Seize the Throne!
The sun rising in the east. An apple falling from its branch. A throne passing from king to crown prince. These are the self-evident laws of the world.
Yet Grand Prince Seonghwi of Yeomhoguk hears a thunderbolt of a prophecy from Yeomga, the shaman who holds the nation in the palm of her hand.
"Sorrowfully, this kingdom is fated to fall into the hands of your younger brother, Yunhwi."
To claim the throne, he must twist destiny itself, whatever the cost — even if it means severing the sacred bonds of family.
I checked over the synopsis of Gimyodam I'd been handed. It had changed considerably from the version I remembered from before my regression.
If the old Gimyodam had been the story of Myeong-do, the loyal royal inspector, and Seoryeong, the girl with otherworldly powers, the revised Gimyodam had shifted its focus somewhere else entirely.
The lowliest profession in the world: the mudang. Yeomga, who became a servant of the gods through no will of her own, has endured a lifetime of contempt and sorrow.
But she cannot go on living like this forever. Crushed under merciless scorn and persecution, Yeomga resolves to seize the royal power of Yeomhoguk in her own two hands. This time, it is her turn to trample the world that trampled her into the dirt.
If becoming a mudang was the fate dealt to her, then dragging Yeomhoguk to its ruin is the duty Yeomga has chosen for herself. To break the nation, she commands an army of vengeful ghosts and prepares the finest sacrifice of all — a girl called Seoryeong — only to be thwarted by the nun Jeong-an.
Yet the pace of doom has merely slowed, and the more it slows, the more ferociously her will burns. Who dared call the mudang lowly? It will be Yeomga — Yeomga and no one else — who rules all under heaven.
The story had been reborn as a tale of Yeomga, the mudang who dared to challenge the throne — and of Seoryeong, who rose to stand against her.
"As expected of Director Jjang…."
I'd felt it ever since Pachehi, but his instincts as a director were anything but ordinary. He understood, on some instinctive level, that what audiences wanted from Gimyodam was a proper ghost story — not some tired love story dressed up in period costume.
"With the romance line weakened like this, all the attention is going to fall on the male lead's acting instead."
A drama, a film — they were like meticulously designed battle plans. Investors, directors, actors, broadcasters, crew: every gear had to mesh perfectly for the machine to turn smoothly.
And the moment I turned the page, I knew that every single condition of Gimyodam had locked into place.
"It's… incomparably better than before."
No — "fun" wasn't the right word. It deserved something more serious. The level of craft had changed.
"The whole framework's been flipped upside down. It's not a love story between an inspector and a mudang anymore."
A sal — a death-curse — is a truly vicious thing. It carries the intent to harm, born of a grudge held against another.
And anyone who hurls a curse at another is bound, without fail, to have that karma return to them.
"It's a gamble with your own life…."
In the original Gimyodam, Seoryeong hurls her curse at Yeomga knowing full well the price she'll pay.
For the sake of Myeong-do, whom she loves. For the lord Myeong-do has sworn to protect. For the peaceful world that lord dreams of.
"Now Seoryeong actually has a proper arc."
But now the story revolved entirely around Seoryeong — as if Director Jjang had prepared it as a gift just for me.
I'd memorized the original web novel and every script of Gimyodam, completed my character analysis down to the bone — and now it seemed I'd have to start all over again from page one.
"Still…."
My heart was pounding. If this was the Seoryeong I'd be playing, I felt like I could act her properly this time.
I was certain of it: I could feel again what I'd felt on the set of Not Interested At All.
'That sense of truly becoming Jeong Yeon-doo, if only for a little while.'
Maybe, just maybe, I could feel that same electric thrill as Seoryeong.
I read the first episode's script through to the very last page, then closed it. What had landed in my hands was only four episodes' worth.
And yet something was nagging at me.
"With Seoryeong rewritten like this, that scene at the end isn't going to fit anymore."
The ending of Gimyodam as I remembered it — the climax that followed Seoryeong tearing every one of Yeomga's atrocities into the light.
The ultimate catharsis scene. Seoryeong pouring out the whole of her power to curse Yeomga in return.
"That's what's bothering me. That…."
I closed my eyes for a moment.
Some actors can perform even off a slip script handed to them that very morning — but maybe I still lacked the experience, because I didn't think I could manage that so easily.
The lead of a sixteen-episode series. I wanted to understand Seoryeong more deeply than anyone.
"How is this Gimyodam going to end?"
I tightened my grip on the script. What kind of Seoryeong did I need to draw? I wanted to create a Seoryeong who could claw her way out from between the very letters on the page.
"The final scene. That's what matters."
Would she merely live in viewers' heads for a year as a "fun" drama?
Or would she become an enduring legend — a truly well-made drama remembered for a generation?
It all came down to the ending scene of Gimyodam.
Clunk — clunk—.
A gear that didn't mesh with the rest ground to a halt.
Gyeo-ul spread the Gimyodam script across her lap, freshly won.
She had memorized the original novel cover to cover from the moment she saw the article announcing Han Yeo-reum in the starring role.
The first-class seat of the plane swallowed her up in plush comfort.
"What's changed, I wonder."
But her preparation had not been enough.
Gyeo-ul turned the pages with calm, unhurried eyes. Behind the title page bearing the first chapter's name, the intro of Gimyodam unfolded in full, extravagant detail.
INTRO. BLACK SCREEN (Dark screen. The faint sound of a ritual bell drifts in. The sound draws steadily closer. The camera FADES IN to the first scene.)
SFX: The chime of the bell grows clearer and clearer.
