In This Life, The Greatest Star In The Universe

“CEO, it’s time to attend the midterm evaluation.”

“Oh, is it already time...!”

Heo Gangmin smiled warmly and rose to his feet. Then he headed toward the auditorium where the trainees and mentors had gathered.

‘I wonder how they’ve changed?’

Two hours had passed since NewBlack arrived. He was curious to see how the trainees would have transformed after two hours of mentoring. What kind of stage would they present?

“How’s the atmosphere in the auditorium? Do their expressions look brighter?”

“They looked brighter, sir.”

Heo Gangmin chuckled at the staff member’s reply.

“NewBlack, though.”

“.......”

He turned toward the staff.

“Not the trainees, NewBlack?”

“Yes, the NewBlack members looked so radiant their faces practically glowed.”

“They glow when they work. When they rest, they look dull; when they work, they shine—that’s what I’ve seen on NewBlack TV.”

He asked again,

“And our trainees?”

“Um......”

“Do they look exhausted?”

He wondered if mentoring by NewBlack had been too physically taxing. The staff member answered,

“No, not that. It’s hard to explain, but... the trainees have changed oddly.”

“Oddly?”

“You’ll see. It’s difficult to put into words...”

The staff trailing off looked to a colleague, who likewise fell silent.

“What is it, then?”

Heo Gangmin entered the auditorium. Forty-nine trainees turned their heads.

“Good afternoon, CEO!”

“Oh, uh... you all... uh?”

They stood in five neat rows. The formation was the same, but the sight baffled him.

‘What is this... a lineup of kimbap rolls?’

It looked like assorted kimbap rolls arranged side by side: Uju-kimbap on the left, then the foot-soldier kimbap extending outward. The trainees and mentors standing in line appeared like cross-sections of sliced kimbap.

“Ha ha ha.”

“Ha ha ha ha.”

When Junghyun laughed like a kimbap end piece, the others in line echoed the exact same laugh. It was as if the rolls were all trembling in unison.

“......”

Biju, watching nearby, shook his head in bemusement, and his team mimicked him. Ri Hyuk’s team steeled themselves over their lyric sheets with chilly expressions. Jiho’s team cheered, “Fighting~” Sun Wooju’s team—serene and gleaming—stood proudly. Heo Gangmin, staring in a daze at the surreal scene, was approached by Uju.

“Sir.”

“Ah... uh?”

“How was the mentoring...?”

Uju searched his face anxiously. Heo Gangmin opened his mouth, then couldn’t say a word: a rare speechless moment in his life.

“No...”

He’d asked for mentoring, and they’d produced clones. It was like telling a barber to cut hair “just like the picture,” and ending up with a square, book-shaped haircut.

His gaze swept over the trainees. ‘They’ve not only learned from the mentors—they’ve imitated every habit, every expression.’

As Uju laughed, the staff called to Heo Gangmin.

“Sir, you should take your seat at the judges’ panel. The production team has some instructions.”

“Oh, yes... of course.”

He snapped back to reality, forcing a smile to Uju.

“Good work, Uju. We’ll talk later.”

“Yes, see you soon.”

He turned to leave, then glanced back one last time. Sparkling: Uju and his mini-mes, Junghyun and his mini-mes... His wish for the trainees to absorb NewBlack’s know-how had utterly backfired.

“This... this isn’t the mentoring I wanted.”

“Sir.”

“They were supposed to learn strategies, but they’ve become possessed....”

Heo Gangmin, gaze misty, stared into space as the staff stifled laughter.

“Even Mencius’s mother moving three times for his education wasn’t in vain.”

He could almost understand why she’d relocated so often. If Mencius’s mother lived in modern times near NewBlack, she’d wear floral slippers and chew jelly all day.

“Ha ha!”

“Ha ha!”

Uju’s spaceship, the foot soldiers, and their foot soldiers—the junior soldiers—all laughed: the original NewBlack laughter and uncanny imitations echoed in the auditorium as rain poured in Heo Gangmin’s heart.

A shiver rippled through the trainees stretching and straightening their bodies.

“Nervous?”

“Yes......”

Even their “yes” trembled. The Masquerade Team, first up in the midterm evaluation, looked anxiously ahead, on the brink of performance.

“Don’t be nervous. Just do what you practiced.”

Trying to ease their pressure, he offered advice. A trainee raised his hand.

“Senior, it’s not that... but performing in front of you...”

“Oh.”

That was the reason. They sighed,

“We worry you’ll be disappointed by our performance...”

“We’ve never performed in front of the original artists. We’re so scared.”

“Performing for NewBlack with their song feels... embarrassing, overwhelming.”

He understood. He’d felt similarly singing for senior Jang Sowon or performing for Mr. Noh Jaehyun. It was like a monkey entertaining a professor.

“My Masquerade Team,” he said gently, lowering his tone, “come here.”

