An Unexpected Encounter
"Oh, Yeon-woo. Hm? What happened to your hand? Did you get into a fight with someone?"
Writer Kim Jin-ju asked with a worried look, eyeing Yeon-woo's hand still wrapped thick with bandages and adhesive strips that had yet to fully heal.
A fight, yes.
A stubborn practice maniac had waged a mindless war against a violin.
"Ah, it's almost completely healed. Nothing worth mentioning. Anyway — about that idea."
"Mm-hmm."
What Yeon-woo had felt while reading the scenario was that the world inside the body, as a backdrop for a long-form story, was a little too monotonous to carry the narrative all the way through.
"The worldbuilding inside the body right now is pretty close to medieval fantasy, right?"
"Yeah. That's right."
"And the film starts about six years after the protagonist gets trapped inside his brother's body — somewhere around the thigh, in human terms?"
At Yeon-woo's question, Writer Kim Jin-ju nodded.
"Exactly. Named after the thigh region — the Kingdom of Femoral."
"Then when the protagonist first entered the body six years earlier, where did he start from?"
The question wasn't covered in the scenario, so Writer Kim Jin-ju looked over at the original creator, Director Hwang Min-gwon.
"Y-yes? Uh… probably the soles of the feet?"
Yeon-woo nodded at Director Hwang Min-gwon's answer and continued.
"Then what if, as they climb from the soles up through the thighs, then to the heart, and finally to the head — the higher they go, the more advanced the society becomes?"
"A more advanced world?"
"If the thighs are medieval, the upper body could be modern or early modern — and once they reach the head, the uppermost layer, it could be a future society beyond our own. Wouldn't that make the story much richer?"
At Yeon-woo's suggestion, Director Hwang Min-gwon clapped his hands.
"If we do it that way, the audience would also have a much more intuitive sense of where the protagonist and his party are. The settings would get more varied, too. Yo-han, is this doable?"
"The further into the future we go, the easier the CG actually gets. When you're building something that doesn't exist, you don't have to sweat the details or historical accuracy."
Watching CG Director Jeong Yo-han's reaction, Yeon-woo nodded and turned to look at Writer Kim Jin-ju.
Her eyes had gone distant and unfocused.
She was muttering something incomprehensible under her breath.
"The higher you go, the more advanced… thighs are medieval… the brain is the future…"
Then, with lightning speed, she yanked a laptop out of her bag.
"Um? Writer Kim Jin-ju?"
As Director Hwang Min-gwon tried to speak to her, Yeon-woo shook his head.
"Looks like inspiration just hit. We should give her the room."
And so Yeon-woo and the two directors quietly slipped out of the conference room. Behind them, the only sound that remained was the nonstop clatter of keys.
With the possibility of refining the scenario in a better direction, the meeting was postponed. There was no rush anyway — not with Yeon-woo's reinstatement still pending.
If a more polished story comes out of this, I couldn't ask for more.
Even the storyline he'd seen before this spark of inspiration had been solid enough. He was looking forward to whatever form it would take next.
"Alright. First things first — my own business."
Yeon-woo stepped into the College of Business at Hankuk University and looked around.
"Hmm. Not as much has changed as I expected."
Elevators had been installed in the building, and several large multipurpose halls had been added. But the structure of the building itself was the same, and that brought a welcome feeling of familiarity.
With a nostalgic look in his eyes, Yeon-woo ran his hand along the smooth wooden banister of the central staircase.
In my past life, I climbed these stairs more times than I can count.
Today he had come to the university to file his reinstatement application and answer a summons from his year advisor. It was the first time he had set foot on campus since enrollment, but because he had attended the same department in his previous life, everything around him stirred a deep homesickness — as if he had come home.
With natural, unhurried steps, he climbed the central staircase and found the professor's office on the third floor.
Professor Kim Tae-gyeong — Research Office
Hmm. Somehow that name feels familiar.
