The Regressed Idol: My Second Chance To Debut

Chapter 5

The first trainee stepped onto the main stage. He was from a mid-tier agency, but the moment the music started, his entire aura changed.

He wrapped a hand around the microphone and launched into a sharp, aggressive routine, maintaining steady vocals despite the demanding choreography. His movements were confident and controlled, drawing quiet gasps from the studio.

“This is already professional,” Gregory whispered beside Andrew, his voice trembling slightly. “How are we supposed to compete against people like him?”

When the chorus hit, Sam dropped into a windmill and flowed seamlessly into a flare before rising back to his feet.

“WOW, see that is definitely Class A,” Gregory remarked, slumping back.

Andrew watched closely, his eyes tracking the boy's footwork. The performance was sharp, but his gaze flickered to the mentors sitting at the long table. They didn't look impressed. Their cold, unreadable faces made a knot form in Andrew's stomach.

When the song ended, the head mentor, Marcus Vance—a sharp-eyed vocal coach infamous for his brutal, career-crushing evaluations leaned into his microphone. “Nice performance, Sam. Remind me of the move you just made right now. Where did you learn that?”

Sam smiled into the speaker, his chest heaving under his damp shirt. “From my brother, he plays football. I used to practice acrobatics with him, but I wanted to become an idol instead.”

“That is beautiful, Sam," Marcus countered, his voice flat and unforgiving. "That move caught my attention, but it was not well executed. Your leg twitched, and your pitch wavered during the transition. Your footwork is clean, but your breathing collapsed after the windmill. That’s why your pitch drifted into a flat key.”

A cold prickle of sweat broke out along Andrew’s collarbone.

The four mentors exchanged their opinions in low voices before reaching a decision. After a brief discussion, Sarah picked up her microphone, her eyes tight. “You’re performing the choreography, Sam but you’re not selling the emotion.”

“Your center of gravity is too high,” the dance mentor, Elain, commented. “It’s like you're fighting the floor.”

The rap mentor, Josh, leaned back with a sharp grin. “You rapped like someone was chasing you down an alleyway. Relax, kid. We’re judging you, not arresting you.”

A ripple of brittle laughter swept through the studio, breaking the heavy tension. Even Sam let out an embarrassed smile before bowing deeply.

Marcus then concluded. “Sam, your fundamentals are there, and we can see you’ve worked hard. But compared to the trainees here, you’re not ready yet. Don’t be discouraged. We’ll help you build your skills throughout this competition. For your first evaluation, we’ll be placing you in Class F.”

A wave of shocked murmurs spread through the trainee seats. They genuinely enjoyed Sam’s performance. Most of them expected him to land in at least Class B, maybe even Class A.

“Then just how good do you have to be to get into Class A?” Gregory muttered, his face turning pale.

Above the stage, the massive digital board flickered. Sam’s name flashed across the screen, and a giant, glowing red F appeared beside it, burning into Andrew's eyes. Sam bowed quickly, his face entirely pale, then headed backstage to collect his Class F name tag before returning quietly to his original seat.

Andrew’s expression remained perfectly still, but internally, his mind was racing, calculating. He wasn’t just watching the trainees anymore. He was watching the mentors—their micro-expressions, comments, and the tiny, cruel details that separated an A from an F.

Every performance became another heavy lesson. These agency kids showed years of expensive training he didn’t possess. Some delivered confident rap performances and earned A grades, while others impressed the judges enough to secure B and C grades. Even those who made mistakes displayed a level of polish that reminded Andrew exactly how terrifyingly far behind his physical body truly was.

Andrew kept glancing into the empty air, his throat tightening as he waited for the familiar blue screen to appear and give him a strategy or a cheat code. Anything.

Another trainee walked onstage, performed, and earned Class C.

You’re really choosing now to disappear?

