Comet
Day after day of debate had split the court officials into precisely two camps.
To call them camps was almost generous—aside from Seo Hui and Yi Ji-baek, not a single soul stood against the faction that urged surrender.
Meanwhile, Xiao Sunning’s scene arrived, in which he insisted that whether they chose surrender or negotiation, a high minister must be sent to face him in person. The court sank once more into agonized deliberation.
Director Lee Sang-hun deliberately held the silence for several long seconds, letting the frozen tableau of the court breathe. He cropped the officials’ upper bodies from the frame, showing only the floor of the great hall and their feet, the entire shot cast in cold, desaturated tones.
A merciless picture of a reality in which no one could summon the courage to step forward.
Then the scene reversed, cutting to a moonlit night long ago—the night young Seo Hui had resolved to open his heart to Hong Ui-yeon.
If one step back becomes ten thousand steps back, how can one ever advance ten thousand steps if one cannot take even a single step forward?
In that moment the aged Seo Hui standing in the court slowly advanced one trembling foot.
For this shot Yeon-woo deliberately chose not the stride of a rigid hero, but the weak, shaking gait of a frail old man.
This drama was never meant to showcase Seo Hui’s heroic stature. From the very beginning it followed the arc of his life, focusing on his humanity so that the audience would identify with him.
Because of that acting choice, the single step forward became a scene thick with human anguish—the sight of a man voluntarily walking toward what might well be his own death.
“This subject, Seo Hui, begs to be sent to the battlefield.”
“…The Director of the Royal Secretariat?”
As if steeling himself, Seo Hui lifted his head and spoke with sudden firmness.
“The enemy general demanded a high minister. Is it not only proper that a high minister go, Your Majesty?”
The camera cut, and the faintest echo was laid under Seo Hui’s words so that they lingered in the air.
After that came the scene of the king himself coming down to the riverbank, taking Seo Hui’s hand and comforting both him and his wife Hong Ui-yeon—and at last the drama moved toward its ending.
The story of Seo Hui that ordinary people already knew was only beginning.
Yet that beginning was this drama’s end.
“Aaaah, it’s finally here!”
Seo Ji-eun covered her tiny face with both hands, peeping at the television through her fingers, trembling with nerves.
The rest of the staff watched the climax of the long journey with equally trembling eyes.
A majestic score that felt like drifting alone through the vastness of space swelled as a single horse racing across a desert was framed in extreme long shot.
The camera closed in on the horse, catching Yeon-woo’s expressionless eyes that refused to reveal emotion, then rose again.
It was neither a resolute nor a valiant face. Precisely because Yeon-woo played it with such restraint, the anguish of one man galloping alone toward an enemy camp of tens—or hundreds—of thousands of soldiers struck home with raw intensity.
“Ooooh!”
As the camera lifted once more to the sky and revealed the long shot, a great cry of awe erupted inside the barbecue restaurant where the wrap party was being held.
In the far distance a massive army could be seen encamped; across the endless desert before it, Seo Hui alone raised a storm of dust like a sandstorm as he crossed. He looked exactly like a comet slicing through the quiet night sky, trailing a long tail as it journeyed into the distant cosmos.
Then, with the final note of the grand music, the screen went black for an instant, and the logo appeared.
Star Beyond the River
The staff rose from their seats.
Clap clap clap!
Waaaaah!
They cheered and gave a standing ovation without reserve to Director Lee Sang-hun and Ryu Yeon-woo.
Beside him Seo Ji-eun and Jin Yu-han grinned and gave Yeon-woo a thumbs-up.
“Thank you.”
Yeon-woo stood and bowed in every direction.
And so his first leading drama came to an end.
“Ugh…”
Clutching his head, he sat up blearily in bed.
“…I really drank a lot. First time in ages.”
Ever since being assigned to the overseas division he had never been able to let his guard down, so drinking to the point of intoxication simply never happened. Even after reincarnation he had been a minor; once he became an adult, consecutive shoots meant he always moderated himself at company dinners with the next day’s schedule in mind.
But last night, having finished his first leading drama, he had gone from table to table accepting every pour the staff offered until he was thoroughly drunk.
“Urgh, this is something I haven’t felt in forever. A hangover…”
With slow, shuffling steps he trudged to the refrigerator, drank some water, then collapsed back onto the bed and picked up his phone.
He had only heard that the final ratings had hit 27 percent; there had been no time to check the online reaction.
Hmm, let’s see.
The official YouTube channel already had the final episode’s highlight uploaded.
Scrolling through the comments, he found the overall reaction as good as he had hoped.
After checking the comments he looked through the flood of congratulatory texts and KakaoTalk messages that had poured into his number the night before.
He replied one by one to the grateful names, then tilted his head at one particular message.
Writer Kim Jin-ju? What promise did I make yesterday?
He clearly remembered her saying something, and himself nodding that he would talk it over with the company.
“Ah! The signing event.”