Well — it was a fairly common name.
When Yeon-woo knocked, a middle-aged man's voice answered from inside.
"Come in."
Creak—
He opened the old, noisy door, rounded the corner of a bookcase, and found a middle-aged gentleman diligently writing something amid a mountain of stacked documents.
"Hello. I'm Ryu Yeon-woo — reinstating this year."
At the sound of Yeon-woo's voice, Professor Kim Tae-gyeong lifted his head and looked at him.
"Ah. So you are."
With that, his head went right back down.
For quite a while he remained completely absorbed in the papers in front of him, not so much as glancing in Yeon-woo's direction.
Yeon-woo stood there and waited in silence.
A stretch of time long enough for anyone to find it rude finally passed before the professor raised his head again.
"Sit down over there."
Yeon-woo looked at the face of the professor as he rose and gestured toward the sofa in front of him — and was startled.
Ah… so that's it.
A faint smile flickered at the corner of Yeon-woo's mouth and vanished.
Seated on the sofa, Professor Kim Tae-gyeong looked at Yeon-woo and spoke.
"I'm not someone with much interest in popular culture, so honestly I don't know most celebrities' names — but I do know yours, student."
"I see."
He stared at Yeon-woo for a moment after that reply, then continued.
"I'm a direct man. I don't tend to talk around things. Frankly, I'm not particularly pleased that Ryu Yeon-woo enrolled in our department."
At the aggressive opening, Yeon-woo tilted his head slightly.
"I haven't even started any activities on campus yet. May I ask why you feel that way, Professor?"
"Because there's nothing for you to gain by attending our department. One could argue you've taken a seat that could have gone to another student who might actually become an economist. After all, no matter what you learn here, Ryu Yeon-woo will keep working as an actor."
Yeon-woo smiled faintly.
"So you're uncomfortable with the idea that my enrollment is just a trophy to put on a profile under 'education.'"
Professor Kim Tae-gyeong thought for a moment, then nodded.
"Well. That isn't far from what I think. Not that my thinking changes anything."
In truth, every time Ryu Yeon-woo achieved something — whether the professor knew about the leave of absence taken the moment he enrolled or not — reporters had come swarming onto campus and made a nuisance of themselves. Without ever having actually seen him, Professor Kim Tae-gyeong had already formed a poor impression of Yeon-woo.
Looking at that professor, Yeon-woo spoke.
"If the fact that I've achieved things as an actor somehow diminishes the effort I put into entering through the same legitimate process as everyone else — that, I believe, would be the real unfairness."
Professor Kim Tae-gyeong showed a flicker of interest at Yeon-woo's confident argument and pushed his glasses up with his index finger.
Meeting the professor's gaze with calm eyes, Yeon-woo continued.
"If I had entered the Theater and Film Department just because I'm an actor, that would mean taking a seat from another aspiring performer. By that logic, there is no department I can enter. And Professor — do you believe the knowledge gained from an economics curriculum is only useful if one works in the financial sector?"
"…Of course not."
The real reason Yeon-woo had chosen economics was simply that continuing his acting career meant minimizing the time lost to studies — so he had naturally picked the major he had already completed in his previous life.
But human beings spend their entire lives making continuous economic choices. The knowledge taught in an economics department was never meant only for analyzing charts or forecasting markets.
"Pfft."
Watching Professor Kim Tae-gyeong nod reluctantly, Yeon-woo couldn't help laughing out loud.
Yeon-woo could normally maintain a perfect poker face — but in a moment of lowered guard, the laugh had slipped free.
"…What's so funny?"
Professor Kim Tae-gyeong glared at him with a thoroughly displeased expression.
"Ah, my apologies. An old memory just flashed through my mind."
University Song Festival
A bespectacled student stood staring fixedly at a large poster plastered across the central corridor of the College of Business.
Another young man passing behind him spotted him, walked over, and slung an arm around his shoulders.
