Free Web NovelWhen we sang each line, laughter rippled through the audience.
I held the mic and sang:
“Thank you
Because of you I compose
This song”
Then I passed the next line to Ri-hyuk:
“I will remember
Today’s ringtone
I look forward to
Tomorrow’s silent mode”
The hall became a sea of laughter at our etiquette song turned joke. I played the keys and glanced toward the center of the giggling crowd—the couple whose ringtone we’d used was covering their faces with their hands, then bursting into laughter themselves.
Viju hummed into the mic:
“Are you a couple
Are you family
I just had to ask”
The man mouthed “couple,” and our maknae, thrilled, grabbed the mic:
“May you have a beautiful love (beautiful love–)
And remember
Three syllables: New.Black”
I tapped the keys staccato, and the brothers sang “New,” “Black,” “Black” in harmony. Then, as if finishing the piece, I let my fingers trail over the keyboard in a flourish and ended the improvisation.
“Waaa!”
We stood and bowed as if at the end of a set, and the audience’s cheers grew even louder—an ovation recognizing our impromptu composition. Ha Seung-ju, who had been watching from the side, approached with a laughing face.
“That was incredible, right? Everyone?”
“Yes!”
“Honestly, until a moment ago when I heard NewBlack was going to compose on the spot, I thought, ‘It’s all scripted for TV.’ But this...”
He looked at me with delight.
“A masterpiece scene at last.”
“Thank you.”
“I wasn’t expecting that. Impromptu composition from a ringtone. Where are those two?”
The couple shyly raised their hands. The MC grinned:
“Thanks to their ringtone, we got an amazing scene on Music Cafe. Don’t leave yet—come up here and get a gift from the staff.”
As the couple’s eyes widened in delight and the crowd applauded, the MC gave me a subtle cue. I took the mic immediately:
“That’s right. Since fate brought us together, why not take a commemorative photo with us later?”
“Thanks for the song!”
“We’ll give you some chocolates from Malaysia.”
We waved our hands in thanks, and the couple nodded happily. Their expressions showed they’d treasure this memory for a long time. Jung-hyun sent them a dignified finger-heart, and the audience laughed.
Ha Seung-ju glanced at the clock in the hall:
“It really is time to send NewBlack off.”
“It’s time to go.”
We agreed. Despite our nonstop antics having the audience wide-eyed and cheering, it was late. A middle-aged man with folded arms was dozing off.
“Before you go, shall Woo-ju say a few words?”
“I want to sincerely thank everyone who made this wonderful time possible.”
I asked:
“We said we’d change our image today.”
“Woo-ju, give that up.”
“...How was it? Our image is very different from the start, right?”
The audience chorused “Yes!” The managers backstage nodded warmly. My brothers beamed, and I smiled.
“Yes. Please tell everyone about the new image you witnessed today!”
“Please!”
“I was nervous coming here, but thank you for your great response.”
At Viju’s words, the cheering audience paused in surprise—“What was that?”—and the MC wiped his glasses and put them back on. He thanked the crowd and even caught the soufflés scattered through the seats with a smile. I met their eyes, hoping they understood. Beyond the fans holding NewBlack banners, ordinary viewers blinked in recognition, then smiled broadly. I felt proud.
“Now, shall we talk about the final stage?”
“Yes.”
I held the mic:
“I heard ’90s songs are trending again. For our last number, we’ve prepared a medley of hit songs from the 1980s and ’90s.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
After Ha Seung-ju’s closing greeting—“That was Music Cafe!”—the intro music began. A lively saxophone riff and upbeat drums filled the hall—a selection perfect for an audience about to doze off at this hour.
The melody of an ’80s classic, freshly arranged, jolted the drowsy middle-aged man awake. Rhythmic claps echoed. The stoic older viewers who’d watched earlier began bobbing their shoulders. We launched into choreography, and Ji-ho, who’d been gesturing “up up” to the audience, stepped onto the protruding stage section.
“Neon-lit streets—
Ten p.m.”
Under the flickering green lights, the audience roared in excitement. It was a successful finale.
Outside Yeouido PBS, the chilly autumn night had the audience clutching their coats.
“Is there somewhere to call a taxi?”
“Hey, which bus do we take?”
“I’m hungry. Shall we get chicken when we get home?”