SCENE 1. INT. FOOT OF THE MOUNTAIN — INSIDE A BOX — DAWN
(The camera begins inside an abandoned box. A dark, damp space. The small hand of a child claws feebly at the inside of the box. The camera CLOSES UP on the fingernails scraping against the wood. The skin-crawling sound of nails grows louder and louder.)
SFX: A flute drifts faintly in the distance, weaving into the sound of ragged breathing like a second heartbeat.
A screen spread itself before Gyeo-ul's eyes. Perhaps it was habit from analyzing countless scripts over the years — simply reading the words was enough to pull her under, as though she were one of the audience in a darkened theater.
A dark screen. Then the rasping scrape of fingernails on wood.
Gyeo-ul's hands tightened around the script. A nameless tension crept up her spine. Slowly, the darkness brightened.
SCENE 2. INT. INSIDE THE BOX — A HAND WRITING A TALISMAN — DAWN
(The camera CLOSES UP: as one hand scrapes feebly, another descends over it. A drop of red blood falls from a bitten thumb, and with that blood a talisman is drawn stroke by stroke. The blood soaks into the paper, and a grotesque pattern emerges.)
As the camera pushed slowly in, over the mudang's hand drawing the talisman, another hand was laid — the pampered, uncalloused hand of a nobleman's wife who had never known hardship in her life.
SCENE 3. INT. A HOUSE — HANDS DOING EMBROIDERY — DAY
(The camera CLOSES UP: a mother's hands embroidering the pattern of a beautiful orchid onto cloth. The screen is utterly serene — but from somewhere far off, a man's screams can be heard.)
MAN (OFF-SCREEN): Mother! Mother!
SFX: The screaming continues, faint and far away.
(Without the slightest reaction, the mother continues stitching her orchid. The camera WIDE SHOT: the tranquil room and the embroidering hands intercut.)
The screen was serene and chaotic all at once. The camera itself never moved, and yet the relentless wall of sound was enough to raise the hair on your arms.
'Now it's moving from interior to exterior… expanding the world scene by scene, and fast.'
Gyeo-ul swallowed dryly, dissecting the script with cold, precise eyes. And the screen shifted once more.
SCENE 4. EXT. MOUNTAIN VILLAGE HOUSE — THE FORBIDDEN ROPE — AFTERNOON
SFX: A gong crashes, loud and sudden.
(As the gong reverberates, the screen DISSOLVES TO: red peppers and bundles of mugwort hang from a taboo rope strung across the gate. The camera TRACKING SHOT: gliding low along the rope, revealing how old and rotted-through it has become.)
"It matches the title perfectly."
With the story expanded well beyond the original, the writers had clearly poured their effort into ratcheting up the momentum of episode one. And on the screen unfolding before Gyeo-ul, the image shifted once again.
SCENE 5. INT. WEATHERED WALL — A SHADOW — EVENING
(The camera TRACKING SHOT: an urgent drumbeat pounds as the shot sweeps across an old wall where shadows writhe. The shadows swell wilder, sharper.)
SFX: The bell chimes again; a tiger's cry sounds in the far distance. An anxious hourglass drum rattles on.
(The frame trembles, little by little — CUT TO the next scene.)
The scenes came hammering down one after another, leaving no room to breathe.
Day flipping to night, night snapping back to day — the whiplash of images made her eyes swim, and through it all she could feel it: these strange beings clung to the world of men with a relentless, unshakable grip.
"After the Saetani, there's the Eodukshini, the shadow that slinks in the dark, and the Chang-gwi, the revenant that haunts the graves… and then what else was there?"
Rustle—.
Gyeo-ul flipped the page, dissecting one scene after another without pause. Her fingers turned faster and faster.
SCENE 6. INT. RITUAL ALTAR — THE MUDANG'S DANCE — NIGHT
(The camera FULL SHOT: a mudang dances atop the blades of knives. The bell and the drums overlap, and tension floods the frame. The screen shudders like a living thing. The camera CLOSES UP: blood runs down the blade in the mudang's hand.)
(Suddenly the mudang whirls to look behind her. The camera CLOSES UP: her face is covered by a mask wearing a radiant smile. The mask's expression is horrifying.)
SFX: The gongs crash, enormous and near.
A sound that shook her to her core rang sharp in Gyeo-ul's ears. Was it the depth of her immersion? Her head swam, and gooseflesh raced up her arms.
SCENE 7. INT. THE PALACE — SEONGHWI'S CHAMBERS — DAWN
(Seonghwi's eyes snap open on his bed, starved of breath. The camera CLOSES UP: his sweat-soaked face, his chest heaving wildly.)
SEONGHWI (gasping, wrecked): Hah… hahh….
"So that's roughly thirty seconds, all told."
Grown up on thousands of scripts, Gyeo-ul could calculate it mechanically.
A drama's first impression is decided within the first ten minutes.
"That's all the time you get to tell viewers what kind of drama this is."
An age overflowing with things to watch. You could no longer simply hold an audience in place — you had to seize their interest by any means necessary.
And Gimyodam snatched the audience's wants out of the air with surgical precision.
'Direction that chases your eyes and your ears both, herding them this way and that without mercy….'
Designed so that the moment you started watching, you had no choice but to fall all the way in.
"From the camera work to the scene transitions, it just keeps crashing over you…."
Reeling viewers in all the way to the end of episode one looked almost easy. No — she had already finished the calculation: this would be the most talked-about drama of the coming year.
Reading the script for episode two, Gyeo-ul cemented that conviction.