The Tatsumino Scout
Park Kyung-ho just stared at him without saying a word, and only then did the Japanese man seem to realize where he was.
He smacked his forehead with his palm. "Ah, Korea, huh."
He scratched his head and muttered in crude Korean. "Whatcha doin'?"
Kyung-ho thought for a moment, then replied casually in Japanese. "Drawing."
The man's eyes widened. "Eh? You're Japanese?"
"Nah, just a regular Korean."
"Eh, but your Japanese is way too good for a Korean."
"So, what's up?"
Kyung-ho asked in Japanese, and the man adjusted the envelope in his hand, scanning him from head to toe. School uniform. Wheelchair. Key animation sheets scattered on the floor.
"Well, it's not like I have any real business..." He took a step closer. "Mind if I take a quick look at those?"
One thing Kyung-ho had learned in his previous life was that while you shouldn't reveal too much about yourself, you also couldn't afford to hold back when an opportunity for self-promotion arose.
Without hesitation, Kyung-ho handed over a single sheet.
The moment the paper touched the man's hand, the air shifted.
His eyebrows twitched.
"...Can I see a few more?"
Kyung-ho silently handed over everything he'd drawn that day.
Flip.
First sheet. Shunsuke's eyebrows twitched ever so slightly.
'The lines... are clean.'
Not pencil lines, but like ink—neatly refined. Yet it wasn't ink. The line weight felt alive.
Still, that was just a matter of a bit of talent. Nothing too hard.
Flip.
Next sheet.
This time, the body's axis was twisted. The waist turned first, the cape following a half-beat later.
Shunsuke's eyes narrowed slightly.
This wasn't just a well-drawn picture. These were the lines of someone who understood animation.
Flip.
Next sheet.
Now the camera was low to the ground. Toes cutting across the frame, fist bursting out beyond the edge.
Shunsuke's hand stopped.
'Hold on.'
This bold composition. Even in Japan, they rarely used angles like this. He flipped back and forth. The motion connected seamlessly.
The man's pupils dilated, his breathing grew ragged. Black lightning exploded, the character twisted the frame in rotation. Camera rising from low angle to high. The addition and subtraction of lines, bold design, character appeal, precise and dynamic composition.
Just a few key animation sheets made it clear. These drawings had reached an unknown realm he'd never seen, even in Japan.
"Who... who the hell drew this...?"
Kyung-ho pointed at himself and shrugged.
"You drew these?"
"Didn't you see me drawing them right here?"
The man was speechless for a moment.
He checked the drawings again. Flipped to another sheet. Back to the first. He rapidly thumbed through, tracing the motion with his eyes. No matter how many times he reconsidered, these weren't the work of the kid in front of him.
Animation wasn't like movies or portraits—simple depictions. Just showing things as they were couldn't make good animation. Designs impossible in reality, staging detached from the real world—these were built through endless trial and error before they could be shown to the public.
In that sense, these key animation sheets, these douga, were utterly impossible.
Finally, the man's face hardened. "Don't lie. Who drew these? Did the boss tell you to sit here with them?"
Kyung-ho didn't even sigh. "People sure don't believe a word anyone says."
"I'd believe you if it made sense. I've never seen staging like that even in Japan. And I've never heard Korean animation is that impressive."
A brief silence.
Kyung-ho stared at him flatly, then said calmly, "If you don't wanna believe it, just give 'em back and be on your way."
The man's eyes narrowed. "What?"
"You said you had no business here."
Kyung-ho smoothly pulled the key animation sheets from the man's hand, who was standing awkwardly with the paper bag.
"Jeez."
He gathered the scattered sheets from the floor, stacked them on the box, and placed a blank sheet on top.
Scratch.
The pencil moved again. Continuing from the last frame of the stack. The boy twisting mid-air lowered his knee just before landing. The camera dropped a beat late.
Scratch.
Dust effects trailed half a frame behind.
Scratch.
The black lightning now sliced diagonally, tearing the screen.
The longer Shunsuke's gaze lingered on the paper, the heavier the alley air grew.
Shunsuke swallowed dryly.
"This... impossible."
He wasn't just shocked by the polish. The flow of lines bridging the split-second gap between frame 1 and 2 transcended human calculation. The very concept of handling motion blur that way was revolutionary.
Just watching Kyung-ho's unwavering hand movements was enough to convince him. This student was the key animator behind those astonishing sheets.
'This is the real deal!'
"Who the hell are you?"
"High school student."
"Art school?"
"Nope."
"Art academy?"
"Why would I go to one?"
"Then... you work here?"
"No."
"Boss's son?"
