Return to Japan
The school field buzzed with chaos after the graduation ceremony. Laughter erupted here and there, mingled with sobs, and the scent of flowers blended with acrid dust, scattering on the chilly March wind of 1979.
“Hey! Park Kyung-ho! Ya really leavin' right this second?”
Han Seung-gyu punched Kyung-ho's shoulder with a fist, his voice thick with regret. Choi Jung-hye, standing beside him clutching a bouquet, nodded in agreement.
“Yeah, right after the ceremony? What, ya got a girlfriend in Japan or somethin'?”
Kyung-ho smiled at his parents and friends gathered by his wheelchair.
“I don't wanna have any regrets.”
His gaze was already slicing through the crowd as he spoke.
'There she is.'
Near a black sedan parked at the edge of the field stood a girl like a doll between her parents, wrapped in a flashy fur coat.
“Hold on a sec.”
Kyung-ho spun the wheelchair wheels roughly. He tensed his thighs to keep the items on his lap from sliding off with the momentum. Voices of his startled parents and friends faded behind him. Panting, he called out the girl's name.
“Sun-hee!”
“……!”
Jung Sun-hee turned. Her expressionless eyes rippled the moment they found him. Her mother beside her recognized him too, narrowing her eyes without hiding her displeasure.
“That kid again? I thought I made it clear last time…”
“Sorry, just a moment!”
Kyung-ho cut her off sharply and held out the items from his lap. The worn sketchbook she'd given him, and a set of Japanese oil paints stamped with a vivid blue mark.
“Brought these back for ya.”
The sketchbook landed in Sun-hee's hands. Far thicker now, filled with his pages, its weight traveled up her wrist. Then he handed over the paint set.
“Never seen these before.”
“Got 'em in Japan. They're brand new—probably can't find 'em in Korea yet.”
“Kyung-ho, I…” Sun-hee started to say something, but he cut her off, casually resting a hand on her head.
“You'll be fine.”
With that, he wheeled away as if severing any lingering ties. Her mother's sharp retort pierced from behind, but it drowned in the cheers and clamor of the graduation field—nothing reached him. By then, he was already out of sight for her family.
I took the drawing, Jung Sun-hee. You can tell just from this one. Oil paints suit you better.
Sun-hee's mother said nothing to her until they reached the car. Her mild-mannered father broke the silence first, unable to bear it.
“Was that your boyfriend just now?”
“Honey!!!!”
Her mother jumped and shrieked at the words.
“What? Can't I ask?”
“Ask what!?”
Her usual nagging at her father continued, but Sun-hee felt no tightness in her chest. She was lost in the sketchbook he'd returned.
The first page wasn't her drawing of Captain Varok—it was a letter from Kyung-ho.
'He took it.'
But the words about oil paints suiting her better brought a twinge of disappointment. A quiet loneliness settled as she turned the page.
'Oh…'
Warmth reignited in her disappointed heart. There was a single oil painting, rendered in a technique she'd never seen. No, she knew the technique: impasto. Thickly slathered paint, piled on straight from the tube. An ancient, foundational method.
But.
'Insanely thick.'
The texture under her fingertips was overwhelming. Not just thick—the massive chunks exuded heavy pressure, clashing provocative colors that dominated the viewer. Less a painting, more a sculpture rising from the flat surface. Something inside her itched awake.
She took a deep breath and flipped the next page with trembling fingers. A horizontally torn sketchbook piece glued back, the rip integrated into the composition. Nothing new in technique—an outdated method. But the content?
It looked like a black-and-white portrait of her mother, but the eyes were torn away horizontally. And in that empty space inside…
Her own eyes gazed out from within her mother. Trapped inside. Chilling detail lived in the bold strokes.
'How…?'
Sun-hee stared endlessly. Was this how Kyung-ho saw her?
“This is me…”
Kyung-ho's wish that her talent and will not be broken shook her to the core.
Back home, Kyung-ho brushed off his parents' pleas to stay even one night and boarded the first flight to Japan. Knowing the staff were racing toward broadcast, he refused to waste a moment.
