Little Pink Starfish

When had it started?

When had the boy begun to see them?
Things that others couldn’t see.

Like the man covered in blood, standing blankly among the crowd, staring up at the sky.

“There’s a hurt man over there.”

When the boy pointed him out, everyone else simply tilted their heads.

“There’s nothing there, though?”

That was all they’d say.

His mom, dad, teachers, friends—
They all reacted the same way.

Around the time he entered elementary school, the boy realized:

I can see ghosts.

A headless child crouching beneath the playground slide.
A man covered in slashes, ramming his head into a utility pole.

By the time he entered middle school, a hint of resentment had crept into his thoughts.

Why can only I see them?

If they’re dead, shouldn’t they move on? To heaven or hell or whatever?

Why do the Constellations leave them be?

It didn’t take long to find the answer.

The Sanctuary.

A place that housed fragments of the stars.
Touching a star fragment granted access to a Constellation’s realm.

When the boy placed his hand on one—

FLASH!

His vision turned white.
Then he saw it:
An impossibly vast, empty universe.

[Welcome to the domain of the Constellations.]

A voice rang in his head.

Soon after, a much less welcoming one followed.

[The Constellations surround you.]

Stars of all shapes and colors circled him, pulsing with hostile light.

The boy could feel their hatred.
It was like none of them wanted him there—as if the universe itself had no place for him.

And then—

<Been waiting.> 

A lively voice.
A tiny, twinkling star sparkled before his eyes.

<We meet again, Prince of the Otherworld—Abrilah.>

That’s when the boy realized.
What he had once been.

---

Now.
At a towering cliff on the edge of Hallasan.

<What are you thinking?>

A voice echoed in the boy’s mind as he sat perched on the ledge.

“Just some dark stuff!”
he answered cheerfully and rose to his feet.

Whoooosh—

A cold, unsettling wind blew up from the cliffside.
Ghosts, caught in its currents, drifted freely through the night.

“Let’s get started.”

He murmured, then placed Abrilah’s Crown on his head.

“Gah…!”

A splitting pain tore through his skull.
Magic surged through his veins.
Far too powerful for a human body to handle.

…I have to let them all rest.

He stared out at the view of Jeju Island.

Everyone I killed in my past life… I have to set them free.

---

“You guys, it’s written all over your faces.”

Chaeya sighed.

“You’re thinking, ‘Why are we singing this song?’ right?”

I avoided her gaze.
She hit the nail on the head.

Today was our trainer check-in.
Chaeya, our vocal trainer, had gathered Gravity to give feedback.

She’d watched us sing with sharp eyes—
And I’d witnessed her expression darken in real time.

“CCM’s an unfamiliar genre, right? You probably think, ‘Isn’t this just for churchgoers?’ But there are a lot of really talented CCM artists.”

Her voice was cold, but fair.

And she was right.
There were CCM singers who made a splash on competition shows.

“What do you think is most important in CCM?”

Silence.

[Gravity, frantically searching for an answer.]

Honestly, even the camera crew filming us looked dumbfounded.

Then—

Ding!

Jeong Noeul raised his hand.

“Only Jesus!”

DUDE—PUT YOUR HAND DOWN.

I glared at him, mentally screaming.
Of course it didn’t reach.

“Well, sure… but wow, what a hopeless answer.”

Chaeya let out a hollow laugh.

“Yes, faith is important in CCM. So Noeul’s not entirely wrong. But wouldn’t this be a better way to put it?”

She paused—
Probably for dramatic effect, for the sake of the footage.

And then she said:

“Conviction.”

Conviction, huh….

Jungho sighed.
Hamin scratched his neck.
Noeul looked like he’d just discovered the meaning of life.

And me?
I thought she was exactly right.

CCM’s not a genre you can fake.
Conviction is another word for belief—
And CCM is rooted in faith.

You don’t sing this stuff for money or fame.

Sure, now that Constellations were publicly known, the context had changed.
But back then, people sang CCM without copyright protections or proper pay—
It was all about belief.

Even now, that’s the core.
If anything, it’s stronger.

With humanity aware of Constellations, and every idol sponsored by one,
you’d only choose CCM for one reason:
Because you believe.

And that is where its conviction comes from.

Chaeya had just pointed out something critical.

“I can tell you guys put effort into arranging your parts.
The outcome’s… passable, I guess.

But none of you seem like you’re singing from the heart.
Especially you, Ryu Eunyul.”

“Wha—?!”

I couldn’t hide my surprise.

“And you too, Madojin.”

“Yes.”
Madojin replied, expressionless.

“I judged both of you in the first round, right?”

“Y-yes…”
“Yes.”

“Eunyul, your high notes—up to C6—are impressive.
But it feels like you’re hitting them because you have to.
Not because you mean it.

