In This Life, The Greatest Star In The Universe

[heave heave]

The sight of the trainees sprawled across the stage struggling to their feet was almost pitiful.

“Good grief....”

They should have paced the practice better.

I said as Biju climbed onto the stage to pull a trainee up by the hand.

“Victory is mine, as expected.”

Sure, Nine’s performance had been great.

But....

“If you factor in ethics and morality points, our Masquerade team definitely wins.”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

Ignoring Ri Hyuk’s objection, I crowed about our team’s victory. The trainers watching us laughed, and Biju—who had been tending to the trainees—returned with a still-flustered expression.

“...I didn’t realize it would be this exhausting. They all looked fine when we were practicing.”

“Really? They really looked fine?”

“...Yes, of course....”

As she spoke, Biju’s gaze flicked upward and her eyelids fluttered. She must have recalled the trembling hands of the trainees, the faint screams heard somewhere.

“Huh...? No...?”

Biju froze.

“Oh—so that’s what it was.”

We laughed at the look of realization on her face. The maknae whispered to me:

“Not everyone likes practicing as much as you do, hyung. You have to think about stamina, too.”

“...Guess I’m just clueless.”

“Hey. It’s okay.”

Jung Hyun tapped Biju on the back.

“You’re still that talented dancing fool. I’m just a fool.”

His earnest comfort set everyone around us laughing.

Meanwhile, Representative Huh Kangmin—whose cheek had been twitching—picked up the microphone and looked out at the trainees catching their breath.

“Feeling better now?”

“Yes... huff... huff... yes, better.”

“Want some water? You’re all about to pass out.”

He handed out water bottles, and as the trainees gulped them down, he continued:

“Masquerade team was amazing, and so was Nine. Very impressive. If I were to score them... Masquerade team gets 95 out of 100.”

He turned to Nine.

“This Nine team gets 97.”

“Th-thank you!”

While the Masquerade team and I looked disappointed, Biju and the Nine team beamed.

“Of course.”

Representative Huh went on.

“Remember, this is the midterm evaluation. If it were the final, I’d dock another ten points from each.”

“Yes! Understood!”

“All right, good work. You can step down.”

Cameras followed the Nine trainees as they left the stage, and someone seemed to be interviewing them about their midterm impressions. The trainees’ eyes shifted to Biju, and a quick read of her lips was passed back to her.

“They said thanks to you, Biju.”

“Really?”

Biju’s eyes sparkled, and I felt a warm smile spread across my face. Though I was a bit disappointed, Nine’s impact had been undeniable—their skills were more advanced, too.

“So, who’s up next?”

“Our team.”

While Ri Hyuk grinned arrogantly, his mini-me clones with cold expressions filed onto the stage.

“I haven’t prepared anything special.”

Ri Hyuk declared boastfully.

“But I predicted the order. Number 1 will come out with impact, and Biju hyung will respond with impact, too. So our team decided to go a different route.”

Watching the Nakhwa team take their starting positions, Ri Hyuk explained:

“Our theme is classical. Both dance and vocals—clean and textbook.”

“Oh-ho.”

“You’ll see.”

At the arranged intro to “Nakhwa,” the trainees began to move. The opening of “Nakhwa” was calm. As Ri Hyuk promised, the vocals were clean without any extra flourishes, and the dance lines were impeccably neat. Where the first two performances had been flashy and striking, this one drew attention with its understated charm.

A smart strategy. Once the audience had been exposed to intense stimulation, even more stimulation wouldn’t have the same impact—like how subscribers who were once amazed by a unicycle act soon took it for granted.

Because of that, the restrained Nakhwa stage held their focus. The trainers scribbled on their evaluation sheets.

“The dance lines are so clean now. They’ve cut out all the extraneous bits.”

“And the breathing’s much more stable. Look—when they hit the high notes, they’re no longer shaky.”

“Definitely touches only the original artist could make.”

Praise for the mentoring continued, and Ri Hyuk’s ears perked up beside us. His cheeks twitched, and you could tell a victorious smile was already forming.

The maknae whispered to me:

“Did you know he even wrote a list of things he’d do once he became the eldest?”

“...He actually wrote a list?”

“What’s so strange about that? I wrote one, too.”

It’s just a title you get when you’re the oldest, but I don’t know why he seems to think it’s so special. I remembered kids from my childhood—when they envied my belongings even though we had the same things.

Well, our kids are a bit too old to be called “kids,” but still.

As we focused on the stage...

[huff... huff...]

The Nakhwa trainees, finishing their ending pose, drew in the last breaths and then collapsed with a [whoosh]. The trainers raised their tongues in surprise.

“They’re collapsing, too?”

“Brutal. Brutal.”

“Are they okay? They really went all out... they did well. Yeah, they did. Earlier.”

