Chapter 75
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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 75
Chapter Title: Sweet Opportunity
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“Personally, I’d love to see you two students on stage for this tryout performance as well.”
What was this now?
Didn’t they just announce that Moon Woo-hyuk and Lee Cheong-ha passed?
Hold on.
This sounded familiar somehow.
My furrowed brow instantly relaxed.
Like master, like student, huh.
“Are you saying you want to give us different roles?”
It reminded me of what Yoon Jong-hoon had said to Moon Woo-hyuk during the audition for the comprehensive evaluation.
The difference was that back then, it had been a semi-original play adapted from an existing story.
Yoon Jong-hoon had created a new character for him that time.
This time, they’d called us in for the tryout of an already famous play.
No matter how much of a genius Jang Jun-ho was, he wouldn’t create a new character for a show they’d been preparing for months.
“What?”
Song Ha-na reacted first to my question.
For some reason, she whipped around to glare at me with a hint of irritation, so I desperately fixed my gaze on Jang Jun-ho.
She was probably shooting me another terrifying look.
“You’re right, Do-hyun.”
Thanks to Jang Jun-ho’s words, Song Ha-na’s eyes finally shifted away from me.
“Oh, mind if I drop the formalities?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
“Great. I’ll talk casually then.”
Jang Jun-ho stood up from his seat and walked toward the stage as he continued.
“To cut to the chase: Lee Do-hyun, Song Ha-na. You didn’t make it for the main roles in this casting audition, but I want to cast you in other parts of the show. Honestly, your acting was really impressive.”
He reached the front of the stage and looked up at me and Song Ha-na standing there.
“It wasn’t just good for 17-year-olds. Sure, there are still some rough edges, but that’s exactly why I want to work with you and polish it up.”
Oh, getting praise like that from Jang Jun-ho himself—honor of honors.
Any regret over failing vanished in an instant.
How many 17-year-olds get feedback like that from him?
In my past life, I’d lived to 33 without ever exchanging more than a few words with him, let alone praise.
Though I had seen him in person once or twice.
We were in the same industry, after all.
From a distance, anyway...
“It’s the shared opinion of me and the other two judges—we’d hate to just send you two away. What do you say? Want to give it a shot? Oh, just so you know, these roles will have way less weight than the Lee Hyun-woo and Jung Hee-seon parts we saw today.”
Standing on a tryout stage with pros, even in smaller roles.
At the Korean Art Hall, no less...
What was this? Total honey.
No need to overthink it.
Saved me the hassle of planning my break.
“Sounds good.”
I answered without hesitation, and Jang Jun-ho grinned, clearly pleased.
Then he turned to Song Ha-na.
I followed his gaze to her as well.
But,
why was she looking at me like that?
I flinched.
Who knew she’d be staring at me with her brows knit tight and her face full of things she wanted to say.
Jang Jun-ho was the one who asked, so why glare at me?
“Sorry, Director. Could I talk to Lee Do-hyun for a sec?”
She was even prioritizing a chat with me over the director’s offer.
She had no idea how scary he could be.
There’s no way he’d allow—
“Sure, take your time.”
Ugh, why’d you say yes?
What was she going to say now?
“Follow me.”
Song Ha-na strode quickly toward the waiting room behind the stage.
She didn’t even wait for my answer—just told me to follow and took off.
The more I saw, the more arrogant she seemed.
“Well, if you’ll excuse me...”
I gave Jang Jun-ho a slight nod and trudged after Song Ha-na.
***
“What the hell are you doing?”
The moment we entered the waiting room, Song Ha-na—who’d clearly been lying in wait—crossed her arms and glared at me.
Coming here, I finally got what it felt like to be a cow heading to the slaughterhouse.
“Why? What?”
I wasn’t scared, not even a little.
As if a 33-year-old soul would cower before a 17-year-old.
I just kept my distance, that’s all.
I answered from a few steps away.
“You’re just gonna accept that offer like it’s nothing? Don’t you have any pride?”
She stepped forward, closing the gap as she spoke.
I flinched, but her last words made me straighten up.
Pride.
Did pride pay the bills?
Besides, was this even something to bruise your pride over?
“Why would my pride be hurt?”
I asked out of genuine curiosity.
Her face hardened at my words, and she yelled.
“We lost! You to Moon Woo-hyuk, me to Lee Cheong-ha!”
Song Ha-na started shouting but managed to lower her voice.
I recalled her clenched fists when the casting results were announced.
Yeah, losing to someone definitely didn’t feel good.
Especially for her, who thought she was better than Lee Cheong-ha—this could be humiliating.
Still, this wasn’t it.
“That’s one thing. The stage is another.”
It had nothing to do with getting on stage.
“What?”
“You gonna do only the acting you want from start to finish?”
Was it because I’d failed so many auditions in my past life?
Maybe Song Ha-na was right—maybe I’d tossed my pride as an actor into the gutter.
