This Is It
The moment my sister-in-law gave her blessing, everything moved like a well-oiled machine.
There were no more brakes.
The first thing we had to settle was space.
"How about this?"
Hyung pulled up real estate listings on his tablet PC.
A shared office right in the heart of Teheran-ro in Gangnam. And not just any unit—a premium room.
"Great location, clean facilities. Best of all, it's perfect for registering as a corporate address. The meeting rooms are solid too, so hosting outside clients will be easy. The deposit's a bit steep, but… if I take out a loan and throw in some of my own cash, we should be fine."
"You're putting in your own money too…?"
"You gave me a ten percent stake. Of course I should invest."
I nodded. I was that sure of our success.
"Looks good. Let's sign the contract right away."
"And that private studio you mentioned—here."
He swiped to the next screen.
A newly built villa tucked into a quiet residential neighborhood, a fair distance from the shared office.
"Writing's sensitive work. You'll be better off here than in a crowded office. The soundproofing is perfect."
"Seriously, what would I do without you?"
I meant it. All I had to do was toss out a rough idea, and hyung turned it into a concrete, realistic plan.
Separating the corporate office from my personal studio had been my request.
Even with Muse's help, writing demanded absolute concentration. The difference in speed between focused and unfocused work was night and day. Muse refined the expression—but the skeleton of the story, the direction, belonged entirely to me.
I needed a fortress that was mine alone. No interruptions. No one else.
"When do we get the corporate card?"
"As soon as the business registration comes through. Give it a week. In that time I'll handle the tax stuff, legal, interior—everything."
Hyung puffed out his chest with total confidence.
"You just focus on the writing, Author. This humble servant will take care of all the busywork."
"Haha. I feel safer already."
We laughed, light and easy. It was a good start. Funds were tight but not critical, and my partner was sharp.
And more than anything—
"Whoa…"
Hyung checked the sales numbers on his phone and couldn't close his mouth.
"How is this even possible? Day three of paid chapters and the revenue is still climbing?"
"Really?"
"Normally the launch buzz fades and you get a nice downward curve. But this? Today's numbers are higher than yesterday's."
He shook his head like he couldn't believe it.
The reason was simple. The platform had decided to push us for real.
Munpia main banner. Pop-ups. App push notifications. Everywhere you looked, The Regressed Hunter is Merciless was waiting.
This wasn't just rowing when the tide came in. They had blown the dam wide open.
"They're doing it because they're sure," I said calmly. "The platform knows this title makes money. So they're investing."
"Incredible. Seriously."
Hyung kept muttering in awe while he cleaned up the Excel sheets.
From here on, all I had to do was write.
I was dropping triple daily updates like it was nothing, and the readers still weren't cooling off. If anything, they were getting hotter.
The communities were wallpapered with talk about my novel.
Hard to believe, right?
Even I had trouble believing it sometimes.
And then there were the funnier reactions.
Readers were worrying about the author's health.
I laughed.
Take it slow, huh?
My hard drive already held manuscripts through chapter 130—fully edited and proofed.
If I announced right now that I'd already written up to 130, what would they do? That concern would flip into threats in a heartbeat.
Just a little longer. Let me enjoy this.
I sipped my coffee at a leisurely pace and watched the monitor.
It felt like the world was under my feet.
Meanwhile, the Ad Like office Kang Minjun had left behind was nothing short of hell.
"Managing Director, Company A just filed a complaint. They say the draft is completely different from last time…"
"Managing Director! Company B is putting the renewal on hold. They keep asking if Manager Park quit—what am I supposed to tell them?"
"Managing Director…"
"Shut up! All of you, get out!"
Managing Director Choi hurled the stack of papers on his desk. The staff bolted from his office like they were fleeing a fire.
"Haa… haa…"
He yanked his tie loose. His head felt ready to explode.
Just two people. Kang Minjun and Park Do-hun. Only two had walked out, and the company had stopped dead.
More precisely, it was collapsing.
He was finally, painfully realizing how much work those two had been carrying—and how much influence they had held.
Buzz. Buzz.
The phone face-down on his desk vibrated again.
Father.
The three letters on the screen made his stomach seize. The calls came every single day. If he didn't pick up, the old man would storm the office himself.
Last night had already been a disaster.
"If you don't fix this by the end of the week, pack your bags for real. You think I'll sit and watch my company go under?"
One week. That was the deadline his father had given him.
If he couldn't bring those two back inside that window, he wouldn't just lose the managing director title—he'd be erased from the family register.
"Haa… fuck."
The curse slipped out on its own.
Did he really have to go bow his head? To those arrogant bastards?
His pride refused. He was the superior. He was the one with power. Crawl to the subordinates and beg?
But reality was merciless.
