The Birth of a Master

Friday, 5:00 p.m.

For any office worker, this should have been the most thrilling hour of the week. My heart rate was spiking, all right — but for an entirely different reason. Pure rage.

"Assistant Manager Kang, what is this lettering? Make it funkier! More MZ! You know what I mean?"

Managing Director Choi jabbed a finger at the monitor, tap-tap-tap.

If I snapped that finger, how much would the settlement cost?

I entertained the thought for a moment.

"…"

"There's that short-form energy these days, right? Letters that look like they're about to punch through the screen! Instant impact — bam, straight into the brain! You've got to capture that feeling. This is way too tame."

I bit down hard on my lip.

Funky? MZ?

Give me a goddamn break.

The design currently on screen was already chaotic enough. Crank the impact any higher and it wouldn't be design anymore — it would be visual terrorism.

Still, I forced the corners of my mouth upward. A capitalist smile.

"Ah, I think I understand what you mean, sir. Raise the saturation, enlarge the font, give it a more dynamic feel — is that right?"

"Exactly! See, Assistant Manager Kang always gets it. Good instincts."

Managing Director Choi clapped my shoulder with satisfied thumps. My skin crawled.

"Fix it right now and bring it back. Nail that vibe and this thing's going to blow up. You're not leaving until it's done — we clear?"

A revision request at five in the afternoon. A full overhaul, no less. So much for clocking out on time.

"Yes, sir. I'll fix it immediately."

"Cheer up, will you? Someone might think I'm forcing you. We're family here. Come on."

Family, my ass. You treat us like family, all right — the kind you exploit.

Managing Director Choi hummed his way off toward the break room. I imagined flipping him off to his retreating back. Reality, however, was the monitor in front of me.

"Haa…"

A deep sigh sank into the floor.

Ad Like. A viral marketing agency. That was my workplace.

The job itself was simple enough: push restaurant blogs into the top search results, crank out Instagram card news, mass-produce soulless promotional copy. The real problem wasn't the clients — it was Managing Director Choi, the golden parachute who'd floated down from on high.

The boss's son. That single credential had landed him the title of Managing Director, and from that perch he practiced a dark art: turning perfectly good proposals into garbage.

What a joke. This is so tacky it's rotting my eyes.

I dragged the mouse and enlarged the font. Red. Yellow. Neon. A color scheme with zero aesthetic sense, dumped on like a load of waste. This wasn't design. This was excretion.

The company's running just great. What the hell is the president thinking? Blood relation or not, putting a man with zero taste in charge…

This would never sell. People weren't idiots. Nobody was going to click on an ad this tacky.

But my opinion didn't matter. This was a sweatshop where you did as you were told.

"Hoo…"

I was so frustrated I wanted to hurl the mouse across the room when —

Knock knock.

Someone rapped on my desk from over the partition. Manager Park Do-hun.

"Minjun. You ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠okay?"

"Oh — hyung."

At the office he was Manager Park. When it was just the two of us, he was hyung. My old military senior, and the man who'd dragged me into this pit in the first place. His face was full of apology.

"That guy spouting nonsense again? MZ, my ass. Biggest dinosaur in the building."

"What can you do? Orders are orders."

"God, it's infuriating. Your original draft was so much better. Why can't he see that whatever you make is the right answer?"

Park clicked his tongue at my monitor, clearly pained by the monstrosity on the screen. I was grateful for the comfort, and bitter all at once.

What good was knowing the right answer when the decision-maker always picked the wrong one?

"Forget it. I'm losing whatever attachment I had left to this place. I'll just stamp out the work like a machine."

"I'm sorry. I never should've brought you here."

He glanced toward the break room and dropped his voice.

"You came all the way to Seoul because of me, and all you've done is suffer. I don't know how to face you."

"Hey, don't say that. Without you I never would have dared come to Seoul in the first place. You even lent me the deposit."

"Still, man. I should at least make sure you can earn a living — instead I just keep you working overtime every night."

His shoulders sagged.

It was true. When I'd come up from the countryside with nowhere to go, he was the one who'd arranged the job and freely put up my rent deposit. Without that debt — without that gratitude ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠— I would have thrown my resignation letter in their faces a long time ago.

