Chapter 96
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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 96
Chapter Title: The Master Class Assignment
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“There’s a special assignment for this master class.”
Same as before I regressed.
Master classes had assignments just like other subjects.
However, since they were prepared at the discretion of the special instructor, the content varied wildly.
Teachers who found them a hassle would just have students write something like a review essay.
Moon Kang-hyun didn’t seem like that type.
In other words, with him here, there was no telling what assignment we’d get.
“Does it count toward our grades?”
As expected, the question mark killer.
True to her reputation, Song Ha-na shot her hand up and asked.
“Of course. The master class is one of the official second-semester courses.”
The classroom, buzzing with excitement at Moon Kang-hyun’s arrival, instantly grew deathly quiet at the mention of an assignment.
“Any additional questions after I explain the assignment?”
Moon Kang-hyun asked, looking at Song Ha-na.
“Yes.”
Song Ha-na replied with a prompt “Got it” to his polite words.
Moon Kang-hyun scanned the students and asked.
“Everyone knows YouTube, right?”
“Yesss—”
YouTube.
Even in 2015, it was already hugely popular.
From this point on, its influence grew bigger every year.
By 2030, it had become an indispensable powerhouse in daily life.
“The assignment for this semester’s master class is to film a musical video in pairs and upload it to YouTube.”
Kids murmured at Moon Kang-hyun’s sudden announcement.
It was such an out-of-left-field assignment that they all seemed shocked.
Not just filming a video, but uploading it too.
“It’s only natural to be surprised. Musicals are a stage art, not a screen art.”
Moon Kang-hyun smiled as if he’d anticipated this reaction.
Then, his voice grew a bit more serious than when he’d first spoken.
“But times change.”
The kids fell silent, looking utterly confused.
Everyone except me, who knew how the times would change.
How could he think like that in this era?
And not just anyone, but an actor of Moon Kang-hyun’s caliber.
I was probably the only one who truly grasped how groundbreaking his words were right now.
“You can’t ignore media outside the stage. You don’t have to chase trends, but you need to know how to use them. You probably don’t get what I’m saying yet, right?”
The kids nodded right away.
Which made sense—they dreamed of being musical actors who performed live on stage, not media actors.
So Moon Kang-hyun’s sudden emphasis on media probably didn’t make sense to them.
“Hmm. Being good at acting, singing well, or having great looks… Are those the factors that decide the best musical actors?”
“If you nail all of those, wouldn’t that make you a great actor?”
Song Ha-na shot her hand up again and answered Moon Kang-hyun’s question.
Her voice brimmed with confidence, as if declaring she could master them all and become that actor.
Well, Song Ha-na had every right to that confidence.
From the stage she showed at tryouts, her skills were already polished to that level—no exaggeration.
“That’s right. You could call that a great actor.”
Moon Kang-hyun nodded with a faint smile, agreeing with the spirited Song Ha-na.
But he quickly turned serious, staring straight at her and throwing another question.
“No—more precisely, you’d have the qualifications to become a great actor.”
Song Ha-na tilted her head at his wordplay-like explanation.
He sure knew how to hold the kids’ attention, like any pro actor.
They were listening more intently than in any other class.
It was Monday morning, prime time for drowsiness, but not a single person was nodding off.
And it wasn’t just because it was Moon Kang-hyun.
They were getting sucked into his “story.”
An actor who could draw everyone’s focus.
Even without performing, he naturally pulled all eyes to him—that was Moon Kang-hyun’s weapon.
“The first—and only—element to becoming a great actor.”
Moon Kang-hyun raised one finger, finally revealing the answer.
The kids swallowed hard, waiting with bated breath.
“The audience.”
He folded his finger and stepped forward from the lectern, continuing his explanation.
The answer was out, but some kids still frowned, not getting it.
Moon Kang-hyun smiled at the students staring at him endlessly, as if demanding a proper answer.
“The actor who can show their performance to the most audience members… I think that’s the greatest actor.”
Some students nodded, finally starting to get it.
Others looked unconvinced or still confused.
“Lee Do-hyun?”
Moon Kang-hyun, now at the front, suddenly called my name.
Why me out of nowhere?
“Yes.”
“I hear you were top of Musical Studies last semester—is that right?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“So, at least last semester, you were the best student in this class…”
Oh, come on.
I could feel the other kids looking at me with eyes full of envy as I got this praise from Moon Kang-hyun.
“Do you understand why I said the audience is the only factor?”
I pondered his question.
