “serious artistry” after success, a bone-deep warning.

“If you do that, you become washed-up. Only your monster-like looks remain.”

“Cough! Ahem—!”

Rihyuk’s gulp of juice seed lodged in his throat; I patted his back as he reddened and coughed.

He surprised us with wisdom at every turn.

“So basically, looks are like the environment—once damaged, they don’t return.”

“Exactly. These eyes, nose, mouth—they’re precious ecosystems.”

“We’ll cherish this asset, sensei, just as you said.”

“Good.”

Maeda Shin turned to Team Leader Seokhwan.

“If you ever think, ‘I want to be an artist, not just a singer,’ call me. I’ll show you the way.”

“And you, the manager—call me too, got it?”

“Thank you,” Seokhwan bowed gratefully.

Listening to a senior singer’s advice had our faces lit with delight.

As stories of divorce, scams, and business failure wound down, we prepared to move on.

“Thank you for your wonderful advice, Maeda-sensei. Now, for the next—”

“Oh, one more thing.”

He raised a finger.

“Avoid promiscuity.”

“Ahem! Cough!”

“It’s bad for your career!”

He proclaimed with full passion to the camera:

“Love leads to divorce, but your career is eternal!”

While we coughed and laughed, the crew and staff applauded like seals, howling with laughter.

After dispensing that bleeding-heart counsel, Maeda Shin scratched his cheek.

“Now that I’m calm, I feel embarrassed.”

He’d been reliving his past through our music—and ended up revealing his private history.

As he wrestled with what he’d just shared, the conversation about his music quietly resumed. An anime OST began. We admired the piano melody.

“Wow. It’s fantastic—that was composed by you, sensei?”

It was the hit soundtrack of a popular feature-length anime. Young staff whispered, “Oh, this one?”

Junghyun rubbed his chest.

“It gives me goosebumps.”

“Truly.”

Wooju said,

“The song’s emotion really resonates: fireworks in the sky, while the hero stands alone in an empty town.”

“Exactly.”

“Is that right?”

Each time the music played, they pinpointed its emotional core perfectly, earning Maeda Shin’s pleased smile. Most people might just say, “Cool tune,” but they understood the hidden intent and praised him sincerely.

“You started in city pop, then shifted into new-age-style OST composition.”

He nodded.

“My throat couldn’t take singing anymore. I drifted around making ends meet until I found this niche.”

“Ah—a deep purpose.”

After explaining the story behind his latest music, Rihyuk asked,

“We’d hate to let you go without learning something—could you teach us one of your songs?”

“One of my songs?”

“Yes.”

Viju grinned, “There’s always that hidden gem—great song, not well-known.”

“Ah, of course there is.”

He recalled a late-’90s album track he’d written entirely himself—praised by his producer but buried when the title single flopped.

“There’s a song called ‘Butterfly’s Home.’”

The producers quickly cued a YouTube video—362 views—showing the short-haired singer with an acoustic guitar, beaming on the album cover. Nostalgia swelled as the track began.

His once-crystal voice, now huskier, still sounded compelling.

“It was good enough then,” thought Maeda Shin—it was far better than his current voice.

He watched us close our eyes, nodding along in sync with the rhythm. When it ended, we applauded and nodded.

“A true hidden gem.”

“Well... not that amazing, but...” he replied modestly.

“No, it truly is.”

Wooju, usually so polite, spoke firmly, eyes sparkling like a child finding treasure.

“It’s a really beautiful song, sensei.”

“Is it?” he smiled.

“It was always a gem, actually.”

“Waaaaah!”

Our genuine reaction made him laugh; we all pointed at him with approving grins. Maeda Shin joined in the gesture.

Then Rihyuk asked,

“Could you give us some tips to sing it ourselves?”

“Hmm...”

But to teach, he needed to hear us sing. The lights and crew’s gaze weighed on him awkwardly.

“Well...”

“Hmm?”

“My voice is too damaged now—it sounds like metal scraping.”

It hadn’t been long since he’d last sung. We murmured “Hmm,” then looked at our leader, deep in thought—lashes fluttering as he considered.

“What if...”

“In a soft voice he said,

“we rearranged the song to suit your current voice, sensei.”

“Oh. That’s not bad.”

“Please sit at the keyboard, sensei.”

We decided to follow his lead.

“If you play the melody, we’ll match it with our singing.”

“Sounds good.”

He played and hummed “Butterfly’s Home” melody. Rihyuk whispered to Wooju, who nodded.

“I think we have the starting pitch.”

Quickly, the members clustered around the leader, heads together like penguins deciding dinner. They spoke rapidly in Korean—no need for translation—so fluid was their musical braintrust. Maeda Shin’s eyes widened.

‘They all know composition?’

As the leader scribbled notes, Viju took the pen and wrote chord symbols, the rapper clicked about rhythm, and the maknae whispered ideas. Feedback poured in from every direction until the leader synthesized it, nodding.

“We’ve finished coordinating among ourselves. Now we’ll tune using your input.”

“Let’s hear it.”

The leader’s fingers gently tapped the keys—and in that moment, Maeda Shin thought, “This is it!” His heart leapt as he sang.

‘It fits.’

His current voice, distinct from his youth, felt tailored—like a shirt crafted to his measurements. Though not perfect—no tailor can gauge every dimension by eye—there were tweaks to make:

“How’s this?”

He played the altered melody; Wooju placed his left hand on the keys, the lines entwining in smooth harmony. Soon the members hummed along to the completed version, singing a blurred Japanese lyric plus:

“You’ll be a beautiful butterfly—Butterfly—”

At the chorus, we sang together, “You’ll be a beautiful butterfly.”