"Hey, Tae-gyeong. What are you staring at so hard?"
"…Ah. Su-hwan."
It was Yeon-woo's past self.
"University Song Festival? You into singing?"
"…Not just singing. I like heavy metal bands."
"Heavy metal? You mean groups like Red Crumbling?"
Tae-gyeong — who was usually neither particularly lively nor especially close with his classmates — suddenly lit up.
"You know Red Crumbling?"
"Ah, not really. I've just heard the name."
"Want to listen sometime?! I've got tapes and a cassette player in my locker!"
He hadn't been particularly interested, but it was the first time his classmate Kim Tae-gyeong had ever shown this kind of passion — so Jeon Su-hwan found himself nodding along.
"…Uh, sure. Let's hear it."
"I'm going to be the first heavy metal drummer to come out of Hankuk University's Economics Department. Doesn't that sound cool?"
"…Yeah. Cool, I guess."
Coming back from the past, Yeon-woo looked at the aged classmate sitting in front of him, recovered from the laugh that had slipped out in a moment of carelessness, and put his expression back under control.
Funny. The guy who spent his whole college life treating his academic pedigree like a trophy somehow ended up as this stuffy old professor.
Looking at Kim Tae-gyeong — still radiating discomfort over the earlier laugh — Yeon-woo gave a small snort of amusement.
He pointed toward the turntable and LP records sitting in the corner of the office.
"Professor. This is completely out of nowhere, but — what kind of music do you listen to? Do you know bands like Red Crumbling?"
"…Why would you suddenly ask that? And how do you even know that band? Not the kind of group someone your age usually knows."
The tone was sharp, but his face couldn't hide it.
It was the same expression he had worn more than twenty years ago in this very College of Business building.
"Great songs don't really age, do they? Say, Fantasia by Red Crumbling."
"…You know Fantasia? Unexpected taste for a young fellow."
He was trying to play it cool, but Professor Kim Tae-gyeong's face had gone from mere interest to a full, slack-jawed grin.
Then and now — still just as simple.
Twenty-odd years ago or today, he looked cold on the outside but was remarkably easy to read.
"Fantasia's great, but Blue Star is a real masterpiece too."
"…Blue Star? Wouldn't you say Lore, from the same album, is better?"
The conversation that followed eventually had Kim Tae-gyeong clapping along, beaming from ear to ear.
Yeon-woo, for his part, was rather glad of the unexpected reunion. They talked until time had slipped well past, and he finally had to leave.
"I should be going now."
"Leaving already?"
Professor Kim Tae-gyeong, who had been excitedly holding forth about the band, looked genuinely disappointed.
"It's already been about an hour."
"Ah. Has it been that long?"
Yeon-woo left the office with Professor Kim Tae-gyeong seeing him out.
The world really is strange. Kim Tae-gyeong, who swore he'd become a band drummer no matter what, ends up a professor at his own alma mater.
If anyone had been more likely to become a professor in Hankuk University's Economics Department, it would have been Yeon-woo's past self — Jeon Su-hwan. He had devoted himself to his studies throughout school, and even among the professors of that time he had been known as a model of diligence.
If Tae-gyeong ever found out about me, joining the NIS would already be a shock — and reincarnating and re-enrolling like this would be completely beyond explanation.
Yeon-woo was still smiling to himself in quiet wonder as he descended the central staircase. On the first-floor lobby, students were putting up posters.
The old memories of his classmate — now Professor Kim Tae-gyeong — rose again, and he stopped in front of the poster the students had just finished hanging and read it.
University Theater Festival
Not the University Song Festival — the University Theater Festival?
As he stood gazing at the unexpected poster, someone came up behind him and threw an arm around his shoulders.
"Yeon-woo! There you are."
For a moment the old memory of Kim Tae-gyeong overlapped, and he turned — but standing there was Codename Pension Part-Timer, Kim Ju-hyeong.