The Emperor of Rock Ballads.
That's what they called Yoo Jae-hyuk.
He was famous as one of Korea's Four Heavenly Kings, alongside Kim Beom-shin, Kim Hong-sik, and Lee Ji-sung, who dominated the 90s and early 2000s. However, after developing vocal cord nodules, he suddenly vanished from the public eye. Only his close acquaintances and longtime industry insiders knew his current circumstances. To his fans, it felt absurd—their beloved singer had disappeared without warning.
"Even if his voice is ruined, I just want to see him on stage again."
"I don’t need him to sing—just tell us how he’s doing."
"Seriously, does anyone think he can still sing? His pride’s too strong. He’s probably ashamed he can’t perform like before."
"Jae-hyuk oppa, please come back 😭"
Whenever old clips of him singing resurfaced on YouTube, these comments flooded in. People understood. His songs relied on shouting vocals, and his endless performances made vocal damage inevitable. They knew he’d never reclaim his prime. Yet even now, over a decade later, fans still begged for his return—or at least a glimpse of his life.
This tormented Yoo Jae-hyuk. He now seemed silent and rough, but he’d once been vibrant and sociable—a man who adored his fans and lived for the stage. His withdrawal wasn’t by choice. Botched medical treatments and a failed surgery had destroyed his vocal cords.
Still, he refused to quit. He visited countless clinics, straining his broken voice to sing again. But no treatment could fully repair the damage. He could technically sing—just not in a way anyone wanted to hear.
A decade passed. The shame of being unable to perform drove him deeper into isolation. Then one day, he heard Kim Beom-shin’s song on the street—a new release from a singer once deemed irrelevant. The track topped every chart.
So he’s made a comeback...
Yoo Jae-hyuk dismissed it at first. But as despair consumed him—even thoughts of death—he wondered: If the composer behind Kim Beom-shin’s revival could resurrect a lost career, couldn’t they write a song for him too?
He didn’t believe it. But he’d try once more—one last gamble. If the composer refused, or worse, pitied him with a song he couldn’t sing... then death would be acceptable.
With hollow resolve, he went to the company Ji-young had mentioned.
“Are you mocking me?”
A man with death in his eyes glared at Ji-young. If looks could kill—
But Ji-young remained unflinching. “I warned you not to be shocked.”
“......”
Yoo Jae-hyuk stared ahead. Before him stood a child—Yeon-woo.
“The real Yoo In…?”
“Yes. Yeon-woo—no, Composer Yoo In. Greet him properly. This is Senior Yoo Jae-hyuk.”
“Hello. I’m Yoo In.”
Yeon-woo bowed deeply at her aunt’s introduction.
“Tch.”
God truly was cruel. Toying with his last hope? What could this child possibly offer? Even if she was Yoo In—how could a little girl understand his shattered voice?
“I’ll... just go.”
As he turned, a small hand gripped his.
Startled, he looked back. Yeon-woo held his hand tightly, gazing up at him.
An intriguing person indeed.
Every time he spoke, red fairies burst out around him.
It was the first time his voice itself had created red fairies.
But Yoo Jae-hyuk’s fairy, newly born beside him, was different.
It blazed with a bright blue light, no less vivid than Kim Beom-shin’s or Heo Ok’s fairies.
Unlike Yoo Jae-hyuk’s somber demeanor, the fairy burned with passion, its dazzling smile a stark contrast to his rigid expression.
Perhaps this was the true Yoo Jae-hyuk.
That’s why Yeon-woo couldn’t let him go.
“Mister.”
“……”
“Want to sing a song?”
Yoo Jae-hyuk halted mid-step at the sight of Yeon-woo addressing him with guileless eyes.
“Just try singing first. Think of it as humoring me.”
An involuntary snort escaped Yoo Jae-hyuk.
“Bold words from a runt.”
“Come here, yeah?”
Yeon-woo tugged at him.
Despite his solid frame, Yoo Jae-hyuk followed without resistance.
Ji-young stared, shocked—not by Yoo Jae-hyuk, but by Yeon-woo.
She’d never seen the boy approach a stranger so fearlessly.
Yeon-woo shoved Yoo Jae-hyuk into the recording booth.
Inside, Yoo Jae-hyuk surveyed the familiar condenser mic, along with dynamic and USB mics arranged to suit any preference.
His fingers brushed the pop filter shielding the microphone.
A tremor ran through him.
Four years ago exactly.
He’d owned a studio then too.
He’d clung to hope until the end before smashing everything in rage when his voice never returned.
Yet now, facing recording equipment after so long, excitement surged through him.