After practice, the revitalized singer took the mic and sang for the crew. His voice was rougher now, but NewBlack’s harmonies filled the gaps; the staff nodded in appreciation.

‘So this is why Sang-gyo recommended I come.’

He felt the thrill of making music again, as fresh as a trip outside—like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon.

After three verses, we high-fived and cheered him:

“Waaaaa!”

Though age dulled his sentimentality, he felt a lighthearted joy. After playful boast-swapping, I said,

“Sensei, thank you so much for today.”

“Thank you.”

“For the closing, please share your thoughts for the camera!”

The red light blinked. He addressed it:

“I want to say it was a truly enjoyable time. And to the fans watching—”

“Ooh.”

“Though it’s late, thank you for liking who I was back then. I should’ve cut back on the drinking and smoking...”

And,

“To NewBlack’s fans as well.”

“Oh? To our fans?”

“I’ll make sure none of you grow up to become a bald old man like me—I’ll guide you on the right path.”

Watching the crew laugh uncontrollably, he turned to NewBlack:

“What did I say?”

“Looks don’t come back...!”

They mimicked his expression in perfect unison, sending him into laughter.

After the broadcast ended, he felt that familiar energy rush—yet Baek Sang-gyo’s warning echoed in his mind:

“Be wary if they try to woo you—just say, ‘No, I hate you!’”

But on this high, his judgment blurred: the members looked so lovely and spirited, how could he resist?

When we came to say goodbye:

“Sensei, if you ever have time—film OSTs or anything—please...”

“Oh, I’d love to work together.”

“Really?”

Smiling warmly, he gave his number while we bounced with excitement.

Perhaps still buzzing from the day, he agreed when asked,

“If it’s fun, feel free to edit however you like.”

He wondered how his words would play on screen—but assumed they’d trim it short.

After wrapping filming with Maeda-sensei, we finished the rest of our TV-style segments for The New Black: World channel. Post-production would take time, so they’d air after we returned to Korea.

We completed our Tokyo engagements: visiting our pop-up store for promotion, a short fan-sign event, magazine interviews and shoot, then the climactic two-night finale at Yokohama Arena on February 27–28.

The set list mirrored Kobe World Hall exactly—minus the banter—but the arena felt different. Playing Yokohama Arena signals a certain popularity in Japan. It was both strange and wonderful to receive such cheers in a foreign land. Linking arms with my brothers and seeing the arena filled with Dalbongs brought a lump to my throat.

You can’t know it without living it—that swirl of countless stars in your vision.

“Thank you so much, everyone!”

I dedicated our final remark to the fans who’d prepared the “Always waiting for you” banners.

“They say the end is a new beginning. Though today’s show ended, I hope this isn’t the end.”

“Instead of saying goodbye, let’s promise to meet again.”

“Shall we say it together?”

“See you again!”

Over ten thousand cheering sticks echoed it back. We closed with the sing-along fireworks finale.

It really felt like the end of our Japan tour. Kobe was fun, but fully concluding in Yokohama left a hollow sensation.

“Like a mirage....”

“It vanishes like a mirage.”

The maknae’s words resonated. It’s the emptiness after a long project—but gratefully, a new excitement filled me.

“Ah—time to go home.”

“Great job, everyone.”

The morning after the concert, flying from Tokyo to Incheon made my heart race.

“That was so long, really.”

“Yeah—home is the best.”

“Let’s cook ramen when we get back. And that kimchi Grandma sent.”

“Ramen sounds perfect.”

Two weeks in one place was a first. After a week, homesickness crept in: instant noodles, late-night snacks danced in my mind even in a spacious hotel room.

“Waaaaa—!”

In another context, the crowds at Incheon Airport might’ve overwhelmed me, but breathing Korean air...

“Uaaaa—!”

I was literally pushed aside. Five minutes later, exhausted, I «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» sprinted to the van.

Even flirty entertainment reporters teased, “Feeling good today?” but I shrugged them off. Only once inside the car, parked outside the terminal, did I breathe.

“Thanks for your hard work.”

“You too, hyung. Uh...? Why are you in our car?”

Seokhwan-hyung, unusually in our van, had a secret smile.

“I have somewhere to go—a quick stop.”

“Where?”

“Secret.”

We didn’t press. After two weeks of tension, the pent-up fatigue hit me all at once. Junghyun and Jiho dozed curled together. Rihyuk murmured:

“Don’t you feel like we forgot something?”

“Yeah.”

We couldn’t pinpoint it—like leaving the curtains open or closed at the hotel. Staring at the West Sea beyond the bridge, I drifted into thought—until—

“Hey, guys.”

“Hm?”

“Open your eyes—I want to show you something.”

“What is it?”

At Seokhwan-hyung’s voice, we rubbed our eyes awake in a strange place, unfamiliar surroundings.

“Where are we?”

“This is your new lodging.”

Lodging? As that sank in, my sleep-fogged brain caught up. We pressed against the window, gasping at the sight outside—and the nagging sense of having left something behind dissolved completely.

Hashimoto Genji.

Once called the rival of the School of Clarity’s founder, he’s a celebrated Japanese pianist. Last year, he tried to book NewBlack for a Japanese TV show his producer friend hosted.

Now, he sat sipping tea with his son, pianist Hashimoto Kenta, and the PD.

“NewBlack still didn’t come again, did they?”

“It seems not...”

“How strange. I didn’t think our pull would be that slight.”

We’d cheered when we heard NewBlack desperately needed Japanese TV exposure—but they never showed.

‘Our plan was perfect....’

Just as last year, NewBlack remained a no-show for his broadcast.