GRCD 07

Chapter 07 

The Crazy One in This Area Is Me (2)

My strike lasted exactly ten minutes.

[System Alert: The system is also declaring a strike….]

“Fine. Let’s all just die together.”

[System Alert: Crazy bastard….]

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

I could feel the system window trembling, but based on the past few days of experience, this thing had no choice but to cooperate with me somehow. It wasn’t like it had much authority to begin with—it was something that “voice” left behind to help me, after all.

“Whatever it is, I’m going to squeeze everything I can out of this thing.”

The system seemed to be constantly calculating something; “Inputting…” kept flickering repeatedly. Experience told me that this was the moment to step back slightly and let it breathe.

“Listen carefully, System. Or can I even call you System? There isn’t really a better name anyway.”

[System Alert: …… (Monitoring fixed regression user)]

“I’m not asking for anything crazy like omnipotence or something. I’m a reasonable person, okay? But objectively, you’re being way too uncooperative. This is basically no different from when I didn’t have you at all.”

[System Alert: …… (Still maintaining caution)]

“Let’s find a middle ground. That’s what negotiation is. Anyway, if I clear quests efficiently, that benefits everyone, right? So—”

I casually smiled and interlocked my fingers to ease the tension. The system window distorted with a crackling sound.

“Skills. You’ve got those, right?”

[System Alert: …W-what are you talking about?]

“You can use them. The so-called ‘chosen regression users’ have them.”

[System Alert: (Fixed) Regression users are not provided with separate skills…]

“It’s not ‘there are none,’ it’s ‘not provided.’ Ah, poor fixed regression users. I risked my life to become a mentor for a chosen regression user, and this is discrimination, huh? This kind of thing should be on the news.”

The system window shook even more violently. I smiled warmly and crossed one leg over the other, resting my chin on my hand. Kang Ha-jin’s Negotiation Principle No. 27: Always be the one in control. It starts with appearing relaxed.

“Anyway, that means skills exist, right? We can talk about that. In many ways.”

[System Alert: …The system is frightened by (fixed) regression user’s insanity!]

“Yes, good. Let’s slowly get to know how crazy I am.”

Ten minutes later again.

After finishing my “negotiation” with the system, I rolled my stiff neck. A list of newly organized information appeared on the now pale, almost colorless system window.

[System Alert: Skill System (Update!) has been registered.]

• (Fixed) Regression User ‘Kang Ha-jin’ can now ‘self-generate’ skills required for quests.

[System Alert: This is not a default system patch! (Error)]

[System Alert: Until system patch stabilizes, skill creation and execution will require a cost (Penalty).]

[System Alert: Would you like to generate a skill? (Y/N)]

I had basically wrestled a skill system out of it through sheer madness, but since I forcibly dragged in authority I didn’t originally have, I couldn’t avoid a “penalty.”

Still… this was manageable.

If I translated it into game terms, if a “chosen regression user” was a player, then I was closer to an NPC. That was my logic.

Unlike players who learn skills through tutorials, NPCs are usually assigned skills from the start. Since I couldn’t receive system-provided skills, I reasoned that I could instead turn the skill system itself into my own configuration value.

I pressed the skill creation button and thought about what I would need tomorrow. I had already been briefed that the audition would include a recording test, so I quickly narrowed things down.

A bomb detector? Knowing who to pick and who to eliminate would be useful. But that felt too much like cheating; the penalty would probably be severe. Pass.

An idol stat boost? Not bad, but I wasn’t even an official trainee yet, so it wouldn’t be usable immediately. Also pass.

After some thought, I finally settled on something.

“Does something like this work? A skill that lets me express what I think or say.”

[System Alert: More specific criteria are required for skill creation.]

“A sort of expression booster. Something that lets whatever I imagine or think be directly expressed through singing or dancing.”

[System Alert: Calculating skill creation probability….]

It was clearly a broken-level ability—basically creating skills themselves—so maybe as a balance measure, not everything could be made freely.

The numbers rolled as I waited calmly.

[System Alert: Skill is highly effective for quest progression! Creation probability increased. (Calculating….)]

[System Alert: Skill can be created!]

[System Alert: Create skill <As I Say> ? (Y/N)]

Seriously, why do you keep asking?

I pressed Y repeatedly without hesitation.

Meanwhile

Seo Tae-il, leader of “YUPIA” and known among fans as the “Crocodile PD,” thought:

‘What is that kid?’

He had only come because the company’s head had insisted—he had once directly scouted YUPIA members and even managed them during their rookie days—but honestly, he hadn’t been interested in coming.

This test was usually a method used by executives when they wanted to kick out trainees they disliked.

‘I didn’t want to come because he always uses me as an excuse to drop kids…’

However, Tae-il, who still dreamed of producing a future top idol with his own hands, was also very interested in promising newcomers.

‘If they might one day sing my songs, I can’t just pick anyone.’

So he had fully intended to walk out if today’s recording didn’t meet his standards.

But that thought disappeared the moment he heard the trainee sing.