If it weren't for him…

He was the only reason I was still putting up with any of this. Park Do-hun — once my senior, now my boss and my hyung — was the sole thing that made me endure the filthy mechanics of this sweatshop.

And honestly… not knowing what I'd do if I left played a part too.

"It's fine. Let's just finish this and get out of here. I'll dig up image sources. If you take half, we'll knock it out fast."

"You don't have to —"

"No arguments. When we're done, let's grab a drink. My treat."

He dragged a chair over beside me. Looking at his profile, I swallowed a bitter smile.

Good people. Terrible company.

In the end, we didn't get out until past ten.

My stomach burned from running on empty all evening. The plan to grab a drink with hyung had collapsed under Managing Director Choi's additional revision requests.

"Good work today."

"Yeah. Minjun — I'm really sorry. Get some real rest this weekend."

I hauled my rag-doll body onto the subway. Even Line 2, the infamous hell train, was quiet at this hour. I surrendered to the rattling vibration and pulled out my phone.

My one remaining pleasure. Web novel time.

Right — Sword Lord finishes today.

A wuxia novel I'd followed for ten years. The protagonist's desperate quest for revenge and growth had been the balm for every frustration of my office life. Buoyed by anticipation, I hit the payment button.

And ten minutes later —

"…Fuck."

The curse came out loud. Thankfully the car was nearly empty. With trembling hands, I checked the screen again.

A dream?

It had all been a dream?

The protagonist hadn't become the greatest under heaven and destroyed the Demonic Cult. He'd just dozed off while plowing a field and dreamed the whole thing?

"You've got to be kidding me."

My blood pressure shot to the top of my skull. I opened the comments. Chaos had already erupted.

I wasn't the only one furious. But the author had posted a single notice and gone dark.

"Best ending, my ass."

Thanks? Love? You dump this pile of shit on us and then talk about gratitude?

I felt hollow. My ten years — my only refuge — had been invalidated.

Even after I got home, the anger wouldn't leave. I washed up halfheartedly and sat at my desk. The monitor flickered on. Out of habit, I browsed the web novel platforms. I needed something — anything — to take the edge off.

But then.

"Haa…"

When had it started? The web novels I used to devour for fun — the plots, the scene direction, the characters' dialogue — everything had begun to feel stifling.

"Keh keh keh. You dare challenge me?"

Cringe.

"Status window!"

Another status window?

The protagonist threw himself in front of the heroine to save her.

No — why throw your body? Use the magic! The cooldown's up!

Every scroll of the mouse brought another snag, another wall. It could be so much better. This wasn't it. If it were me, I'd darken the protagonist right here and wipe them all out. If it were me, I'd twist the worldbuilding and drop a reversal.

If you're so frustrated, write it yourself.

The classic internet retort. As if I hadn't tried. I'd opened blank documents more times than I could count.

But nothing came out.

Hollywood blockbuster footage ran on a loop inside my head — and the moment it passed through my fingers, it turned into an elementary school picture diary. It was maddening. Ideas, brilliant plot turns, cinematic direction — all of it overflowed. I just didn't know how to stretch them into long-form prose. Too much I wanted to write, and the excess itself became a blockage.

Hell, if I could even draw, I could at least storyboard a webtoon.

My hands were the worst of the worst. Stick figures were my ceiling. Me, making a webtoon?

"Ugh."

Was I just a snobby reader with elevated taste and nothing else? I had good plotlines. Mix this premise with that one and it felt like a hit waiting to happen. I just had no way to express any of it.

I was about to close the browser with another sigh when something suddenly occurred to me.

People have been saying you can write novels and draw with AI these days.

I'd seen it on the news. An era where AI wrote web novels and drew webtoons. What if — what if it could help me express what was locked inside my head? If AI became my hands. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠If it polished my mess of sentences and rendered the images in my mind as actual pictures.

"Just that alone… would be insanely fun."

My chest was already pounding from the thought. Scenes and plotlines flooded in by the dozen — starting with fixing Sword Lord's ruined ending, all the way through the original stories I'd been sitting on for years.

