Chapter 4: Reasons for failure

“Fail.”

The word hit like a hammer, cutting Su Nian’s words short in her mouth.

“How… could it be?”

She was stunned.

Shocked.

In disbelief.

Just a moment ago, she thought she had learned how to grow.

Three seconds later, this single word had shattered that small bit of confidence.

“On what basis—on what basis can you say I’m not fit to be an idol!”

Emotion overrode her reason.

She leaned in close, standing one head taller than me.

Her eyes were rimmed with red, burning with a fierce intensity.

The pressure she exerted was quite substantial.

But right now, I was “Backstage Alice.”

Someone who had been stared at by hundreds and thousands of eyes would not be intimidated by a look like that.

“Please calm down, Ms. Su Nian.”

My tone was as cold as ice.

I raised my hand and pointed to the line of text in the notebook—

*In summary: Overall, not bad.

There is a high probability of becoming a first-tier idol…*

“Look clearly.

I never said you weren’t worthy.”

I broke down the facts word by word, forcing them into her ears.

“You have the full potential to become a first-tier idol.”

Her anger lost its focus, extinguished instantly.

She stood there like a cat soaked by the rain.

Pathetic.

But the idol world has no need for pity.

Neither did I.

“Then why—” she pressed, her voice still trembling.

“Because you said you wanted to become the Gemstone Princess… and the Calamity Witch.”

That goal was wonderful.

To me, it was even more wonderful than I could have imagined.

It aligned perfectly with my own goal.

But the problem was—

“You can’t do it.”

Four words.

Her gaze wavered.

“How do you know—what gives you the right to say I can’t—”

“I watched.”

“Watched?”

“The performance.”

I paused and cleared my throat.

“Question one—you are in a 500-Person Basement. The ceiling is low, the sound system is mediocre, and the lighting is crude. The audience is standing, holding nothing but their phones. The warm-up song ends, and halfway through the first song, only a few scattered people raise their phones. The others are looking down, playing on their devices, not noticing the performance has started—or they noticed but didn’t move. In that moment, what do you do?”

Su Nian was stunned, thinking for a long time.

“…First, I’d stop? I’d invite everyone… to interact? Play a game…?”

Her voice was airy, her words hesitant and patched together, finally ending as a question.

It was obvious she still hadn’t moved past her previous emotions.

“Score: Zero.”

Her fists clenched.

She was indignant.

I provided the answer:

“Step one: Action. Stop the music for one second. Break the audience’s unconscious state. They will look up to see what’s happening. Then, cut directly into the next song. Step two: The principle. The audience is still immersed in the warm-up atmosphere and hasn’t transitioned. Those who have noticed see no movement around them and are afraid to move themselves—without a Lightstick, they fear looking out of place. That is why only a few people raised their hands. This assumes, however, that your performance isn’t terrible. Step three: The problem with your answer. Stopping outright and demanding interaction—that kind of semi-forced behavior makes people uncomfortable. More importantly, when you break character to speak to the audience, you are essentially saying, ‘I can’t keep performing.’ You are pushing the responsibility onto the audience. Step four: The truth. The audience pays money to enjoy themselves—even if their behavior is lackluster. They don’t need to be lectured. They only need to be reminded. And the premise remains: your performance must be good enough.”

I finished speaking.

My tone remained as cold as ice from start to finish.

Su Nian was speechless.

Her fists loosened, and she stood motionless.

The amount of information was too much; she was overloaded.

Slowly, she looked down at the line “Overall, not bad” in the notebook, then at the various checkmarks.

Finally, her gaze landed on the section for “Conviction.”

There, amidst a sea of checkmarks, was a single, glaring ‘X.’

She stared at it for a long time.

I waited for her reaction.

Then—

“…Again!”

She spoke out of spite, her voice still a bit awkward.

Her emotions were still running high, but she had calmed down significantly.

I decided to continue.

“Before going on stage, the power suddenly cuts and the lights go out?”

“…Use the darkness to create a sense of ritual! Have the keyboardist start playing immediately—then guide the audience to use their phone lights so everyone can participate!”

“Score: Zero. You should sing a cappella immediately.”

“First, the audience is there to see you, not to hear the keyboardist play. Second, not everyone wants to ‘participate in the performance.’ Most importantly—this is your performance, not theirs. You are offloading a stage accident onto the audience.”

“Again!”

“The audio suddenly cuts out?”

“Keep singing! Sing a cappella! Sing until everyone can hear!”

“Score: Zero. You should start dancing.”

“A break in sound destroys the atmospheric momentum—the audience will be startled awake, and their attention will focus instantly. This is an opportunity. You can create a feeling of ‘the highlight is here.’ But if the music is halfway through and you force yourself to sing a cappella, you will only look powerless. Do not harbor unrealistic expectations for the audience.”

“Again!”

“The performance time was wrong?”

“Score: Zero.”

“Again!”

“Your partner is jealous and deliberately makes things difficult for you?”

***

Question after question.

With every “Score: Zero” that hit her, she responded with “Again.”

Her voice went from trembling to steady.

From spiteful to serious.

Until the final question.

“You are at a large-scale performance. Everyone has high expectations for you, and every set is the headliner—what do you do?”

She was silent for a long time.

“…I should… never make a mistake. And then… I have to sing an Encore every time. Also… during the improvisation, I have to spin three times… and blow a kiss.”

The hesitation in her voice was worse than the first time.

But this time, my answer wasn’t a zero.

“Correct.”

Her gaze dropped.

She looked like a different person.

After a long while, she looked at a billboard in the distance.

It featured a massive poster of the Gemstone Princess, Alice.

She spoke slowly, emphasizing every word:

“But that isn’t me. That is the Gemstone Princess… Alice.”

Those were the moves the Gemstone Princess had just performed…

She had watched that performance.

She finally realized it.

The boy in front of her had been testing her using her own “goal” the entire time.

‘She probably has no idea that the person testing her is the very Gemstone Princess she admires so much.’

Of course, I would never tell her that now.

“Correct.”

That was the first time I used that word with her.

Then, I delivered the final blow—

“In addition to all that, you must remember: on stage, your reaction time is only 0.1 seconds.”

Inside the corners of her bright red eyes, her dark red pupils contracted.

She knew what I was saying.

She knew her own reactions couldn’t even begin to compare to that standard.

She finally accepted that sentence—

She couldn’t do it.

Silence.

I took in her reaction.

What she didn’t know was that when I said “You can’t do it,” I meant the “her” of right now.

Becoming the Gemstone Princess wasn’t just about hard work.

It required something else—something like conviction.

The moment she had crossed out those words in the notebook, a part of her deep inside had already been defeated.

That was the true reason for my “You can’t do it.”

I wouldn’t say that out loud, though.

Because my perspective was different from hers.

She felt she wasn’t good enough.

Yet she didn’t know—her goal perfectly overlapped with mine.

A heart that has been broken and is willing to be mended is the most perfect foundation.

—If she could mend it, that is.

So I provoked her.

Again and again.

Even at the risk of exposure.

After all…

‘An intern knowing this much and understanding the Gemstone Princess so well is clearly suspicious, isn’t it?’

But I did it anyway.

“…This is my address. Think it over, and come back in two days.”

I wrote the agency’s address in her notebook.

Having finished, I turned around.

I was doing one thing:

I was completely locking the door that led her to becoming the “Gemstone Princess.”

Then, I left the key in her hand.

It was a lock, but it was also a trial.

If she could open that lock and overcome this trial—

Then I would…