His blood sang.
He was born to do this.
“Mister, hearing me okay?”
The kid’s voice crackled through the talkback.
“……”
Yoo Jae-hyuk startled at the figure beyond the glass.
The cheerful child had vanished.
Now sharp-eyed and intense, Yeon-woo resembled a producer preparing an artist.
“Loud and clear.”
“I’ll start your MR track. Give it a shot.”
“…My song?”
His chest tightened.
How could he claim ownership of something he couldn’t perform?
But the instrumental began anyway.
His debut track.
The song he’d crafted with his bandmate—the friend who’d died delivering food, struck by a drunk driver weeks before their debut.
Yoo Jae-hyuk had carried both the music and his friend’s dreams onto Hongdae’s rock stages.
Through some miracle, perhaps his friend’s lingering will, “Soaring Sky” had launched him to fame.
The intro pulsed urgently.
Sing, it demanded. Lend your voice to this melody.
Bass thrummed, drums roared, guitars wailed.
He opened his mouth.
“Rising through azure skies, I soar—!”
He choked on the first verse.
No razor-sharp cry pierced the air, no hawk’s call tearing through clouds.
His vocal cords seized, rebelling.
He stood paralyzed as the track played on.
Yeon-woo stopped the music.
His gaze shifted between Yoo Jae-hyuk and the fairies now flanking him—Kim Beom-shin’s and Yoo Jae-hyuk’s own.
What’s wrong?
Kim Beom-shin’s fairy mimed a strangled throat.
Yoo Jae-hyuk’s fairy shook its head, jabbing a finger at the man.
Too much strain? And you—he can’t sing at all?
Yoo Jae-hyuk’s fairy shook its head violently.
It threw back its head and screamed—a raw, blistering shout only Yeon-woo heard—before gesturing emphatically at its human counterpart.
"Ah, so I shouldn't sing like you? That shouting? That technique?"
Only then did Yoo Jae-hyuk's fairy nod.
Yeon-woo pressed the talkback button.
"Mister, you're putting too much tension in your throat."
-...I know.
Trying to force out the sound, he'd unknowingly strained his vocal cords. He knew it was poor technique.
"And why do you keep trying to sing like before? Even if you do that, the shouting won't come out, mister."
Yoo Jae-hyuk stiffened at those words.
Yes, now that he thought about it, she was right.
He'd still been trying to produce vocals for his signature shouting technique.
No—truthfully, he didn't know how to sing any other way.
This was the limitation of someone who'd never received formal training, cobbling together his technique by mimicking TV performances, radio broadcasts, and even book descriptions, relying solely on his raw vocal cords.
-Try singing while relaxing your throat.
From beyond the booth, Yeon-woo spoke while fiddling with something before restarting the track.
"...!"
The intro was unmistakably "Chang-gong," but in a different key—lowered to accommodate his current vocal range.
Yoo Jae-hyuk opened his mouth, consciously relaxing his throat.
"Flying up into the blue sky, I'm flying up..."
His voice emerged more smoothly than before.
-Again! This time, engage your diaphragm!
"Flying up into..."
-Again!! Mister, I said diaphragm, not throat!!
"Flying up into the blue sky, I'm flying up...!"
His projection improved significantly.
But only to a point.
It remained an unpleasant voice.
Even Yeon-woo across the booth admitted this silently, watching red fairies erupt violently whenever he sang.
Yet she refused to stop.
The moment Yoo Jae-hyuk sang, his fairy pressed against the booth glass, watching intently.
Yeon-woo witnessed something unprecedented—a fairy crying tears while gazing at its host.
Yoo Jae-hyuk's fairy had waited endlessly within him for this moment.
For its host to sing again.
Even through that beastly voice spawning red fairies, even through the cacophony—it wept with joy.
'Wait. Beast?'
Yeon-woo suddenly opened YouTube, searching animal sounds—growls, roars, howls.
'Your voice sounds like this.'
No, Yoo Jae-hyuk's was rougher.
Yet these predators too emitted red fairies when vocalizing.
But did people hate tigers' roars or wolves' howls?
No.
Though hearing them in person might terrify...
Terror?
Wait—perhaps...
'Maybe red fairies... aren't inherently bad?'
-...Hey?
While Yeon-woo wandered through her thoughts, an awkward Yoo Jae-hyuk cautiously called out.
"Mister, just a moment."
He fell silent seeing Yeon-woo decisively raise her hand.
The legendary Yoo Jae-hyuk was being ordered about by a six-year-old.
Strangely, it didn't bother him.
He quietly observed the child.