People frowned at map apps or flagged passing taxis by the roadside. Once inside their chosen ride, they began chatting about the show.
“Wasn’t that hilarious?”
“Ha ha! I still can’t stop laughing—those buttons.”
“That ringtone couple got called up afterward. They’ll have photos, probably.”
On subways, buses, or in taxis, every phone screen showed a search for NewBlack.
“So weird. They looked different from before.”
“Totally.”
“Seeing them in person, they’re unreal.”
“Maybe they got famous for weird stunts.”
“Sounds plausible.”
“But really, they seemed like different people.” frёewebnoѵel.ƈo๓
“Exactly.”
Whenever NewBlack spoke about music or showed their skill, viewers felt a strange disconnect. Viju’s ringtone improvisation was a breath of fresh shock.
“How do they think on their feet? They really compose properly.”
“They’re genuine musicians,” viewers realized.
Some clicked on the related keyword Sun Woo-ju and recognized his fame.
“He was famous—went to the U.S. in the ’90s to play piano.”
“Really?”
“News all the time. So he’s his son?”
As they learned these facts, the audience’s mental image of NewBlack shifted—from idol group to singer-songwriter to variety talent, occupying a third, undefinable category. They seemed to stand at the apex of all three. Had NewBlack known, they’d have exclaimed, “Image change—success!” but instead they remembered...
“Why do I only recall buttons?”
“Was that Viju who said they were sponsored?”
“Button missiles...”
The most impactful moment was the button explosion—along with every laughter bomb they’d witnessed that day.
“If I had to classify them, I’d say they’re variety talents.”
The word idol nearly rearranged to variety. A boy group impossible to categorize—it was baffling. Yet one thing was certain:
“It {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} was truly fun today.”
Even those who came by chance left genuinely entertained. Late at night, countless fingers tapped NewBlack articles and videos, boosting their views.
The next day, good news arrived. ƒгeeweɓn૦vel.com
“Yay!”
“Guys!”
“PDs!”
“We’re number one!”
The producing-team PDs hugged us and waved their phones. The Mango real-time chart on their screens matched ours:
Two OST tracks topped the real-time chart. Thanks to the soufflés, our ranking was high now, though Falling Stars would likely climb later, given its global popularity. Still, Thousand Dreams held well—just a small gap between them. And with Nostalgia’s worldwide success, the overseas projections looked strong.
“They say we’ll hit 4 million in Korea soon. Overseas popularity is off the charts.”
“Yes.”
I smiled:
“Rupert FaceTimed me—Nostalgia is breaking out in the U.S.”
“Oh, Chichi-pong?”
“Please forget that painful memory.”
I gazed afar, and the producing-team laughed:
“Hey, saw this? English sites are full of Nostalgia OST reviews.”
“Really?”
“Look at the five-star ones.”
Producer Na Sang-yun handed me his phone, shaking with excitement. Jung-hyun read aloud:
“I don’t understand any of it.”
He scrolled through glowing “Thousand Dreams” reviews from overseas critics and smiled. They asked,
“Feels like a huge response, right?”
Saltman PD explained:
“They think it might enter the Billboard charts.”
“Really?”
“It’s second in popularity to Falling Stars. They’re saying it could chart.”
“Wow...”
Maybe it was the thrill of their work potentially hitting a famous overseas chart. We shared excited smiles.
“Amazing. Though it’s thanks to the film.”
“Yeah—Mango chart in the U.S...”
“Shall we celebrate with chicken tonight?”
“Sure.”
The staff laughed at our calmness.
“I thought you’d be jumping up and down.”
“Yeah, this is about right.”
We hopped on tiptoe, and they burst into laughter. We stayed composed—excited, yes, but reminiscent of releasing Something, when our nerves were steadied by the OST context. It was a film OST, after all. While Korean media buzzed, we knew OST success didn’t always translate to the artists alone. Na Sang-yun PD agreed:
“Film OST success doesn’t always mean the singer blows up.”
“Right.”
It was best to take it calmly.
“We’ll view any success as just a way to get our name out overseas.”
“Good plan.”
“Yeah. If it does well, that’s what it means to us.”
The producing-team nodded.
“We got carried away. Better to be calm.”
“Heh.”
“Woo-ju?”
“Uh, nothing...” I covered my mouth, laughing. The staff squinted at me.