Like Biju’s team, Ri Hyuk’s Nakhwa trainees lay sprawled, groaning. How much had they been made to practice?

When I glanced toward Ri Hyuk, he nodded as if he had expected this.

“Well, this was expected.”

He then clapped twice—clap clap—and at that moment...

“...?”

In a flash, the trainees sprang up. As if injected with adrenaline, they almost tumbled out of their positions, their faces alive with energy.

“....”

The trainers murmured.

“What the—where did that strength come from?”

“Was it the applause? Look—they’re glowing.”

“They’re smiling so brightly. We should change genres—make this a weekend variety show instead of a survival program.”

We turned toward Ri Hyuk.

‘What did you do?’

‘What on earth...?’

Ri Hyuk chuckled and pulled a small piece of chocolate from his pocket, showing it to us. With a look, he conveyed:

‘Classical conditioning.’

Just like Pavlov’s dog salivating at a bell. He must have clapped every time he gave them chocolate.

We watched the trainees flush with energy, and Ri Hyuk beamed with satisfaction, glancing at his wristwatch like a triumphant scientist. He nodded to us, his siblings.

‘Glad he went into singing instead.’

‘Good he didn’t take the other path—might’ve become a supervillain otherwise.’

‘Lucky he didn’t study hard.’

Had he studied, who knows what path he’d have taken. At least he came into music—and turned out relatively normal.

While I was thinking that, the maknae said:

“You’re amazing, hyung.”

“Well, yeah.”

The maknae beamed up at him.

“But you conquered their hearts, yet you couldn’t conquer your own ears.”

“....”

We chuckled as someone’s face immediately glowed red like a ripe tomato.

At the same time...

“The Nakhwa team was very impressive, too. I thought they might get overshadowed by the first two teams, but they held their own. Honestly, I wouldn’t know how to score them.”

At Representative Huh Kangmin’s praise, the trainees on stage hid their smiles behind cold expressions. Behind the camera, the production staff murmured.

“It’s rare to hear Huh so enthusiastic.”

“Well... last week when we evaluated the Teen Spirit song, he was in a different league. Told us to quit if that’s how we wanted to do it.”

“That was brutal. I was shaking.”

Only a week ago, Huh Kangmin had been shooting lasers from his eyes.

“This is your debut chance; don’t tell me you’ll settle for top 10? Why not aim for #1?”

“Can’t dance but show personality? Personality...? Per–son–al–i–ty?!”

“Mistakes and you laugh? Laugh?! Where’d you learn that onstage attitude?”

He was clutching his chest going “Oh my, oh my, neighbors!” Now he wore a genial smile.

‘Makes sense.’

Everyone on staff agreed. To outsiders, the transformation over two hours was remarkable.

The choreography quality had surely improved. Not by leaps and bounds overall, but those small refinements changed the whole impression—as if an original artist had appeared to guide painting students on their brushstrokes.

“Wow. To change this much in two hours—who knew?”

“Isn’t it amazing? Such a big difference.”

We never expected that. The staff had only assumed NewBlack would make a cameo as mentors—just a quick practice run, an interview clip saying “It was so touching,” and done.

When NewBlack asked if they could mentor seriously, the direction shifted...

“Choose your mentor~”

“Who am I? Shoo—ah—kyah-hah!”

“Mother at the island shade—yesterday~”

...Or maybe too much?

They looked to the PD.

“Uhhhh....”

The PD, flipping between script, the live scene, and NewBlack’s footage, looked troubled.

‘Our PD has a lot to think about.’

Editing this to fit a survival program tone was nearly impossible—NewBlack was more of a weekend variety show: heartwarming, funny, touching, then hilarious again.

“Oh? He’s smiling.”

“He is.”

When the PD finally let out a laugh, the crew laughed, too.

‘He’s given up.’

They’d quickly decided that to edit back to the original tone, they’d have to cut all the funny, engaging moments. Better to embrace it.

Positive thinking: more usable footage, not just for broadcast but for endless behind-the-scenes specials—NewBlack was a goldmine in variety.

From ox-head soup to gopchang and marrow stew, they were like a whole cow in the entertainment world.

‘We’ve got our airtime.’

As the crew chuckled warmly, Jung Hyun’s team took the stage with “Wind Flower.”

“Wow, that rap is delicious.”

“The stage is so fun. Just watching it makes me excited.”

“If it’s about fun, this is the best so far.”

While they chatted, someone asked:

“But what are those guys writing over there?”

They pointed at the screen showing NewBlack clustered in chairs next to the judges, scribbling notes—alternating between watching the stage and jotting on paper.

“I see it.”

On another monitor, you could read Wang Jiho’s notepad. He was analyzing Wind Flower’s performance. Watching them mentor not only their own team but also the others was impressive.

“They’re thorough to the end.”

True professionalism. They could have left early, but they stayed to # Nоvеlight # offer every last bit of advice.

