Yeonwoo wanted to return to Korea not only because his dad called and he missed him, but also for other reasons.
“Yeonwoo, all sorts of companies and people keep reaching out. What should we do? Do you want to keep taking a break?”
“No, I want to work now.”
He wanted to put his upgraded composition skills and the fairy she received from Shunji to use.
After learning from the fairy how to infuse Himari’s experiences and emotions into his music, Yeonwoo found himself dissatisfied with even the songs he’d composed earlier.
The song he’d given his aunt was no exception.
To revise them, he needed to return to Korea, where his studio awaited.
“Really? Then which offers should we consider? Even major agencies have contacted us.”
“I want somewhere without complicated adult politics.”
“Hmm… Does such a place even exist?”
Yeonwoo asked with naive sincerity.
“Can’t we just create it ourselves with you, Auntie?”
“…We don’t have the funds.”
“So even if we try to do it alone, we still need adults’ interference.”
“Exactly.”
Jiyeong replied bitterly.
Truthfully, it was the dream of producers like Jiyeong—to establish an agency and build a team entirely free of outside meddling.
“Then… what about Beomsin’s company, Auntie?”
“They’ve invested everything into Hadas. They’re broke until Hadas starts turning a profit.”
“I see. Then how much would we need to fund it ourselves? I have plenty of money.”
Yeonwoo quoted the figure Jihun had taught him..
Jiyeong’s eyes widened before she shook her head.
“We’d need five times that amount.”
“Ah… Then I’ll just compose more songs to sell.”
Jiyeong shook her head again at the simplistic logic.
“That sum only covers producing one idol group. There are countless other costs.”
“This is hard.”
Yeonwoo puffed his cheeks.
Jiyeong, who had been quietly observing him, finally spoke.
“An independent company would be challenging, but not impossible.”
“Really?”
“Yes. We could become an independent label under an existing company—get support while retaining creative control. It’s complicated but feasible. Still, there’s one issue.”
“What?”
“We’d have to publicly reveal Yeonwoo’s identity.”
“I don’t want that……”
As Yeonwoo grimaced, Jiyeong’s frown deepened.
Meanwhile, Shunji—eavesdropping behind them—leaned toward Himari.
“[What’re they discussing?]”
“[Yeonwoo wants to produce idols independently. But…]”
Shunji’s eyes gleamed upon hearing this.
“[I smell something.]”
“[Huh? Oh! Was the garlic in my lunch too strong?]”
“[No, fool. Quit reciting bad drama lines. I meant I smell money.]”
He strode toward Yeonwoo, his shadow looming like a cash-obsessed specter. The two girls eyed him warily as he flashed a grin resembling a salesman cocking a gun.
“[Seems you require my assistance.]”
Himari translated his words unprompted.
“Hmm, what kind of help?” Jiyeong asked.
Shunji smirked in response.
“[Financial help.]”
“Uh, well… that…”
“[I have no ulterior motives. I simply want to invest in that child’s talent. I expect nothing in return. Well—perhaps not entirely nothing. Isn’t the point of investment to earn returns? A standard profit structure between parties is natural. It’s not a bad offer for you either, is it? Since I already know the child’s identity, you needn’t worry about revealing it.]”
As his words flooded out, Jiyeong mentally calculated. Though verbal agreements could be broken, Shunji’s immediate offer seemed reasonable.
“I’ll need to consult my brother first, but it doesn’t sound bad.”
“[But why hide your identity so fiercely? The child’s emotional state? I understand that, but fame now could bring future advantages.]”
Jiyeong glanced at Yeonwoo.
“Because Yeonwoo hates it.”
“[Hmm…]”
It was bizarre. A six-year-old so vehemently opposed to attention.
“[I still can’t comprehend it.]”
“Honestly, neither can I. Sometimes I question if this extreme caution is warranted.”
Truthfully, Jiyeong didn’t fully agree either. She acquiesced only because Jihun fiercely opposed Yeonwoo’s exposure—and Yeonwoo shared that fear.
What the father couldn’t voice tied to Yeonwoo’s uncle. Jihun dreaded a repeat of Yeonwoo’s infancy, when he and his mother had nearly been kidnapped. Yeonwoo feared fame might lure his uncle back. Legal protections couldn’t erase their ingrained terror.
“[Well, I must discuss this with Heo-ok’s son.]”
“Right? Even as a proxy, you should negotiate this directly with my brother.”
Shunji congratulated himself on secretly booking a Korea-bound ticket.
“[Let’s talk in Korea.]”
Knowing Heo-ok would block him, he vanished after that cryptic remark—never admitting his own travel plans.
Two days later, departure day.
Yeonwoo’s family packed for their return to Korea.
“These muscle patches are heavy—put them here. The medicine too. Cup noodles go in the lighter bag.”
“Auntie, what about this?”
“Konjac jelly! Liquid items go here.”
“This is liquid too.”
“Right. There.”
Jiyeong orchestrated the packing.
“Did you shop without me? I don’t remember buying this!” Heo-ok clicked his tongue at the overflowing suitcases.