“Yes!”

“Circle up. Closer—so I can hear your breathing.”

They hesitated. One trainee admitted,

“We’re worried it’s unseemly to cover your honored presence with our impure breaths...”

“Come closer. I’m human too.”

The trainees, peering at him, signaled with their eyes that it felt wrong—he laughed, motioning them in. His mini-mes finally clustered around.

“Here’s a tip.”

“Yes.”

“No need to take notes. Just listen.”

He scanned them.

“When you’re too nervous, imagine the audience as potatoes.”

“Potatoes...?”

“Cover them in potatoes. That’s Mr. Potato over there, and Trainer Potato here.” 𝐟𝕣𝕖𝐞𝐰𝕖𝚋𝐧𝗼𝚟𝐞𝕝.𝗰𝐨𝐦

They laughed.

“I know it sounds silly, but it works when you’re terrified. Repeat after me: the little potato holding its belly is King Potato.”

“King Potato.”

“The gentle-smiling potato is Dance Potato.”

“Dance Potato.”

“And you are... Potato.”

“I am a Potato.”

“Potato, potato, potato.”

“Potato, potato, potato.”

Their eyes blinked as they repeated “potato.”

“Another trick is to imagine judges picking their noses, but I skip that—can upset your stomach if you haven’t eaten.”

He clapped to draw their attention.

“The point is: think of the audience and judges as people like you. They eat three meals a day too—no need to be so nervous.”

“Yes.....!”

“But even with these tips, nerves persist...”

He met each of the Masquerade Team’s eyes, smiling.

“I’ll just say: you’ve been amazing. Thanks for practicing so well.”

He reached out his hand.

“......?”

No hands came forward. He looked around, puzzled. They whispered “uh...” then placed trembling hands atop his.

Seeing their quivering fingers as they gripped his, he made a fist.

“Remember: you are Potatoes.”

They burst into laughter. After a warm “fighting,” he waved and left for the judges’ panel.

Approaching the seats:

“They’ve grown so much.”

“......ahem.”

“‘Think of them as potatoes~’ Ha ha ha!”

Senior Jang Sowon, who’d watched in silence, now laughed aloud. Heat rose to his face.

“It’s amazing—our little ones mentoring too.”

“Oh, senior.”

“They’re so cute when they’ve grown up like this.”

“They did well, right?”

“Yeah—they’ve even picked up some aegyo.”

As they walked to the judges’ panel, Senior Jang Sowon asked,

“But was I too nice? Maybe being so gentle isn’t best.”

“Worried they’ll get hurt later?”

“Yeah. Pre-giving bitter medicine helps cushion insults in comments or from the network staff.”

“Could be.”

He replied,

“But they did great today. I doubt anyone could resent this.”

“True.”

He could’ve given harsher advice, but did he need to? Their trainee days weren’t long ago—uncertainty and self-doubt were fresh. They already knew their flaws better than anyone. The harsh world often meted out cruelty first.

Perhaps sometimes it was better to leave a single flower in a thorny field.

“Actually, thanks to you all speaking for me, I could say this so comfortably.”

“Understood~”

“And with your charismatic expression...”

“Hey!”

He ducked as Senior Jang Sowon roared like a lion. Seated in the judges’ row, his juniors swarmed around him.

“Aaaah!”

“Hey, give me space.”

They dragged chairs over and squeezed in around him. Junghyun shifted to form a balanced two-on-two on his right. The penguin huddle prompted the production crew to ask,

“Is it cramped...?”

“No! This is comfortable.”

Jiho chuckled and leaned in.

“It’s just weird adjusting to mentoring.”

“Like the saying goes: people who eat meat enjoy it more. We never lead—always members—so this feels unfamiliar.”

“Just call me Soldier.”

“Shut up. I’m done with you.”

“Then I’ll be Soldier-cute.”

But the two had little experience reassuring their trembling juniors. Junghyun smiled at their banter,

“So you eased ⊛ Nоvеlιght ⊛ (Read the full story) their tension?”

“Yes, we gave them a good method.”

At that moment, Junghyun’s team passed the judges. They stared ahead, murmuring:

“Jelly, jelly. Jelly. Handsome jelly.”

They were followed by Ri Hyuk’s team:

“Dried sweet potato...”

“Dried sweet potato......”

Hyuk’s cheeks flushed red.

“Uh, we... borrowed that.”

“Right. Could imitate it a bit. Did you patent that, hyung?”

“If I had?”

“Well, if you did... guess we can’t help that.”

He laughed at their distant stares.

“Lack creativity, these kids.”

He straightened as the Masquerade Team stepped onstage for the midterm evaluation: it was time to see how much they’d improved in two hours.

The Masquerade Team, first, took the stage.

He sent them an encouraging look; they beamed back, eyes sparkling. Heo Gangmin raised the mic.

