The Reincarnated Idol Hard Carries an Indie Band - Chapter 6

Chapter 6: To be honest, I don’t know either.

Reincarnated Idol Hard Carries the Indie Band – Episode 6

Reincarnated Idol Hard Carries the Indie Band

Episode 6

To be honest, I don’t know either.

Or rather, it’s hard to choose.

The word “if” has always followed me around.

If I had continued playing in the band with my friends, what kind of music would we be making now? What would we be doing?

In a world where hip-hop became mainstream and K-pop eventually conquered the globe…

What kind of music would we have been playing? What expressions would we have worn?

Of course, there’s a future where the band boom comes later, but would we have survived until then?

Because it was just imagination, the future always seemed rosy.

In my imagination, we rebuilt the Korean band scene with our unique identity and became a globally famous band.

This wasn’t mere fantasy.

It was my only hobby, the medicine that kept me sane, and the way I gathered up my regrets.

But now, that fantasy had become reality.

The moment had come to choose one of the countless visions I’d drawn in my mind.

So I still didn’t know.

But one thing was certain: if I managed to gather all the members, I had no intention of quietly making music.

I was going to cause a stir.

I’d make the whole world listen to our music.

Maybe the school festival will be the turning point?

As I pondered this, my thoughts came full circle.

“How do I convince Kang Min and Kim Jihu?”

Kim Jihu, the keyboardist, had a connection with Heo Junseong through the same music academy, but Kang Min, the drummer, was a real mystery.

Where would Kang Min be hanging out at this time…?

That guy was a hardcore otaku who was just pretending to be a normal person. He probably hangs out on Japanese music sites or something.

Just as I was thinking this, Heo Junseong called.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“Dude, I know this guy Kim Jihu at the music academy where I take lessons. He plays keyboard and guitar.”

“Huh?”

“He’s actually pretty good, even if he’s a total jerk.”

“Right.”

“Anyway, he heard I joined a band and showed some interest. Don’t we need a keyboardist?”

“Uh…”

“What’s wrong with you? Did you forget how to talk? Your reaction is weird.”

Heo Junseong’s scolding snapped me back to reality.

“Oh, right. Kim Jihu. Yeah, that’s a great idea. Absolutely great.”

“Do you know him?”

“I think I’ve heard of him. A bit of a jerk, but he’s a great keyboardist.”

Suddenly, I had a thought.

It’s a bit much to call it fate, but maybe we were always meant to be drawn to each other.

When I think about it, meeting Lee Doyoung at Nagwon Arcade was an extraordinary coincidence.

“But he said he wants to hear your songs.”

“My songs?”

“Yeah. He called me an idiot for not even listening to our band’s vocalist yet.”

As expected of Kim Jihu.

He’s rude, but he’s also sharp as a tack.

He’s right.

We’re in the same class, and we became a team at Nagwon Arcade like it was fate, but normally, you’d weigh your bandmates’ musical skills before joining.

Especially the vocalist’s style—it’s crucial.

“Good.”

What’s good?

“You guys should hear it too, right? Let’s just listen all together at once.”

Are you confident? That guy’s a real stickler.

Does Heo Junseong even know when I debuted solo?

It was when rumors of discord within the group went viral, the members who had been isolating me started posting cryptic, unhappy messages on social media, and the agency released a piece of shit press release.

Well, to be precise, the order was reversed.

The members were the ones who started scheming because they were afraid I’d hit it big as a solo artist.

Even in that situation, I was the one who satisfied the public, who were just folding their arms and watching.

Could Kim Jihu really be more of a stickler than those people?

“Set a date.”

What about now?

“Now? Are you with Kim Jihu?”

Yeah, he’s right beside me listening.

“Then bring Lee Doyoung too.”

Where to?

Heo Junseong, Lee Doyoung, and Kim Jihu.

I met the three of them exactly an hour later.

The location was the school’s band practice room, which we were able to borrow thanks to Lee Doyoung, the model student.

The space was currently unused and covered in dust.

Amidst the dust, a familiar face in a Cheongsol High uniform opened his mouth with a gruff tone.

“Sorry for just throwing you into singing without warning, but I believe vocals are something you’re born with.”

Well, he probably doesn’t mean to be so prickly. That’s just how he is.

If Lee Doyoung was the kind and gentle bookworm, Kim Jihu was the type of elite student council president with a foul temper and meticulous standards.

He was also the real student council president.
His sharply upturned eyes and tightly pressed lips seemed to enhance that impression.
“Uh, it’s fine. I was born with it.”
“…My trust in you is dropping a bit.”
“What song do you want to hear?”
“Your best one.”
At Kim Jihu’s words, I could feel Lee Doyoung and Heo Junseong staring at me.
They must have been curious too.
How good was I at singing?
With a grin, I picked up my guitar and settled into my spot.
What song should I sing?
The decision was quick.
This one would be perfect.
***

Late night. I can’t sleep.
I’m chasing something brilliant.

The moment the melodious voice slipped through the clean-toned guitar, Kim Jihu felt something was wrong.

It was a song he’d never heard before.

But from the very first line, he wanted to know more, and the feeling that something was wrong solidified.

It wasn’t that it was different from his expectations, or that he regretted his cold attitude.

How could anyone sing this well?