I typed into the search bar.

Creative AI. Novel-writing AI.

Information poured out. And in the corner of the screen, a flashing banner ad snagged my eye.

An ad I normally wouldn't have given a second glance. Ransomware, probably. A scam.

But today — whether from the stress Managing Director Choi had piled on, the fury at that garbage ending, or pure impulse —

"I'm curious."

As if possessed, my mouse moved.

Click.

An impulsive click.

Faster than expected. Ten percent. Thirty. Fifty. The gauge filled in the blink of an eye. And then —

The Yes button glowed on screen. I hesitated for a second. If this was a virus, I'd have to format the drive — and this was the piece-of-junk PC Park had given me. Formatting would only make it slower.

Fear was there. Curiosity was louder.

Ah, screw it.

I put force into my index finger.

Click.

And in that instant —

Zzt.

"Wh…?"

That was no ordinary mouse click. A strange current climbed from my fingertip — like a high-voltage shock, a tingling sensation racing up my arm and into my brain in a single heartbeat.

"Ugh—!"

I cried out without meaning to and collapsed onto the desk. Light flared behind my eyes. This wasn't static electricity. It felt as if something had traveled down my spine and brain stem and forcibly seized every nerve ending in my fingers. My body locked up on its own.

And then a mechanical chime rang in my ears — no, directly inside my head.

What — what the hell was this? A hallucination?

I forced my trembling body upright. The blank document I'd left open was still on the monitor. And then —

Ssslip.

Independent of my will, my hands rose onto the keyboard.

"W-wait—?"

I tried to stop them. Pointless. As if they weren't my hands at all — or rather, as if they were mine but someone else was piloting them — my fingers began to dance on their own.

Clackclackclackclackclack—!

Keystrokes so rapid they were almost cheerful filled the small room with a sound that raised the hair on my arms. Insane speed. I wasn't the one typing. Inside my head, the true ending of Sword Lord that I'd been furiously imagining just moments ago was crystallizing into text on the screen.

"Whoa…"

My mouth wouldn't close. These were the scenes from inside my head. Honestly, the sentences were far more perfect than anything I'd imagined. Word choice, rhythm, descriptive detail — all of it flawless. The agony of being unable to express myself, the injustice I'd carried for so long, was washing away as if it had never existed.

Clack-clack. Click.

My fingers didn't stop. Every press of the Enter key sent a rush of pleasure down my spine. I lost all sense of time. Ten minutes? Twenty? It felt like less than a minute had passed when my fingers finally stilled.

The chime in my head coincided with the release of my body's lock.

"Hah… hah…"

I gasped for air and stared at the monitor. The scrollbar had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠shrunk to the size of an ant. With shaking hands, I rolled the mouse wheel upward.

Four chapters' worth, instantaneously. Over twenty thousand characters including spaces — completed in thirty minutes. And the quality…

"Insane."

I read it slowly. The further I went, the hotter my eyes became. Tears came. Not from sadness — from being overwhelmed.

That feeling of frustration that had dogged me no matter what masterpiece I read — it was draining away, clean and cool, like a clogged pipe finally cleared. This was the story I'd wanted to see. The plot I'd craved so desperately. The same thrill I'd felt the first time I ever encountered a web novel — no, any creative work at all. The emotion that swept into my chest and stirred everything inside me hit ten times harder. A hundred times harder.

I read it again and again. Every sentence was a jewel.

"I… wrote this?"

I couldn't believe it. But my fingertips were still hot. The delusions that had lived only in my head now existed as real text before my eyes.

I could write this better.

The words I'd almost typed into the comments earlier, then deleted. The words I'd swallowed for fear of being mocked.

I clenched my fist.

I could do this, couldn't I? At this level —

"I could devour the whole damn industry."

My face, lit by the monitor's glow, was twisted into something strange. Madness and certainty, both at once.

That night, I sat for a long time replaying the ending I'd written, accepting the existence of the AI called Muse. When I searched again, the site was gone. So this was a miracle.

I was no longer Kang Minjun, the office worker.

This was the birth of a master.