“You’re smiling, Sun Woo-ju.”
“No?”
“Lower that hand.”
As I shook my head under the hand at my mouth, the brothers scolded me with disappointed looks.
“You said you’d stay calm, but you seem the most excited.”
“Right! You said we’d be calm, remember?”
The three fingers at my mouth teased me, while a round-eyed bear behind them asked, “Who’s getting the chicken?”
The PDs declared:
“Everyone lower your hand.”
“...”
“The last one puts it down buys the chicken. One, two, three!”
As we all lowered our hands, the five of us beamed bright, gummy smiles.
“You insincere ones.”
“Ha ha!”
I nodded and admitted:
“Honestly, I’m thrilled. Very... heh heh!”
“Ha ha ha!”
We all laughed like fools together, embracing the joy of joy itself. Then Jung-hyun, phone in hand, asked excitedly:
“So, pizza or chicken?”
As we expected, “Thousand Dreams” soon slipped to number two, then held steady. It felt like witnessing Nostalgia’s first musical film to surpass 10 million box-office admissions—and its OST’s soaring popularity beyond Korea.
Headlines read:
– “‘Nostalgia’ OST Gains Popularity Alongside Film Success”
– “NewBlack’s ‘Thousand Dreams’ Charts in 15 Countries”
– “NewBlack Tops Weekly Charts with Four Songs—Now ‘Music Bosses,’ Not Just ‘Music Kings’”
‘Thousand Dreams’ charted highly in Australia, Belgium, Canada, the Netherlands—places where Nostalgia was huge. The thought of our voices reaching unexpected countries was surreal. While domestic media and press paid attention, we barely had time to feel it.
“Good evening, Hong Kong!”
“Hello, everyone!”
“Hello!”
Concerts followed in Taiwan and Thailand in quick succession. Time flew. In Thailand, our busy promotional schedule included music shows, sign-events, and a memorable local broadcast in cooperation with the Tourism Authority—meeting animals at tourist sites, feeding crocodiles with chicken skewers.
“Ahhh!”
“Calm down, Ri-hyuk! Crocs don’t care about you!”
“I don’t know! It bit my chicken!”
Ri-hyuk’s crocodile fear became prime broadcast content. We teased him:
“Why are you scared of that?”
“Because he bit my chicken!”
“Ri-hyuk, were you really that scared of a crocodile?”
It was fun—until the next segment.
“But next is...?”
“The interpreter says we’re doing a two-shot with a tiger.”
“Tigers? We’ll die in one shot, not two.”
In the end, only Jung-hyun did it. While our rapper posed in a “Dangun friendship” photo with a tiger, the rest of us huddled and trembled.
“From a distance it looked less scary, right?”
“Yeah—like ‘give me a dumpling, and I won’t eat you.’”
Grrr
“Ahhh!”
Our guide smiled warmly at the three hiding behind me.
Afraid Thailand would label us cowards, I watched the trainer’s calm movements, then mimicked them boldly—and the big cat began to purr.
“Trainer says the tiger is interested in you, Woo-ju.”
“...”
“It’s a friendly interest.”
My brothers shoved me to take a photo—villains. On the official SNS, the photo “Sergeant Tiger and Private Woo-ju.jpg” spread everywhere, much to my chagrin.
With the three-country tour done, we boarded the flight to Incheon.
“Wo-ju.”
“Hm?”
“If you go back to Korea, it’ll be okay, right?”
Seok-hwan, who kept a log noting “Woo-ju—interesting with animals,” asked.
“You mean about Music Cafe’s broadcast?”
“Yeah. Mingi and Won-seok told me, but I’m not at ease.”
“Don’t worry.”
I declared confidently, and Seok-hwan’s eyes flickered with unspoken doubts.
“It’s... It’s fine, right?”
“All good.”
Our manager’s serene smile was comforting. The maknae peeked out:
“But how will it edit? The buttons—they’ll use graphics, right?”
Ri-hyuk, conscious of fellow passengers, handed each of us a crumpled note with a drawn middle finger—viewers’ reactions, no doubt. As we pondered how viewers would respond, the plane landed in Incheon.
“Uh?”
Seok-hwan, reading a text, addressed us:
“Guys?”
“Yes?”
“They’re asking you to come collect an award.”
“An award?”
We blinked in surprise at the unexpected news.