The System remained completely silent. For the first time since returning to 2010, the raw, suffocating reality of his situation fully settled in. A second chance never miraculously erased the fourteen years he lost to hard labor. These trainees spent their entire youth preparing for this exact ten-minute window. He spent his life just surviving.

Down on the floor, a broadcast camera swung around sharply. The heavy lens zoomed in on Andrew’s face, projecting his image onto the massive screens around the studio. Dressed in his plain, unbranded school uniform, he sat perfectly still, trying to hide the exhaustion in his chest, showing little reaction to the performances unfolding around him. Andrew noticed the camera linger on him for a second longer than expected.

Great.

He was probably the easiest person in the room to turn into a tragic storyline. The ordinary, poor student who walked into a competition full of trained idols. If he had any chance of standing out, it must be entirely with his voice.

"Next independent trainee," Marcus Vance’s voice cut through the heavy atmosphere like a knife. "Andrew Smith. Please step forward."

The sudden announcement made the trainees around him turn their heads.

Already?! Andrew's pulse spiked violently. A cold sweat broke out across the back of his neck. He didn't even have time to warm up his voice or stretch his stiff limbs.

He stood up anyway, his hands automatically smoothing down his wrinkled uniform jacket, and began the long, echoing walk down the stairs. With every single step toward the center stage, the studio air seemed to grow heavier, pressing down on his chest.

The moment his sneakers hit the polished black floor of the main stage, the pressure hit him physically. The lights were blindingly bright, burning into his eyes.

For a terrifying heartbeat, the stage disappeared from his vision. In its place were unfinished high-rise buildings, cracked winter concrete, and hands permanently roughened and calloused by years of lifting raw steel and freezing cement. This wasn’t where he imagined life would ever take him back to.

Yet somehow, against all laws of reality, he found his way back to a microphone.

But the moment he reached for it, his teenage biology betrayed him.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears like a bass drum. His limbs grew incredibly heavy, dragging him down into the floorboards. He survived fourteen years of back-breaking regret and agonizing grief.

So why did standing on this piece of painted wood terrify him more than carrying heavy cement under the blistering summer sun?

Andrew gripped the microphone with both hands to hide the shaking. He opened his mouth to introduce himself, but absolutely nothing came out. His throat felt completely dry, like sandpaper.

He froze as five seconds stretched into an agonizing ten. The silence across the studio grew heavier, turning into a suffocating fog with each passing second.

[Ding.]

[Abnormal condition detected.]

[Diagnosis: Acute Stage Fright.]

“I said shut up,” Andrew snarled furiously in the strict privacy of his own mind, clenching his teeth as he fought the paralysis. “Just shut up.”

Whispers rippled heavily through the trainee seats behind him. At the mentor’s table, Marcus tapped his pen lightly against the desk while the others exchanged concerned glances.

Sarah picked up her microphone, her eyes softening with a maternal, heavy sigh as she looked at his wrinkled uniform. “Trainee Andrew, we understand that you’re nervous. Take a moment to compose yourself. We’ll give you two minutes before your evaluation begins.”

Andrew tightened his grip on the microphone until his knuckles ached, forcing his vocal cords to click open.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, his voice sounding raspy and small in the massive rafters.

[Ding!]

[Mission Generated.]

Objective: Successfully complete your stage evaluation.

Condition: Impress the judges by performing a future song from your memory and obtain a class ranking.

Failure Penalty: Current enhanced skills will permanently regress to Grade E.

Reward: Choose any skill for an immediate one-grade enhancement.

A future song?

Andrew almost let out a hysterical, bitter laugh right in front of the rolling lenses. Of all the ridiculous, impossible things the System could ask of him, it chose this exact moment of total paralysis.

“You want me to perform a song nobody has ever heard… without an instrumental, and without a single second of preparation?”

A dozen legendary melodies flashed through his mind. Songs the world never heard yet. Some wouldn’t debut for another five to ten years; others wouldn’t exist for more than a decade.

[Warning: Host is overthinking.]

[System Recommendation: Part your lips and begin singing.]