“How was practice? A lot?”

“Yes!”

The team leader gripped the mic proudly.

“We spent two hours as if they were five. Removing our watches changed time efficiency.”

“Is that so....”

“We definitely want to practice without watches next time.”

He looked at the CEO, who averted his gaze. Noticing the nice lighting, he nodded.

“Alright. Let’s see.”

The trainers nearby watched with keen interest, and the juniors focused. The Masquerade Team began their routine: a masquerade theme spiced with angels and demons, performed without costumes or props—just choreography. Yet the concept shone through.

“Oh....”

The acrobatic choreography flowed beautifully, and the main vocal’s soaring notes were smooth. The overall balance improved, strengths amplified. Heo Gangmin’s expression shifted.

“Hmmm... oh? Ohhh! Ohhh! Oh... oh ho ho....”

As the performance peaked, his exclamations sounded like laughter, his smile broadening. In the final part, someone leaped off their teammates’ backs like an angel descending, landing perfectly—the stage ended with impact. The trainers exchanged impressed whispers.

“They’ve shot up suddenly.”

“You can see their confidence. Their expressions look so much better.”

He smiled proudly. The trainees, confident and smiling, stood center stage, and the CEO’s face was bright.

“First of all,” he said with a smile, “great job—you’ve improved immensely.”

“Thank you!”

“How did this happen in just two hours?”

The leader answered:

“Um... Sun Wooju senior did the mentoring, so we focused on that and improved. He pinpointed exactly what we needed...”

All eyes turned to him. He took the mic.

“Yes, I think I did well too.”

Laughter erupted. One trainer whispered, “Spaceship, spaceship,” at his expression. He laughed.

“Just kidding. I only highlighted a few points, but the team’s talent produced this result. You all did so well.”

The Masquerade Team forced polite smiles, one member’s eyes glistening. Trainer praises for specific parts continued, then the team stepped down. As the next team took the stage, a trainer asked,

“So, what did you think?”

“It was amazing......”

The maknae smiled proudly.

“Performing our song made us feel like top seniors from the All-Star group.”

“It was truly great.”

Though meant to avoid gushing, it was genuine—he felt pride seeing their song reinterpreted by others. Ri Hyuk observed,

“Isn’t it cool? Hearing our song from another perspective.”

“Exactly.”

He too felt inspired by hearing their music rearranged. As thoughts flickered,

“Number two is Biju hyung’s team.”

“Nine, nine~”

Next up was Biju’s Nine Team. They stepped lightly onstage; he heard their murmurs:

“First placement really packs a punch.”

“Yeah—good control: gentle then strong, drawing attention.”

“And that final ending was so impactful.”

He anticipated Nine’s second spot might be overshadowed by the Masquerade’s strong opening—intentional to make number one unforgettable.

“Hu hu....”

At a soft laugh, he turned: Biju lifted his hand, smiling like a noblewoman.

“What’s up?”

“I thought you’d go all-out strong as number one, so we changed things too.”

Biju grinned.

“We practiced for more impact.”

“.......”

Caught off guard, he felt awkward.

“Wow—Biju hyung, indeed. Even NewBlack’s foot soldiers can compose in three years.”

“Good job, hyung. You should be on the receiving end sometimes too.”

“You’re impressive.”

Biju chuckled at the praise. He’d devised his own strategy to counter the number one act. His serious gaze brightened as he said,

“If I win, I’ll speak casually to you for a day.”

“Biju.”

“Yes?”

“You could just do that now.”

“Uh...?”

When offered immediate casual speech, he shook his head: must earn it himself.

“Oh, look—so cute.”

Senior Jang Sowon, hands to her cheeks, smiled like a sunflower. Then regained composure, wearing a solemn mentor’s look.

Meanwhile, Nine’s performance unfolded.

“Oh....”

“Wow, intense. They’re powerful.”

“Nine’s vibe changed: strong-medium-strong before, now full-power.”

“Very impactful.”

Their choreography dazzled, earning trainer applause. Although their practice time was short, their impact rivaled the Masquerade. The Masquerade Team, watching helplessly, sighed; he scratched his sideburn.

“Ooh!”

Heo Gangmin exclaimed as the trainees wiped sweat, and they struck their ending pose.

A stage full of dynamic dance. Trainers applauded. Then—

“Huh...?”

The trainees, still in pose, lost strength and collapsed backward—unable to get up.

“......”

“......”

One trainee tried to rise with a grunt, then curled over in stomach pain. The scene of them lying like caterpillars, struggling to stand, returned all eyes to that spot.

Someone gasped.

“Hy, Biju.”

“.......”

“They can’t get up...?”

“Uh-oh!”

At the caterpillars’ fumbling, Biju sprinted over.

Hm. Hard to judge stage rankings, but I think I win the moral point.