Moonrise Production's air hit different from Gimpo Airport's biting wind—rough in its own way. Stale cigarette smoke, pencil shavings, and the stench of all-nighters assaulted his nose.
“Hey, Kyogo! Finally here!”
With Yamada's help hauling him to the second floor, Director Tomizawa greeted him boisterously.
“Yeah, I'm here.”
The work was dragging, judging by the director's enthusiasm. Kyung-ho gave a perfunctory reply and wheeled straight to the editing desk. Piles of key animation sheets for episode 1 loomed like pyramids, awaiting filming.
'No time.'
His hands rifled through the stack—tarrrk, tarrrk. Papers flipped like clockwork, his brow furrowing deeper.
'This won't cut it. Same as before.'
They'd advanced with his models and prep drawings, but his eyes still saw flaws everywhere. Especially the era's chronic animator plague: failure to maintain form.
Protagonist's head subtly larger than a few frames back. Arms stretching noticeably in the run cycle. Waist twisting off-kilter.
Modern standards would meme it as sakuga collapse. Especially in Rebel's Flower, an action show. He couldn't let action scenes get ridiculed for breakdowns. Decision made, he declared it bluntly.
“Gotta scrap it all.”
Over budget as baseline, scrapping all prior work—the bomb froze the room. Director Tomizawa's coffee cup hung midair. He sipped silently.
“What'd you say, punk?”
“You the director now? Who are you to scrap it?”
“Y-you cocky brat! That's what our vets pulled all-nighters for…”
Kyung-ho cut in coldly.
“I'll handle all the Rigging myself.”
Rigging. Alien term to 1979 animators. Instead of explaining, he gripped a pencil.
“I'll set the skeleton for the drawings. Flesh it out on top of my forms. It'll make your jobs way easier.”
Scratch, scratch-scratch.
His hand danced wildly over the paper. Furious animators fell silent, overwhelmed by the terrifying speed.
One sheet. Two. Three.
Papers piled like laser-printed. Ten sheets in barely five minutes.
“Line 'em up like this. See?”
Shrrrrrrk.
Same cut, but his skeletal versions brimmed with life and realism, details be damned.
“Notice the difference?”
“Y-yeah, but…”
“Redoing finished work sucks…”
Staff grumbled reluctance. Kyung-ho grabbed the pencil again.
“If I just rough the form like this…”
Scratch-scratch-scratch.
A cut that would've taken originals three-four hours perfected in five minutes. Daigo, who'd raged loudest, dropped his cigarette butt. Tomizawa, watching expectantly, nodded with a knew it smirk.
“Just do what Kyogo says.”
No one could argue. If he slacked while bossing them, sure, vent. But he worked hardest on arrival. No skill? Call it unrealistic. But inhuman print-speed key frames? Undeniable.
Rebellion crumbled; everyone yielded to his words. Not effort or practice—this was trust born of overwhelming talent.
“Ha… this Kyogo punk. Think we're done and can rest? Nah, piles on more.”
“…He piles it on himself too. What can ya say?”
Productivity soared since Kyogo, but workload matched—same exhaustion in their eyes. And one more thing:
“But if it succeeds, we'll have some cred too, right?”
“This quality? It'll hit.”
“Skills improving. Feels rewarding.”
Hope for the future. Kyung-ho smirked at them, hands flying faster.
30 days to premiere.
Rigging in 7 days—no, 4 if possible.
'So I can finish it all.'
“Director! Two boxes of Oronamin C!”
Kyung-ho yelled. The director, reading papers quietly, flinched.
“I'm the director, punk!”
“You don't draw a single line.”
“……”
Tomizawa—future legendary director—famously sucked at drawing. Speechless, he clamped his mouth. Kyung-ho prodded.
“Hurry! I'll pay—buy and hand one to everyone.”
“Fine! Got it! Damn it!”
He bolted up, grumbling out the door. Dead-silent staff whispered.
“…Only he could pull that on the director.”
“…Can't argue though. Directing's his thing, but zero drawing help.”
“Kyogo's better at directing anyway…”
“Hm.”
“Who we worryin' for?”
Sighing staff dove back in.