Before a full week had even passed, production speed had been cut in half and quality had hit rock bottom. Morale among the remaining staff was in the dirt. You could see it in their eyes—they all knew this ship was sinking, and they were already shopping for new jobs.
No other way.
Choi bit his lip. He had to admit it. He was the one who needed them now.
Yeah. Once they're out there, they'll realize it's nothing special.
He started rationalizing hard.
Minjun had thrown his resignation in a fit of temper, but he'd be staring at an empty future with no way to eat. Do-hun had a wife and kid—how much worse must it be for him?
They were definitely regretting it by now. They just couldn't make the first call because of pride.
If I go give them a face-saving excuse, they'll come back pretending they had no choice.
Choi ran the numbers in his head.
He couldn't show up empty-handed. He needed a solid lure.
A ten percent raise should make them grateful enough, right?
No—things were urgent. Spend a little more.
Twenty percent.
Close his eyes and offer twenty. It would hurt, but better than watching the company die. And once things settled, he could always cut them back or kick them out later.
"Alright. Let's go."
Choi stood, threw on his jacket with the solemn air of a savior, and headed out—completely unaware that those two were already making twenty percent look like pocket change.
At the same hour, in a high-end Japanese restaurant in Gangnam.
Kang Suk-woo sat turning his teacup with a bitter expression. Across from him sat a team leader from ToonMix, one of the country's top webtoon agencies.
"I understand what you're saying, Representative."
The team leader dabbed his mouth with a napkin and spoke in a dry tone.
"The work is excellent, and the response on Munpia is hot. We've confirmed all of that in the data."
"Then my proposal isn't unreasonable, is it?"
Kang Suk-woo asked carefully. He had staked everything on this meeting. He wanted the industry's best terms for the webtoon adaptation, recognition of the work's true value.
The answer that came back was cold.
"Representative. Let's be realistic."
The team leader folded his arms.
"How many webtoons based on web novels are there these days? Ten can drop in a single day. Some hit big, sure—but far more crash and burn."
"But the metrics prove this one. One week after going paid—"
"Those are novel metrics."
The team leader cut him off.
"Webtoons are different. There's no guarantee the novel readers will migrate, and adapting it for webtoon tastes plus matching the art carries massive risk—you know that. Production costs alone run into the hundreds of millions."
"…"
"And the author's a rookie, right? Not a proven veteran."
That word again. Rookie. Risk.
Kang Suk-woo clenched his teeth.
These past few days, after finding such an outstanding work, he had briefly forgotten. He had believed the peak of this industry was the author and the work itself.
It wasn't.
At the business table, the ones holding the cards were still them—the agencies with the capital and the production systems. They saw works as products, not art. How cheaply can we buy it, how expensively can we sell it? That was all that mattered.
"The split we offered is already generous."
The team leader slid the contract across with a soft tap.
Revenue share. Production company : original author = 8 : 2.
Standard industry ratio. The production side hired the writer, the artist, handled coloring, backgrounds, editing—so they took eighty percent. The original author got twenty for providing the IP.
It wasn't a bad deal. For a rookie, it was actually on the generous side.
But Kang Suk-woo saw past the surface.
The poison clauses buried throughout the contract. Right of first negotiation on secondary rights. Full authority over adaptation. Separate agency fees deducted on overseas exports…
In practice, it meant the original author took a few coins and handed over every right to the work.
"As you know, we have a mountain of titles lined up wanting to sign with us. I only came out in person because it's you, Representative of Nangan."
Subtle pressure. Sign now or this chance disappears.
Kang Suk-woo's fists tightened.
He wanted to shout No deal! and storm out. He couldn't. Realistically, almost no one else matched ToonMix's quality and distribution. Reject them here, and every other offer would be worse.
It's not the era of swinging for home runs anymore…
The webtoon market had become a red ocean. Factory production for modest, steady returns. Agencies had no reason to take risks.
Kang Suk-woo let out a long breath. His own powerlessness cut deep. He had boasted he would give the author the best treatment possible—and the wall of reality was high.
"…Understood for now."
He gathered the contract.
"I'll review it and contact you again."
"We'll wait for a positive answer. Oh, and—"
The team leader stood and added one more thing.
"If we move forward, our side will handle the entire adaptation. The original author stays hands-off. You know how it is—too many cooks and the ship sails into the mountains."
"…That will need to be discussed with the author."
"Talk him into it. That's what management is for."
The team leader left with an easy smile.
Alone, Kang Suk-woo yanked his tie loose.
"Haa…"
It would be the same wherever he went. No matter how good the work, the "rookie" label and "industry practice" turned you into the subordinate every time.
How was he supposed to explain this to the author? He had declared the man a master of masterpieces and promised everything would go well…
I'll have to talk it over with him.