"Mister, don't you have something better to do?"
The Japanese man scratched his head sheepishly. "Nah, it's not that... but I couldn't just walk past talent like this. Here, take this. Sorry for doubting you."
He pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it over.
Production Department
Overseas Coordinator: Kimura Shunsuke
TEL 03-XXXX-XXXX
"Oh, Tatsumino, huh."
Kyung-ho muttered, glancing at the card.
"You can read Japanese too."
Kyung-ho nodded nonchalantly.
"...Wait. How do you know Tatsumino?"
In 1978 Korea, Japanese culture was shunned to the extreme. For a high schooler in a Jongno back alley to casually know a Japanese production company was odd.
He shrugged it off—too late now. "Just do."
Shunsuke still eyed him strangely, so Kyung-ho changed the subject. "So why's Tatsumino coming here?"
"Why? To pick up the subcontracted work."
"Here?"
"This company's our subcontractor."
Short silence.
Kyung-ho's eyes flickered subtly. "...Really?"
"You were drawing here without knowing that?"
Suddenly, it all clicked like puzzle pieces. The box of discarded key animation sheets. The smoking man with the shortened luxury pencils.
'It's a key animation outsourcing shop!'
"Makes sense... you're just a high schooler."
He muttered to himself, flipping through the stack again. "How many can I take?"
Kyung-ho's eyes narrowed. "Why?"
"Come on."
Shunsuke flicked the business card. "To show your boss."
A truck rumbled past the alley's end.
Kyung-ho stared at Shunsuke for a moment, then asked, "You gonna take me there?"
"If you wanna go to Japan. Absolutely."
Shunsuke smiled wryly. "Not sure it'll work out, though. Depends on the higher-ups... and your visa."
He looked back at the sheets. "But this stuff shouldn't rot in a subcontractor shop."
"True enough."
Shunsuke burst out laughing at Kyung-ho's matter-of-fact tone. "You wanna go to Japan?"
"Where else would I work if not Japan?"
"You could here."
"In Korea? Besides Robot Taekwon V, what is there to draw?"
"......"
Shunsuke nodded slowly, unable to argue. No place in Korea could properly utilize key animators of this caliber.
"Parents cool with it?"
"They'd oppose."
"Why? Hate you going far?"
"They hate art—starves you."
"With drawings like these?"
Kyung-ho just shrugged, and Shunsuke nodded. Perceptions in Japan weren't much different. In an era where college grads got interview cash just to show up, no one chose animation.
"Your legs? They don't move at all?"
Kyung-ho glanced down. "Might with rehab."
Shunsuke paused, choosing words. "Got a contact?"
"In 1978 Seoul? Phones are luxury."
Shunsuke clicked his tongue. "Tch..."
He thought, then said, "Alright, I'll contact through this company. Keep drawing here. Got it?"
"Nowhere else to go."
Shunsuke held up a few sheets and slipped them into his envelope. "I'm taking these."
"Not finished yet."
"You're fast. Pretty please."
Shunsuke tucked the envelope under his arm and stepped back. "I'll be in touch—wait for me, yeah?" He waved lightly.
"Hey, your name?"
"Kyung-ho."—Gong-kyung Kyung, Kei-ho Ho / Japanese pronunciation: Kyogo.
His retreating figure shrank down the alley. A U.S. military truck kicked up dust, and Shunsuke vanished.
Kyung-ho stood there awhile. Pencil still in hand, half-finished cut on the box.
Japan. Faster than expected.
Convincing parents. Exit permit. Visa. Endless hurdles, but he just smiled.
"Head home early today."
The wheelchair wheels felt lighter.
The call from Japan came out of the blue. A sticky midsummer afternoon in August, the alley crushed under humid heat.
Even on vacation, Kyung-ho showed up at the outsourcing shop's trash heap as usual. He set the box on a plastic chair, spread key animation sheets atop it, and drew.
With his left hand.
Scratch.
The pencil tip dug into the paper's faint texture.
Muscles that once felt foreign now executed brain commands with 0.1-second precision. Wrist angle, subtle pressure shifts in finger joints.
Kyung-ho drew without pause. This cut: a girl twisting mid-air into a landing.
Scratch, scratch.
Final line done, he set the pencil down. Sweat beaded on his hand, but he didn't wipe it.
He flipped through the completed sheets quickly.
'Perfect!'
Six months post-regression, Kyung-ho's left-hand drawings nearly matched his past life's skill.
"Hey, you Kyogo?"
A familiar voice jolted him. The ever-smoking man leaned from the second-floor window, beckoning.
"Phone call. From Japan."