In my past life, what I’d wanted most was to perform for an audience.
In front of hundreds, thousands.
To show the acting I’d honed through sleepless nights.
I’d put in the effort, so I had some confidence.
But in the end, I never got to.
The thought I had back then was probably the answer I could give now.
It didn’t matter if it was wrong.
A superstar like Moon Kang-hyun could never understand someone like me, stuck playing bit parts.
“If there’s no one to watch, it’s ultimately meaningless.”
“Hmm. Completely meaningless?”
I answered Moon Kang-hyun as he rubbed his chin and asked back.
“Yes… completely meaningless.”
Some might say that answer is wrong.
That acting has meaning beyond the audience.
That even one spectator is enough.
Fine. One audience member—sure, that has meaning.
But what if it’s just one for ten straight years?
I’d say that has zero meaning.
In the end, you naturally want more people to come see your acting, to love it, to be moved, laugh, cry…
“That’s interesting. I didn’t expect such a firm answer from a young student.”
Was I too firm?
I could see Moon Kang-hyun giving me an intrigued smile.
“You’re right. I think the same as you, Do-hyun.”
I was honestly surprised.
Even Moon Kang-hyun, always performing for dozens or hundreds, thought the same as me.
“Ah! Of course, that doesn’t mean I have all the answers. Anyone can have different thoughts, and maybe I’m wrong and that’s the truth.”
Seeing him backpedal like that, I figured he might not be as stubborn as I’d thought.
“Actors only exist if the audience comes to them. And right now, the common belief is that audiences are only those who come to the theater in person. But.”
Moon Kang-hyun emphasized “but.”
For a split second, that low vocalization unique to musical actors emerged.
The immersive pull made it hard not to focus on his voice.
“Over time, people will want to watch musicals from their rooms. We need to be ready to capture those audiences too.”
Wow. He’s even more impressive than I thought.
I was shocked by this unexpected side of Moon Kang-hyun.
Most people at his level of success would see their own path as the righteous one.
To set aside his own experience and boldly explore new paths.
Beyond just lacking stubbornness, he struck me as more awake than anyone.
“I think YouTube itself could become a theater that draws massive audiences.”
Few people saw YouTube that way back then.
Well, it was still 2015, after all.
His foresight on future trends was incredible.
So ahead of the curve.
He didn’t become the top musical actor just from great acting.
“So, the master class assignment this semester is to upload a musical video to YouTube.”
After all that explanation, no one would question the assignment itself.
Every last kid was nodding, fully on board.
Once he saw they all got it, Moon Kang-hyun went into the detailed evaluation announcement.
“The evaluation criteria are simple.”
Moon Kang-hyun wrote the criteria on the blackboard.
“Views. That’s the only criterion.”
Song Ha-na raised her hand as if she’d been waiting.
“If it’s views, doesn’t that favor people who already do YouTube?”
As far as I knew, no one here did YouTube.
Classic Song Ha-na.
Even so, her intent to check every potential unfair angle was clear.
“Good point. Everyone starts with a new account. Video length: at least 15 minutes. As musical videos, they must include a number—no need for original creations. Filming location: limited to school grounds. No other criteria.”
The assignment was straightforward.
The kids buzzed with excited murmurs over the fresh, unexpected task.
Made sense—stage kids being told to handle video media was half worrying, half thrilling.
Moon Kang-hyun pulled out a lottery box from under the lectern, prepared in advance with Han Hyo-jin.
“This is Han Hyo-jin’s lottery box…”
Disappointment flickered across the faces of kids who’d hoped to pick their own partners.
No explanation needed—it was familiar to them.
Apparently to Moon Kang-hyun too.
“This hasn’t changed since I was a kid. Han Hyo-jin must love the classics.”
His light joke eased the slightly tense atmosphere.
“One by one, come up and draw a number. The two who draw the same number are partners. Draw and sit with your partner.”
Kids went up one by one to draw.
Pairs started forming as matches were found, one by one.
Wonder who I’d end up with for this.
Woo-sik, who’d gone first, glanced at me with a burdened look.
I drew my number and sat back down to check it.
“You got 7?”
I nearly jumped.
Song Ha-na stood next to me and asked.
Let’s see, the number on my paper.
“Yeah.”
No sooner had I answered than Song Ha-na plopped down beside me.
“7?”
“Why else would I sit next to you?”
Song Ha-na shot back without even turning to look, as if to say, “Duh?”
My master class partner was Song Ha-na.
Not bad at all.