The metaphor might be strange, but it was sung so well that he felt something was wrong.

Some might think he was overreacting just from hearing the intro, but that’s not how music works.

A word, a riff, a note.

Music is an art form that stakes everything on a fleeting moment.

From that perspective, he thought Cha Seoha would cast aside everything.

It’s dark and scary.
But you’re my Moon.

Emotions pile up layer by layer over the melody.
There are no dramatic shifts in pitch, yet the emotion is incredibly rich.
It feels like something is about to burst at any moment.

Night on. I can’t stop.
I’m chasing something glorious.

But it doesn’t burst right away.
It subtly traces the changes while maintaining a perfect sense of tension.

People would say this kind of vocal performance is deeply immersive.
Easier said than done, it’s never simple.

Even if I fall apart,
I’ll rise with your light.

The notes connect, the sound flows, and the emotion spreads.
At some point, the thought of analyzing it vanished.

This wasn’t a song I could evaluate.
I didn’t trust myself to capture all its nuances even if I tried.

He just wanted to hear the finished song.
He could probably listen to it a hundred times over.
At that moment, the chorus erupted:

I’m a moon chaser—
Following the moon of you—!

Not a clean high note, but a desperate, gritty one.
A messy, raw high note.
The feeling of pushing through an unknown darkness to find the moonlight that was you.
The moment his constricted throat let out a hoarse cry, Kim Jihu felt something clench in his chest.
Simultaneously, the guitar strummed furiously, and vocal ad-libs poured out.

Only one thought raced through Kim Jihu’s mind:

I have to join this band.

An instinctive, almost fated intuition told him this was where he belonged, where he could make music.
With Cha Seoha, they could bring to life the stages he’d only ever imagined.

But then it happened.

“Huh?”

Something had changed in Cha Seoha.

The moment Heo Junseong and Lee Doyoung heard Cha Seoha’s song, their minds snapped into focus.

To their eyes, Cha Seoha had been a funny, reckless friend with surprisingly brilliant guitar skills. But because they’d all been friends in the same high school, they’d unconsciously thought of themselves as equals.

Yet hearing her song changed everything.

This…

This wasn’t just any song.

Cha Seoha stood on a pedestal so high they dared not reach for her.

Reality hit them.

Everything now depended on them.

They couldn’t ruin such a magnificent song with their own performance.
If that was the case, playing in a band with Cha Seoha would hold him back.
So…

I want to follow her.
I want to stand beside her.

If they worked hard enough to catch up to Cha Seoha, they could deliver a perfect performance.
The urge to grab their instruments and start practicing immediately surged through them.
The two, sharing the same thought, focused their gaze on Cha Seoha.
At that moment, the song abruptly stopped.
“Huh?”
Something strange had happened.

While working as an idol, I heard one phrase repeatedly:

“Cha Seoha never gets nervous.”
“She’s never afraid, no matter the situation.”

This was why I was fast-tracked to the debut group after a short trainee period, and why I quickly built a strong fandom.

The company trainers, who had been taekwondo athletes, said it was because I was accustomed to competition. They said I was trained to perform under intense pressure.

My manager and team leader told me I was born with a big heart.

And my fans…

They called me a genius idol who crash-landed on Idol Planet.

All these words were precious and deeply appreciated.

Thanks to them, I was able to quickly succeed as an idol and cover my grandmother’s surgery costs.

But those weren’t the answer.

The reason I wasn’t nervous was simple:

It felt like I had left the real me behind.

No matter how dazzling the stage, the real me was still in the Hongdae Practice Room.

In the sweltering summer, in our suffocating rooftop room with barely working air conditioning.

In the bitter winter, in our cozy haven where our breath hung in the air like steam.

And, next to my friends.

That was where I truly belonged.

That’s why I felt no tension.

So…

Suddenly, I felt nervous.

I, who had remained unfazed even at my solo concert filling the Gocheok Dome or at year-end music shows watched by the entire nation,

was now feeling anxious in a school practice room with only three audience members.

Because this was real.

The moment I realized that, my thoughts drifted back in time.

“Ah, these guys have tone-deaf ears.”

“That’s just the guitar riff carrying it.”

“You disrespecting the guitar? What’s the point of being in a band then?”

“Hey, do you guys really like this…?”

“Let’s just listen to some Japanese music instead.”

We were a group with different personalities, distinct characters, and even conflicting tastes. Finding a song we all loved was nearly impossible.

Yet we all loved Adam Fritz’s “Moon Chaser.”

And that was the song I was singing now.

It wasn’t a famous song.

Adam Fritz was a minor artist even in the US.

So why did we love it so much?

It was the soundtrack to a movie we’d stumbled upon together in the studio.

The movie, released about ten years ago, was a total bore.
Kim Jihu had cursed Heo Junseong for renting such a stupid DVD.
But everything changed the moment the OST started playing.
We were all watching the movie on a musty-smelling sofa we got for free, and when the music started, everyone jumped up.
So this wasn’t just a song.
It was a memory.
It sounded absurd, but suddenly I felt like I had actually regressed in time.
That day, that moment.
That space, that smell, that temperature.
Could I experience it all once more?
The most beautiful moment I thought had vanished from my life.
Suddenly, my vision blurred.

It was because of the tears.