Who knew.
“You can’t always do just what you want. We failed the audition but got cast in other roles anyway. By Jang Jun-ho, no less. I don’t see how that hurts my pride.”
I was more focused on the new offer than the rejection.
Was I the weird one?
“You’re okay standing on the same stage as Moon Woo-hyuk, who took the role right out from under you?”
“Yeah. So what?”
My nonchalant response seemed to throw her off instead.
There’s no one right answer in acting.
That’s why it thrives on diverse interpretations and performers.
This time, Moon Woo-hyuk just fit the Lee Hyun-woo role better.
I hadn’t slacked on prep, and I hadn’t bombed performance-wise.
That’s why they offered us other roles.
Sure, you could call it a loss, but it didn’t bother me much.
“If I’d failed because I sucked, yeah. I’d be embarrassed and hate sharing a stage. But that’s not it. They acknowledged our skills. Why should I be embarrassed?”
Song Ha-na stared at me wordlessly in response to my blunt words.
I got the gist of her feelings, but I couldn’t coddle her through every bit.
Hopefully she got it by now.
She looked deep in thought, glaring at me without a word, so it didn’t seem like we were wrapping up anytime soon.
This was bad.
To end this talk, I’d have to drop the real golden tip.
“Besides, honestly, isn’t this a total sweet deal?”
I lowered my voice to a whisper.
“…What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Come on. A chance to watch pros rehearse up close. Small roles mean less practice time, so you can observe, analyze, ask questions...”
Sure, trading lines with pros would be great experience.
But watching their routines and practice firsthand? That’s huge too.
How do I know? Endless days as an nameless ensemble or bit player left tons of downtime, and that’s how it went.
I’d gained a lot that way.
“Rubbing shoulders with pros, no pressure. Can’t beat that opportunity.”
Either way, we were all just 17.
Physically and experience-wise, we couldn’t match pros yet.
Better than jumping into a big role, stressing out, and flopping, right?
“Keeping the judges waiting too long would be rude, don’t you think? Shall we head back?”
I said that much, turned toward the stage, and asked.
Song Ha-na stood still for a moment, then started walking.
Together, we returned to the stage.
***
“Song Ha-na, made up your mind?”
Jang Jun-ho, waiting in the same spot as before, asked as she climbed onto the stage.
The two of us stood in our pre-exit positions.
Song Ha-na glanced at me beside her, then looked at Jang Jun-ho and asked.
“Could I ask one thing?”
Wow, the question mark assassin strikes again.
“Sure. Shoot.”
“Why her and not me? Why Lee Cheong-ha for Jung Hee-seon?”
“Because Lee Cheong-ha fits the Jung Hee-seon role better.”
Jang Jun-ho answered without missing a beat.
In any audition, that’s the most definitive response there is.
That actor fits this role better.
Sure, dirty politics might lurk behind it sometimes, but as far as I knew, Jang Jun-ho wasn’t that kind of director.
And Lee Cheong-ha wasn’t the type to pull strings over Song Ha-na.
“Does that mean she’s better than me?”
Song Ha-na pressed on without backing down from Jang Jun-ho.
The question mark assassin was in full force at the Korean Art Hall too.
“Hmm.”
This time, he didn’t answer right away.
Jang Jun-ho glanced at Lee Cheong-ha, then at Song Ha-na, before replying.
“In some ways?”
Not the answer Song Ha-na wanted, I bet.
Sure enough, she bit her lower lip.
Jang Jun-ho chuckled at her reaction and continued.
“Listen up, Song Ha-na. Your acting is great. Your singing is top-notch. Your dance is art. Among all the high schoolers I’ve seen, you’re one of the best talents out there.”
Finally, the answer she’d been craving.
But Jang Jun-ho wasn’t done.
“But if talent alone made everything perfect, musicals would be boring, right? Actors can’t always do just what they want.”
Song Ha-na glanced my way at his words.
No surprise— they echoed what I’d just told her.
I’d been looking at her, so I quickly averted my eyes.
No way did I want to lock gazes and get dragged backstage again.
Twice was more than enough.
“I hope you learn that from this chance... What do you say? Up for it?”
Cool as ever.
Jang Jun-ho wasn’t just a great director—he was a great adult.
At his level, he could’ve gotten mad or brushed her off.
But he didn’t care, offering again with total poise.
That kind of grace and gravitas? Not everyone could pull it off.
“So, you’re saying I didn’t fail because I wasn’t good enough?”
Song Ha-na was persistent as ever.
She had to nail that point.
“Yeah.”
“Got it. I’ll do it then. Thank you for the opportunity.”
The moment his “Yeah” landed, Song Ha-na bowed at a perfect 90 degrees.
That’s why even her occasional arrogance didn’t make her hated.
And so.
After all the twists and turns, it was confirmed: the four first-years from Cheongyeom Arts High’s musical club would all take the stage for the [Pingchang-dong 777] tryout performance.