Remember what I said? Conviction.
Don’t just use your head—use your heart too.”

“And Madojin.
You’re worse.

It’s like you just copy-pasted the original audio.
Technically impressive—really.

But is that going to help you in this round?
Hard to say.”

After a flurry of harsh but accurate critiques, Chaeya took a sip of her ion drink (obvious product placement), then swept her gaze over the rest of us.

“Feeling relieved because I didn’t call your name?
That’s only because you weren’t even worth mentioning.”

…She was brutal.

Still, I could tell she was intentionally stirring up drama for the story.
But the content? Solid gold.

I, who had suffered under Rowen’s blunt critique style, knew exactly what to take away.

One: Focus on CCM’s unique sense of conviction.
Two: Use the high notes as your emotional climax.
Three: The rap section is hella awkward—rework or cut it.
Four: Figure out why they chose a CCM song for this round.

Chaeya nodded once and left the recording room.

Leaving us alone—
Well, “alone” except for the cameras still rolling.

They wanted to capture our shattered morale.

Everyone looked like their soul had left their body.
Except Madojin, of course.

Jungho hung his head.
Noeul sulked with his chin in his hand.
Hamin looked like he’d swear if no one were around.

I was annoyed by Madojin’s blank expression,
but there were more urgent matters.

“Let’s start over.”
I said.

Someone had to take the lead.

“We’ve been thinking only about doing it well.
Which is obvious, but…”

“So how do we start over?”
Hamin asked.

He seemed more upset by Chaeya’s critique than expected.

“We need to think together.”

“Do you have a plan?”
Jungho chimed in.

I was about to answer when—

“Then we just need to do it better, don’t we?”
Madojin said plainly.

Bro, you’re pouring gas on the fire.

“Guys….”
“I’m not a guy.”
“Right, sorry… Guys and Madojin-san.”

Jeong Noeul sighed.

“We need to calm down.”

“Yeah.”
I agreed, resisting the urge to ruffle his hair.

“Think about it.
Ever since we drew Holy’s song, we’ve been panicking.
‘Oh no, a flop song!’ That’s all we’ve thought.”

“True. But so what?”
Hamin pushed his bangs back.

“Let’s shift our perspective.
Remember what Chaeya said—
‘Why do you think this song was chosen for the third round?’
We haven’t thought about that at all.”

When I rephrased her critique without the insults,
everyone started nodding.

Alright.
We’ve got our screen time…
Time to go big.

I cleared my throat.

“I’m going to… the museum!”

…?

Everyone looked confused.
Even the camera crew paused.

I was the only one smiling.

---

Jeju Purification Memorial Museum.

Built after the Gate was closed and the island began recovering.
It documented the damage caused by the Gate and the efforts to rebuild.

Incheon had a similar facility.

S-rank Gates were catastrophic,
so it was natural to turn that recovery into a tourist draw.

Apparently, Jeju had lots of museums before the Gate too….

“Is this actually gonna help?”

Hamin asked, leaning into my face as we climbed the stairs.

I’d planned to come alone, but he insisted on tagging along.
So did a few broadcast staff.

“Why a museum for a singing competition…”

I held a finger to my lips.

“Shhh. Cameras.”

“Yeah, yeah….”

He scratched the back of his head and kept walking.

The third round was meant to assess team performance—
but this season of CYB also emphasized morale boosting.

Why was CCM even in the roulette?

Isn’t it obvious? Because it’s a morale concert.

We’d been trying to “fix” CCM’s tone.
That was necessary, sure.

But instead of force-fitting it into K-pop,
we should be embracing what it offers.

It’s the perfect genre for a morale concert—
That’s why we were given this song.

“…Dang, it’s fancy.”

Hamin muttered as we entered the lobby.
And it really was.

They clearly built it hoping to lure tourists.

But despite all that grandeur, the place was nearly empty.

Weekday or not,
the only ones in the lobby were us, some staff, and a few scattered visitors.

Everyone seemed to be eyeing each other suspiciously.

Why are you here?
You too? Filming something?

Just as I was wondering that—

Ding—

Han Iro stepped out of the elevator.

“…Han Iro?”
Hamin blinked.

And then—

“Ah!”
Han Iro lit up when he spotted us.

Oh no. Should I pretend not to know him?
Please pretend you don’t know me, Iro!

I shot him a glare, silently begging.

“Eunyul!”

…Too late.

This guy seriously lacks social awareness.
Or maybe I’m the problem for trying to resolve everything with psychic vibes.

I sighed.

Since he waved first, ignoring him would just look petty.

Suddenly—

Grab!

Hamin seized my arm.

“You—you! What’s going on…?”
He whispered, eyes wide.

“…You know Han Iro?!”