‘Every successful person has their reasons.’

They watched the stage intently, smiles on their faces that didn’t quite fit a survival show but were heartwarming. Between stages, they whispered and giggled, clearly enjoying themselves—just like everyone else.

“Everyone’s been laughing a lot today. The trainees are all smiles. The trainers keep laughing, too.”

Even the production staff couldn’t stop smiling. Though they complained about tone mismatch, they secretly loved it.

During the judges’ comments, one of the writers whispered:

“So who do you think got first place in the midterms? Nakhwa? Nine?”

“Masquerade was good... but the Nine trainees were pretty strong.”

“I like Wind Flower. Feels like hearing 2000s hip-hop again.”

“I honestly liked them all. The songs are all so good.”

Any choice would be a top-rank hit on streaming charts—hard to choose.

“Oh? Last team now.”

It was the Fireworks team, mentored by Jiho. Representative Huh Kangmin’s face, which had been beaming, stiffened, and the trainers narrowed their eyes.

“Fireworks team...? The song has to pop, not you guys.”

“If you go out like this... Lemon Entertainment’s legal team will call you.”

They’d gotten the worst ratings in the first evaluation. Other teams had at least basic competence, but the Fireworks team had flailed like squid on land—sure to be mocked as “Hellfireworks” on the broadcast.

As the staff (except those who filmed Fireworks’ performance) tensed and squinted...

A refreshing melody began.

“Where am I now? Strange sea, strange air...”

The trainee in charge of the “space” part glided forward naturally.

“Oh...?”

They were good. In the first evaluation, their start would have drawn groans, but now it flowed smoothly. The trainee handling Jiho’s part performed well, too.

“Wow...?”

“Not bad at all. Really.”

Their coordination, once off, was spot on. Parts that used to collide now melded seamlessly, and trainers who frowned earlier now smiled.

We saw Dance Trainer Jang So-won nodding in approval at a trainee’s high note, then...

[sparkle sparkle]

Representative Huh Kangmin’s teeth shone like plankton in bioluminescent water.

And on the face of the main producer of , a gleam appeared.

‘It’s a narrative! A comeback story!’

It was clear how to edit—the team that was last had surged up in the midterm. The scene played in my mind as I smiled contentedly.

Among Representative Huh, the trainers, and the staff, a shared realization:

‘...Fireworks team is first today.’

They weren’t clearly superior, and the final could change things, but their rapid progress sealed their spot at #1 for today.

“Well done.”

Representative Huh Kangmin spoke to the Fireworks trainees, who stood nervously.

“You really did well.”

The trainees’ cheeks twitched.

“You did great. Wow, you can do this well....”

“You gonna cry?”

Each time a trainer added praise, the trainees rubbed their eyes. Yoon Chan-hyuk attempted a quip:

“Someone’d think your final round was over. It’s just the midterms.”

Perhaps the trainees let out some of their frustrations—some blinked back tears. They looked like Jiho.

Jiho’s mini-mes tried to keep from crying, wide-eyed, making us all laugh.

Representative Huh smiled.

“My choice for today’s first place is you.”

“...Thank you!”

As Jiho’s mini-mes marched offstage, crying like little hamsters, everyone laughed.

“Director.”

Someone pointed at NewBlack and called to the audio director. The four brothers surrounded the maknae, whispering into his ear—like penguin brothers tormenting the youngest. A question arose:

“What are they saying over there?”

The audio director, headset on, answered:

“They’re calling him ‘hyung.’”

“Excuse me?”

“Hyung.”

“Older brother.”

“Hyung-nim.”

“Hey. Hyung. Hey.”

[wiggle wiggle]

“Hyung, why won’t you answer?”

“Older brother~”

“Hyung-nim~”

“Hey, hyung—answer me. Hey.”

[wiggle wiggle]

Surrounded by voices of “hyung,” “older brother,” “hyung-nim,” Wang Jiho closed his eyes.

‘Ugh. It’s torture....’

Covering his ears as the calls of “hyung” and “hyung-nim” sounded, Jiho trembled. These weren’t brothers—it was pure torment. His eyes grew moist.

“Hyung~”

A voice echoed playfully.

“Can I just trust in you as my hyung from now on?”

“Aaaaagh!”

His patience snapped. Then Ri Hyuk greeted, “Hello, hyung,” with a bright smile. Something welled up inside Jiho.

“...Aaaaagh, please...!”

The tormentors laughed.

“No~”

“Where you going? You have to hyung, right?”

“Jiho hyung~”

Unable to hold out, Jiho covered his face with both hands.

This wasn’t a victory—it was a defeat.

“...Please, stop calling me hyung. I just want to be the maknae, the maknae. I want to stay the maknae forever....”

We burst into laughter at the sight of the youngest cowering, hands over his face, wracked with anguish.