Do Ji-hyuk was, without question, part of the debut lineup. Unless something unexpected happened, he would most likely debut without trouble.
Because of that, the final performance must have felt like the perfect opportunity for him to attempt his "best." It was probably the last chance he would ever get to challenge himself without needing to calculate risks.
Although the upper ranks had mostly solidified and the debut group was coming into view, nobody could be certain how things would turn out until the final votes were completely tallied.
Even in this 3rd ranking announcement, the fight within the top ranks had been fierce, and a few trainees—including Hwang Yeong-oh—had climbed into the top ten after being outside it, replacing those who fell.
With the live broadcast coming up, no one could predict where the hearts of the voting audience would flow.
So naturally, Do Ji-hyuk couldn't fully trust any of the trainees who might become his future group members.
That must have made him think, If I can't trust what comes after debut, then at least let me craft this stage as the absolute best—with the people I choose.
After all, once he debuts, he'll have to spend five years with a fixed group of members, whether he likes it or not.
'Once that happens, you can't push anyone out. You can't cut them loose.'
It's nothing like now. All he'd be able to do is coax them along, trying to make things work by force.
But would those future members ever be able to match the standard of performance Ji-hyuk wants?
'Of course not.'
Ji-hyuk already knows better than anyone how draining it is to drag along unmotivated members and still try to put on a stage.
The more passionate you are, the more painful it is when your teammates aren't.
Even after finishing the performance, the frustration lingers; the dissatisfaction builds—but you can't express it.
Once someone loses motivation, no amount of talking changes their mind. And if you try persuading them repeatedly, it can backfire—someone might even quit mid-activity, which would affect the entire team.
In that situation, the only option left is resignation and compromise. Ji-hyuk had gone through that and probably became tired of it to the bone.
'So before the members are finalized, he wants to try creating the best stage possible—just once.'
He couldn't be sure the debut lineup would be made of the people he wanted, and even if they were, he couldn't know how they'd change afterward.
Having already watched a team fall apart in real time, Ji-hyuk would have even less confidence in what comes after debut. So he intended to use Dear Doll's final performance as an opportunity.
Throughout the competition, he'd already analyzed every trainee's personality and skill level. And since he himself was in a safe debut zone, he must have thought:
If there's ever a time I can be greedy, it's now.
'…Not that it's a bad thing. It's actually quite impressive.'
Being sincere about the stage is natural for a performer. But the fact that Ji-hyuk wanted to assemble a stage like this—that was the surprising part.
He could have simply aimed for a safe debut, but he chose to do something that held no personal benefit and came with risks he didn't have to take.
—Facing yet another stage, I will always strive so that this stage does not become my "last." Thank you.
I thought his pledge during the 3rd ranking ceremony was just routine lip service, but it seemed those words weren't empty after all.
In any case, Ji-hyuk had worked hard to filter trainees and assemble his current team. He must have chosen members who matched his standard and ideals—and above all, those who would willingly push themselves.
But things never go exactly as planned. Ji-hyuk hadn't been able to gather the "perfect" team he envisioned from the start, and every trainee had their own circumstances and thoughts.
"I'm just going to rest a little longer."
"...."
So with the team, which seemed to finally be running smoothly, suddenly hitting the brakes again, Ji-hyuk was no doubt disappointed—even if he didn't say it aloud.
I quietly watched Hwang Yeong-oh as he walked over to the water dispenser, saying he'd go drink something. Ji-hyuk took a deep breath and spoke.
"Let's try it again in five minutes. Just five more runs."
"Yes."
"Okaay~!"
The other trainees responded, but Hwang Yeong-oh stayed silent. Even the rest of the team began watching his mood, and I couldn't help thinking about what would happen if his attitude carried into the main performance.
Ji-hyuk had said "it can't be helped," but in truth, there were parts that absolutely could not be overlooked.
In a team where every member is skilled and overflowing with passion, a single person performing poorly or halfheartedly becomes extremely noticeable.
That inevitably lowers the overall performance quality.
And the team's morale could drop too. Mood is contagious, and no matter how passionate everyone is now, there's no guarantee they won't be influenced by Yeong-oh's attitude later.
More than anything—
'It's a shame, honestly.'
Since Ji-hyuk had gone so far as to pull members from Yoo Chan-hee's team, Team 1's potential was high. If everything went according to Ji-hyuk's ideal plan, they would probably put on a truly "legendary" stage—one that would go down as the best in all rounds.
Which meant Yeong-oh still could be saved. The results they could get from creating a legendary performance were too valuable to abandon just because the competition was tough.
But right now, convincing Yeong-oh—or believing he'd listen—was impossible.
He wouldn't listen to anyone else. And he probably wouldn't suddenly regain his motivation from nowhere. Only Yeong-oh could change his own behavior, and the others could only hope he would do it himself…
'What should I do?'