His heart felt heavy. The thought of putting disappointment in those bright eyes made his feet refuse to move. Kang Suk-woo picked up his phone, set it down, picked it up again, and sank into deep worry.
A quiet residential street in Gangnam.
The newly contracted studio was silent. Thanks to hyung's careful search, the soundproofing was flawless and the sunlight came in just right.
Clack-clack-clack-clack—!
Only the bright rattle of the keyboard filled the room.
I was flying. Completely, insanely flying.
Scenes that rose in my head poured down my fingers onto the monitor. The moment the protagonist severed an S-rank hunter's neck—the pure thrill of it danced across the page as living text.
This is it.
Maybe it was the new environment. Maybe it was the psychological safety of a healthy bank balance. Either way, I was writing faster than usual. Total immersion.
I had lost all sense of time when the phone on the desk vibrated.
Buzz.
Representative Kang Suk-woo.
I hated breaking the flow, but I figured it was important and picked up.
"Yes, Representative."
"Author, are you busy? You were writing, weren't you?"
His voice was low and heavy. My soaring mood settled at once. I knew instinctively—something hadn't gone well.
"No, it's fine. What's going on?"
"Ah… well, I had a meeting with a webtoon agency today…"
He hesitated, then forced the words out and laid out everything that had happened without filtering a single detail.
The arrogant attitude of the so-called number-one agency. Contract terms hammered down because I was a rookie. An 8-to-2 revenue split. And worst of all—the demand that the original author stay completely out of the adaptation.
The whole time I listened, my fingers hung frozen in midair.
"I'm sorry. My ability just wasn't enough… I'm looking at other places too, but realistically the terms won't be very different. There's an industry standard…"
His defeated voice. He was genuinely sorry—beating himself up for failing to keep his promise.
I gave a bitter smile.
"It's not your fault, Representative. That's just how the industry works."
"Author…"
"A rookie author has no power. It's not because management is weak."
So it really wasn't easy. On the novel side the platform had pushed hard enough to break through, but the webtoon side had its own cartel. To them my work was just raw material—something to grab, lightly adapt, and milk for cash.
Eight to two, huh.
Sure, the agency hired the artists and fronted the production costs. That part made sense. But did I have to take that money while watching the identity of my work get butchered?
My mood went ice-cold. The high from a moment ago vanished, and the chill of reality settled back in.
"I understand. Thank you for the hard work."
"Author… even so, wouldn't it be better to move forward with the webtoon? The terms may not sit well, but once the webtoon drops, novel traffic will rise too…"
He tried to persuade me carefully. He wasn't wrong. Most people signed while crying into the mustard—just for the promotional effect.
But.
"Representative."
"Yes."
"Let me think about it. I can't decide right this second."
"Ah, of course. Contact me whenever you're ready."
I hung up. Tossed the phone onto the desk and leaned back in the chair. Stared at the ceiling and exhaled.
"Huu…"
It was stifling.
Kang Cheol-min lived so vividly inside my head. The world of my novel was that real. And I was supposed to hand it over to someone else so they could butcher it?
Just imagining my protagonist drawn in some mass-produced house style made my skin crawl.
Is there no other way?
Then it hit me.
Something from a few days ago at the company. The design work. Muse had helped then too—not just writing, but image generation and editing, executed perfectly.
What if…
Was it possible?
Webtoons weren't the same as prose. Art style, direction, composition, coloring—everything had to lock together. But novels had been the same. Voice, narrative, internal logic. Muse had orchestrated all of it without a single flaw.
If the image already existed in my head… and if Muse became my hands…
I shot up and went to the laptop. My heart was pounding again—a different kind of thrum from the writing high a moment earlier.
"Muse."
I called the name quietly. Drew a long breath.
Let's try it.
The opening scene of chapter one. The desperate rain-soaked landscape right before the protagonist regresses—betrayed, dying.
I held that image in my mind.
In that instant—
Zzt—!
The familiar current raced down to my fingertips. But this time it was different.
I grabbed a notebook and pen—anything I could draw with right now.
Rough but powerful lines. Cold rain sliced the page on a diagonal, and through it the blood-soaked eyes of a man appeared.
Killing intent. Poison. Absolute desperation.
This wasn't a simple sketch. It felt like the sentences of my novel had leapt straight into visual form.
"…Huh?"
A dazed sound slipped out of me.
I couldn't stop. I didn't want to stop.
My hand moved on its own, blocking out the storyboard, laying in light and shadow—as if I had been possessed by a master who had drawn nothing but pictures his entire life.
From the notebook, Kang Cheol-min stared straight at me.
This is it.
The quality I had wanted. In some ways, even better.
And maybe…
Maybe I didn't need a webtoon agency at all.
The thought flashed through my mind and stayed.