They’d arrived with one checked luggage and two carry-ons. Now they had double. Blame lay with Jiyeong’s shopping frenzy and Heo-ok buying every trinket Yeonwoo glanced at. Perfectly tailored clothes forced more suitcase purchases.
“Shopping’s fun, but how will we haul these?”
“We’ll manage with carts.”
“Don’t worry!” Himari chimed. “The manager and I will assist you to the airport.”
The manager handed Himari an item.
“This… is my gift to you.”
“What is it?”
"It's the wine and sake you liked the most, Teacher."
"Oh my, thank you. I never imagined I’d receive something like this from Himari."
Heo-ok smiled softly. Noticing this, Himari pulled out another item with a slightly flushed face.
"This is a gift for Ji-young."
"Ah! Thank you!"
She gave Ji-young a high-end headset she genuinely needed.
Finally, for Yeon-woo…
"This is a gift from Grandpa Shunji."
"Thank you."
Shunji had gifted Yeon-woo a child-sized electric guitar.
Himari then presented her own gift.
"I debated what to give, but thought something meaningful would be better than something pricey."
What she offered was a fountain pen.
"My mom used this when she composed. She wasn’t famous, but she was a composer."
"So that’s why you became a composer too, Auntie?"
"Exactly. My first teacher was my mom. My second was your grandmother."
"Something like this… are you sure I can have it?"
Himari smiled and ruffled Yeon-woo’s hair.
"Of course. My mom gave this to me hoping I’d become a great musician when I said I wanted to pursue music. To you, I might just be a small link, but to me, you’re my only student who’s inherited everything I have. I want you to surpass me and become someone even greater."
Yeon-woo stared at the fountain pen.
Though too young to fully grasp its significance, the pen felt strangely weighty in her hands.
"I’ll definitely become a great musician."
As Yeon-woo vowed this, Himari’s nose tingled unexpectedly.
"Can I hug you?"
"Yes."
Yeon-woo stepped forward and embraced her.
"Even though I taught you, I learned so much from you too. I’ll release the song you gave me soon."
"Okay, Auntie. I’ll wait."
"By the way, Yeon-woo."
Himari wiped her eyes and met the girl’s gaze.
"Hmm?"
"You know… those titles like Ramen or Sushi… could we change them?"
"Um… yes!"
Yeon-woo agreed immediately.
Himari sighed in relief, having dreaded using childish titles on her globally anticipated album.
Now that I have permission… what should I name them instead?
As she pondered, Ji-young reminded them of their flight time, urging everyone to leave.
They rushed to the vehicles with their mountain of luggage.
The suitcases were so numerous they split into two cars—a van and an SUV.
Heo-ok promptly suggested riding alone with Himari.
It was only on their final day that they carved out this brief moment for a teacher-student talk.
Thus, Yeon-woo and Ji-young rode with the manager, while Heo-ok and Himari took the road manager’s car.
The moment the car began moving, Heo-ok spoke.
"Are you certain about giving away that fountain pen? It’s your mother’s memento."
"Mom would’ve approved. She’d say I raised an outstanding student. Though ‘student’ hardly fits someone who’s already surpassed me."
"It’s just Yeon-woo’s quick learning. You’ve taught him all you could. Calling yourself his teacher isn’t wrong."
"Hehe, right."
Himari grinned, and Heo-ok smiled back.
With that thought…
He absorbed piano skills from himself and took composition techniques from Himari.
So what kind of mentor should he connect her to now?
Heo Ok believed this was his role for Yeonwoo—this absurdly talented genius.
To ensure she could become a great artist who would inspire all future artists in the years to come.
“No, is she already walking that path alone?”
No, perhaps Yeonwoo was already charging down that path herself.
What would await her at the end?
‘I hope I’ll live long enough to see it.’
Heo Ok suddenly resolved to take better care of his health.
Meanwhile, in Korea.
[Hadas still in Mango’s Top 10.]
[The unflagging popularity of “Fly High” and “Rising”.]
Months after their release, the two tracks clung to the top 10 on streaming platforms like Mango Player. People dubbed Hadas “monster rookies” and “unprecedented legends.”
For a mid-tier group to debut with a #1 song was nearly unheard of, prompting the industry to dissect their success. Three factors emerged:
The prowess of their producer, Ellis.
Addictive choreography.
The songs themselves.
The latter two drew the most scrutiny.
Ellis, now heading a label under BSK, was untouchable—and with equally skilled producers existing elsewhere, she faded from the spotlight.
But the choreography? Its addictive precision captivated fans. When rumors spread that a U.S.-based dance crew trending overseas had been involved, everyone demanded to know who’d secured the collaboration.
As for the music, even after Hadas ended promotions, their songs held firm in the charts—a testament to their quality. The composer behind them, Kim Beom-shin, had only three credits to his name, including “Cold Night.” All were megahits, marking him as a “monster rookie” rivaling Hadas.
Envy simmered industry-wide.
All eyes eventually landed on SSHIN, the company founded by Yeonwoo and Jiyeong. But after lying low under the guise of a hiatus, just as public interest began to wane—
[Looking for collaborators?]
—Jiyeong scattered hints like breadcrumbs.
Companies assembling new teams drooled and pounced.