I wondered if there was any way to create an opportunity for that change.
And almost anticlimactically, the opportunity came very quickly.
From the production crew.
***
On the fourth day of training camp—one day before mid-evaluation—we were called into a separate room by the staff.
"You will each watch the video you recorded before Design Your Idol began, and today you'll be filming another video."
This was to film the VCR for the final performance.
In one corner of the dim set, while the other trainees waited, we were called in one by one into a small room lit with a warm orange glow.
In that room, where a simple desk-and-chair set and a single tablet were placed, we were instructed to operate the tablet ourselves and watch a video.
[…Has it started? Ah, yes.]
After a brief wait, I entered the room and played my video.
The "Won Yu-ha" on the screen was wearing a scarf and slightly heavy clothing, completely different from the midsummer weather now.
It was the very first video every trainee had recorded with their application—taken more than half a year before
—Please leave a message of encouragement and determination to your future self.
The video recorded with the application was simple.
The production team had instructed us to film it as if talking to the version of ourselves who would survive until the final performance. The trainees, unaware if they would survive or drop out, delivered greetings to their future selves.
Since it was still before the year had changed, Yu-ha—who referred to himself as a fourth-year trainee—looked a bit more exhausted and gaunt compared to now.
"At that time, my stamina stat was still D-."
My stamina isn't high even now, but back then it was truly bad. I even got muscle aches from a single practice session…
There was a reason Hyun Ji-oh recently told me he was relieved I looked healthier. Anyone could see I didn't look healthy back then.
The casual clothes completely different from this midsummer season, the faintly unfamiliar and clumsy demeanor, the changed visuals—all of it would likely be edited just as the production intended: a touching comparison between each trainee's past and present for the idol-makers.
While I evaluated myself on the screen, "Won Yu-ha" slowly opened his mouth.
A bitter feeling rose in me.
[Seven months from now… Uh, yeah. Are you… doing well?]
…Because the me on the screen was utterly soulless.
"Well, of course…"
Back then, I never imagined the video would actually be broadcast. My goal had been to get eliminated quickly—preferably in the first round, at worst the second.
"…Thinking about it now, I didn't achieve a single initial objective."
My first plan was to avoid attention and act like a diligent but boring trainee so I'd get eliminated early.
And most importantly, I wanted to avoid getting a villain edit—but I ended up practically inviting one myself. All the early goals had essentially collapsed.
[I'm not sure if you… did well on stage. I hope you gave a performance you can be satisfied with, a performance you gave your best to.]
Hiding the awkwardness and discomfort well, the Yu-ha on the screen continued in a calm tone.
[If the final performance is all that's left, you must have a lot on your mind. But whatever the case, I hope at least one goal has been achieved. Whatever it is, just don't regret it. Then we've succeeded.]
The me on screen said that, closed his mouth, and the video ended.
Back then, I'd said all that simply thinking, "Let's just film an acceptable submission video," but watching my past self speak, I suddenly found a hint.
"If your topic is 'yourself five years in the future is standing before you,' please record a video."
A clue I could use to coax Hwang Yeong-oh.
"…Hello."
I adjusted the camera and began recording, greeting it awkwardly. It had been similar seven months ago, but talking to "my future self," someone I didn't actually know at all, still felt strange.
"In five years… I wonder if I'll have debuted. If I debuted through
Mm. Probably dead.
"…But I think I'd still be trying to stand on stage."
I looked straight into the camera. The video was being recorded and simultaneously streamed to the staff outside. While waiting, I had also watched the other trainees' videos—so everyone was definitely watching.
"Right now, I'm about to face the final performance, and I don't know what kind of stage I'll do afterward, but my message hasn't changed. I hope you always put on a performance you can be proud of."
Then I could use this.
"Those performances will pile up and become the you that exists later."
I only had to be very subtle—careful not to sound like I was targeting anyone. If he felt I was trying to probe him, someone like Hwang Yeong-oh would only rebel more.
"The stage you do now will remain forever, and it'll explain who you are. So I hope you set a new goal again. Become an idol who always performs without regret. Like I said last time, that will be success for us."
With that, I stopped the recording. After tidying up the seat, I stepped outside and glanced over the gathered trainees' faces.
Hwang Yeong-oh was staring at me. But unlike before, there was a hint of unease in his gaze.
Probably because my words reminded him of something he had been forgetting.
"Hwang Yeong-oh isn't oblivious."
So he must have realized—from my words—that the final performance stage would remain "forever."
What impression the public would carry afterward… if, on that intensely skilled and passionate final stage, he alone appeared to fall behind.
READ MORE CHAPTERS HERE : pokemon-translation-2.myshopify.com