Can’t you see it?
A flipped sun and moon,
a new universe awakening—
the first step already taken
becomes history
Can you make it?
Will you come this far?
This endless racing
At the end of this world
I become the era itself—

Even YUPIA’s main vocalist had taken time to grasp the feel of this debut song, yet this trainee—no, trainee candidate—was pulling it off impressively.

‘Well… skill-wise, he’s still below our youngest.’

Comparing a 12-year veteran idol’s main vocalist to a trainee candidate was absurd to begin with. Tae-il, famously biased toward his group, inwardly pitied the main vocalist who had been camping in the practice room after military service, claiming she had lost her sense of performance.

He turned on the talkback mic.

“On the word ‘racing,’ soften the pronunciation a bit. It should sound like it rhymes with ‘here까지’.”

“Yes, I’ll try again.”

But credit had to be given.

His tone, vocal color, and basic skills were solid. Not extraordinary, but competent. If that had been all, Tae-il would’ve sent him home without hesitation.

‘But he follows direction perfectly.’

That was the key.

With just Tae-il’s instruction—“strong but not heavy, keep rhythm but enunciate clearly”—the trainee executed it in one take.

The executive who had been pushing him here stood up with an unpleasant expression and left the room.

After the door closed, Tae-il nudged the man beside him.

“Congrats, hyung. You win this time.”

“What are you talking about.”

“Don’t pretend. That kid, you brought him, right?”

The man beside him, team manager Ji Soo-ho, let out a deep sigh.

“Who doesn’t know there’s bad blood between you and the executive? Anyone can see this was set up to drop him.”

“Even Manager Jang is here, so watch what you say.”

“Ah, I know nothing. I heard nothing. I’m not here.”

As the company’s internal politics surfaced, Manager Jang Seo-yoon awkwardly turned away.

Soo-ho straightened his expression.

“So? What do you think?”

“Of course he’s good. Don’t show him to our youngest though. She’ll dig a hole in the ground again.”

“She’s still like that after 12 years?”

“12 years of experience means she’s just better at digging holes.”

Despite complaining, Tae-il’s expression was amused.

Then Soo-ho, now serious, asked:

“So we keep him?”

“We have to. I want our next group to be produced by you, not the executive.”

“Shut up, idiot.”

Tae-il turned on the talkback mic.

The boy stood in the booth, already finished, looking at them as if to say: I know I nailed it.

“Good work, Kang Ha-jin.”

The audition was over.

Afterward

[System Alert: Skill <As I Say> (LV.1) proficiency increased.]

[System Alert: Skill <As I Say> (LV.1) → (LV.2) leveled up!]

[System Alert: Penalty applied due to skill creation.]

[System Alert: Mental care effectiveness temporarily reduced.]

That devil Seo Tae-il.

That professor-like Seo Tae-il.

Between recording and the upcoming interview break, I gulped down water and mentally cursed him with every insulting adjective I could think of.

Honestly, what kind of person makes you repeat a single syllable a hundred times?

At this rate, I was seriously considering leaving the company.

[System Alert: Further quest disruption will not be tolerated!]

“I’m not doing it, I’m not. That’s too much hassle.”

[System Alert: System regains stability.]

It’s getting more talkative…

I glanced at the system window again and checked the penalty.

[System Alert: Mental care effectiveness temporarily reduced.]

‘Doesn’t feel like anything yet.’

I was still convinced I was in my fourth life, and aside from a few emotional scratches, my mental state was fine.

“Ha-jin, you can head in now.”

“Oh, Manager Jang.”

The staff member who had been talking with the company reps approached me.

“I have to head back to the company. A driver will take you home.”

“I can go alone, but thank you for today.”

“You were really good.”

She looked at me with an oddly lingering gaze, then shook my hand—and placed something carefully into my palm.

“Open it later on your way home. There’s a fan in our office who insisted I give this to you.”

“…A fan? Me?”

Confused, I stared blankly.

She patted my shoulder lightly and left.

‘A fan? Me?’

Unable to resist curiosity, I opened the package right there.

Inside was a box of premium chocolates and a note.

<Looking forward to the day you become a star someday!

• Someone who wants to be your first fan.>

“…Fan?”

Something felt strange.

An unreal emotion pricked at my ribs.

Who? How much had they even seen me to call themselves a fan already?

Then—

[System Alert: Due to reduced mental care effectiveness, emotional and rational control is impaired! (Penalty)]

What?

Before I could even process it, something surged up my chest and my eyes grew hot.

Wait—am I crying?

No, I was moved, but not this moved.

“Ugh… ngh…”

But as the system said, my emotional control was broken.

Tears poured out like I was some fragile flower overflowing with sensitivity.

I tried to hold onto the chocolates so I wouldn’t drop them, but it was useless.

Just looking at the box made me cry harder, so I tilted my head back to stop it—

“…Kang Ha-jin?”

Perfect timing.

Seo Tae-il, who I hadn’t even noticed, was standing at the end of the hallway, staring at me wide-eyed.

“…Are you crying?”

Ah, seriously.

So this is a misunderstanding, huh?