Little Pink Starfish

Thanks to Min Heeyoung’s strong will, the OST contract was signed.

The OST Secret, composed by the singer Miro, would be released alongside the webtoon’s new episode and distributed as an official track.

There were five days left until the new chapter.

Every morning, as she listened to the song, Min Heeyoung could feel her heart racing.

There had been many attempts to add music to webtoons, even featuring famous singers.

But when the song was tailored to fit the webtoon’s color, the quality of the music often suffered; when the song itself was good, it often didn’t relate much to the webtoon.

So, the OST for her webtoon would be the first and the best.

‘The webtoon community is going to explode, right?’

Thinking this, Min Heeyoung was, for the first time, actually excited about reaching a deadline.

After five days, the upload day finally arrived.

Just as she expected, the community went wild.

-Wow, I love this song!!

-ㅠㅠㅠㅠㅠ The emotions come through so clearly. The lyrics are written so well.

-Aren’t these lyrics from chapter 12 and 17? Their first meeting.

-There’s also lines from chapter 35.

-So much care ㄷㄷ

-I usually turn off the OSTs, but the intro pulled me in instantly.

-Doesn’t this voice sound kind of familiar?

-Yeah yeah, sounds like a pro singer.

The power of being Monday’s number one webtoon was huge, and for a while, it even hit the top of the real-time music charts.

People don’t only read Monday webtoons on Mondays.

Some read on Tuesday, others on Sunday.

So if the buzz kept growing, more good things would follow.

But then…

The next day, something surprising happened.

A different OST was released for a different webtoon.

Releasing OSTs for webtoons wasn’t uncommon, but the problem was—it was just as good as Secret.

Though the singer names were different, the vibe of the songs felt strangely similar.

Almost like the same composer had written them all.

Even more, new songs kept dropping the following days.

Monday through Friday.

Five days, five songs.

Oddly enough, this fact hadn’t spread widely because the songs were so good that agencies kept it quiet to maintain the surprise.

Or because some authors without agencies had commissioned them individually.

At this point, people in the webtoon industry began speculating that a company specializing in webtoon OSTs had started a stealth marketing campaign.

But after five songs, they vanished.

Rumors swirled that it was Take Scene or Drop Out, but no one knew the truth.

Someone even tried to check the copyright information, but the composers were all listed as brand-new names.

If Han Sion was determined to hide his identity, there was no way to trace it.

---

While Onsaemiro had made the OST for a webtoon he loved (I composed it, Saemiro only wrote the lyrics), Choi Jaesung focused on gaming.

Personally, I thought game companies wouldn’t be interested in indie OSTs due to their industrial scale, but Jaesung came up with something I hadn’t considered.

M.O.L was a mobile game Jaesung enjoyed, supposedly the most popular game in Korea at the moment.

The company was also a major corporation with a huge market cap.

Jaesung started composing using sounds from the gameplay itself.

Ta-dang ta-dang!

He made hi-hats from the sound of swords hitting shields.

Duh-dum duh-dum!

He made kick drums from the sounds of attacking world bosses.

Using countless in-game sounds as instruments, he began making music from gameplay videos.

“Do you think this will go viral?”

“100%. There are even some secret tips in here.”

“Tips?”

“There’s a bonus damage setup for world bosses that only veteran players know. Plus a trick to summon the 13th golden goblin boss easily.”

“Shouldn’t you explain that in the video?”

“No no. The players will figure it out when they see it.”

Honestly, I didn’t understand any of this.

My only experience with gaming was becoming a console ad model in the U.S., playing briefly, and making some game music.

Jaesung brought me his rough version without needing my help.

“This is my best effort. Can you help me polish it?”

The Sedalbaekil members surprisingly had no interest in composing.

I was willing to teach, but only Jaesung was interested.

At one point, I asked why.

They originally intended to learn composition from me—just in case I ever hit a slump.

But after seeing me for several months, they gave up on that idea.

They couldn’t imagine me ever hitting a slump.

They weren’t wrong.

Even if something unbelievable happened and I did fall into a slump, just digging through the songs in my head could give me at least 100 Billboard Hot 100 number ones.

I think I’ve lived over 100 years, but it might be far longer.

Even conservatively, I’ve regressed 50–60 times, and if each round lasted 5 years, that’s 250 years.

Imagine how many Billboard #1 songs I know.

So what the members say makes sense.

But Jaesung’s desire to compose isn’t about beating me.

It’s about expressing the clear sound he hears in his head.

Frankly, it’s easier for me when someone conveys that in music.

“Hm…”

As I listened to Jaesung’s song, I nodded inwardly without showing it.

He definitely has classical blood.

The way he uses notes differs slightly from typical pop music.

But under my influence, he tried to make it more listener-friendly too.

“Come here.”

“You’re going to show me your process?”

“Yep. Say hi to the camera.”

“Hello!”

I sat Jaesung next to me and walked him through everything step by step except for mixing.

I excluded mixing because that’s purely technical.

To reach my level of mixing requires no talent or inspiration — just experience.

After about three hours—

“Done. Let’s play it back.”

As the track played, Jaesung’s face twisted in a weird way.

“Why do you look like that?”

“This is cheating.”

“Cheating? Should I tell Eion hyung?”

“Even Eion hyung would call this cheating. Is this really my song?”

“The main melody’s still yours.”

“Geez.”

“Now try playing that game again for me. It’s done, but I want to add a few more sounds if possible.”

But since the in-game sounds weren’t enough, I made Jaesung act.

He lay down playing on his phone and pretended to drop it on his face and scream.

“Ah!”

“Make the pronunciation clearer.”

“Ah!”

“More like Ahaah!, not just Ah!”

“What does that mean?”

“You’ll get it. Just keep going.”

After three days, we got what I wanted.

Jaesung wrote game-related lyrics that players would relate to and recorded it.

Then he uploaded it to YouTube and the game’s fan community.

The reaction…

-LOL these lyrics are hilarious

-LMAO that potion part is so true

-Seriously, that auto-potion is so inefficient

-Wait, why is he dealing so much damage to the world boss? His gear doesn’t look like a ranker’s, but he’s hitting like one.

-Huh?

-How did he summon that golden goblin boss? There’s no scroll in his inventory.

-Here’s the trick: drop the gem on the six-pointed star in the earlier phase, pick it up, drop it again, repeat, and the boss spawns.

-Wait seriously?

-Yep. Lore-wise, he’s technically the next-phase boss.

-Damn, awesome.

-But seriously, the song is so good LOL

It was massive.

It hit #1 on trending for gaming content instantly, and #3 overall within 24 hours.

Every gaming YouTuber mentioned Jaesung’s video, and endless 1-hour loop versions popped up.

Then the game company contacted us.

“Huh?”

What Jaesung had hoped for was for the company to use his video or song for online promotions, which would earn a decent fee.

But unexpectedly, they wanted to use his video for a full TV ad campaign in Korea, expanding globally if successful.

With a professional singer performing the song.

They thought Jaesung was a complete unknown.

But in the end, Jaesung himself sang it.

“Oh, so this is…”

“Yes. This was a project filmed as part of our variety show.”

“Wow, it really proves that skill is everything. The marketing department went nuts over your video. We’ve been struggling with a heavy pay-to-win image, but this was perfect.”

“That’s not just an image, that’s your patch direction…”

Jaesung grumbled as a real player, but Eion cut him off.

Thus, Jaesung was paid both appearance and composition fees.

The appearance fee, leveraging Sedalbaekil’s fame, didn’t count toward Self Made earnings; only the composition and licensing fees did.

Around then, we met with PD Kang Seokwoo.

“Hmmm…”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m just surprised at how well you’re making money.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I thought you’d earn much less. And we still have 40 days left.”

But what Kang Seokwoo forgot was that I hadn’t done anything yet.

A few more days passed.

Taehwan and Eion participated in competitions and did busking wearing masks, too lazy for full makeup.

Their duo name: Masked Robbers.

No one recognized them because Eion handled all the intros while Taehwan sang the high notes.

In Sedalbaekil’s songs, Taehwan never sang high notes and Eion never sang intros.

They went full-on with the masked robber concept, wearing chains and accessories.

But wouldn’t real robbers try to erase their identity as much as possible?

Onsaemiro tried contacting webtoons again, but without much luck.

The idea was good, but music needs scarcity too.

Since five songs were already released at once, agencies were reluctant to invest more.

Jaesung started uploading M.O.L videos to YouTube.

The views were generating decent income, though whether that counted as “earning through music” was questionable.

Ah, he also won a few songwriting contests.

So after two months, we had earned—

“Wow!”

“Awesome.”

18 million won.

We actually earned more, but once Kang Seokwoo saw us earning, he became extremely strict about production costs.

Even webtoon OST-related payments were counted as production expenses.

He even calculated rental fees for using Sedalbaekil’s own studio.

Well, that’s fair, but the sudden shift felt a bit petty.

He was clearly afraid of overspending.

But…

Now it’s my turn.

“Everyone, gather up.”

“Why?”

“Stop everything else. We’re focusing on these two projects now.”

“What is this?”

The ultimate big shot I know—where fame and connections are useless, and only pure skill matters.

“We’re doing this?”

The members were shocked, but I nodded.

“We can do it.”

Because I’m confident.

And just like that, a month flew by—

And as we completed every mission, the day of Self Made’s grand premiere arrived.