Only then did he recall how Writer Kim Jin-ju, face full of worry, had desperately begged him the night before.
With the drama’s finale, the novel of Star Beyond the River was being published, and the publisher had earnestly requested an author signing event.
“But who on earth is going to come get a signature from someone like me? We’re doing it at the biggest bookstore in Gangnam—if only flies show up I’ll be so embarrassed in front of the organizers, what am I supposed to do? Hooo…”
She had downed drink after drink, then tightly grasped Yeon-woo’s hand and bowed her head as she pleaded.
“I know it’s ridiculous, but just in case—just in caaase—if you happen to have a fan signing planned, could you do it with me? I’ll just sit next to you like a freeloader and if anyone brings the book we can sign together. Okay? You’re the protagonist of my book.”
Yeon-woo had looked at Writer Kim Jin-ju’s desperate face.
“Hmm, I think this work was so good that if you hold a signing a lot of people will come?”
“No way. I’ve done author signings before and it was so empty it gave me trauma. Hic.”
Seeing her expression that looked ready to cry, Yeon-woo had stroked his chin and answered.
“Hmm, I was told I should do a fan signing or fan meeting soon anyway. I’ll ask the agency once.”
“Please.”
Recalling the conversation, Yeon-woo nodded.
“Well, if I’m going to do one anyway, doing it together is fine. There’s the fan café and fans of the work too.”
He got out of bed and made a call.
“Oh, Yeon-woo-ssi. Congratulations. The drama wrapped, right?”
“Thank you, Team Leader Jeong. Last time you mentioned you were looking at schedules for my fan meeting or signing event.”
Team Leader Jeong checked the schedule briefly before answering.
“Hmm, nothing locked in yet. Probably after the CF schedule gets set. Of course we’ll have to do one soon.”
“Then how about this? Yesterday Writer Kim Jin-ju asked me…”
Yeon-woo explained the previous night’s conversation. Team Leader Jeong listened in silence, then spoke.
“That actually works well. Since you’re not an idol group, a plain fan signing felt a bit awkward—doing it as a publication commemorative event with the writer has a nice feel. You’re the original protagonist, after all. Just a moment.”
He seemed to check something, then continued.
“We’ll need to coordinate a bit with Writer Kim’s publisher, but honestly they’ll welcome it with both hands. If the hottest of the hot says he’ll do it.”
“Then please coordinate it that way. Looking at Writer Kim Jin-ju’s desperate face, she seemed really worried.”
“Even alone she wouldn’t have that many empty seats… Anyway, I’ll handle it and let you know the result.”
Not long after, Team Leader Jeong finished the arrangements and informed both Yeon-woo and Writer Kim Jin-ju. The writer, as if a long-aching tooth had finally been pulled, called Yeon-woo repeatedly to thank him for solving her biggest worry.
The massive bait dropped on Yeon-woo’s fan café Woo’s made the post regeneration speed explode.
A few days later, on the morning of the fan signing, an enormous line already stretched in front of the Gangnam bookstore.
The shrewd staff, upon learning Ryu Yeon-woo would join, had converted an empty storefront formerly used as a book warehouse into a dedicated fan-signing entrance so ordinary bookstore customers would not be inconvenienced. The line in front of it already reached outside the building from early morning.
Inside the venue, seated at separate tables a little distance apart, were Writer Kim Jin-ju and Ryu Yeon-woo.
“Yeon-woo-ya, thank you so, so much for real. If you ever need anything just say the word—I’ll do whatever!”
“Just writing such a wonderful work is already more than enough, Writer-nim. I was planning to do a fan signing anyway.”
And at last the fan signing began.
“Aaaah, this is insane.”
The first fan entered carrying the book, guided by staff.
Following instructions she first went to Writer Kim Jin-ju and received a signature.
“Writer-nim, this drama was so fun. I love your previous work The Scent of Time too.”
“Oh my, really? Thank you so much.”
“I brought that book as well—could you sign it?”
“Of course. Give it here.”
The fan rummaged in her bag and pulled out Kim Jin-ju’s earlier novel.
Watching, Yeon-woo felt quietly relieved that there seemed to be more of the writer’s own fans than expected.
Yet even while receiving the signature for the previous work, the fan kept glancing at Yeon-woo as if magnetically drawn, her face turning redder and redder.
“Thank you for reading it so enjoyably.”
“Thank you, Writer-nim!”
She bowed deeply and, following the guide, walked toward Yeon-woo.
Already her expression looked ready to cry just from approaching.
“Hic, oh my god. Is the real thing actually right in front of me.”
Yeon-woo smiled and held out his hand; she clasped it tightly with both of hers.
“Hello.”
“Aaaah. I’m seriously about to cry. I waited from five in the morning.”
At the pure reaction Yeon-woo laughed, signed the book, and asked,
“It must have been freezing. Besides the signature, is there anything else you want—like a selfie?”
“…Do you grant other requests too?”
“If it’s something I can do, I’ll grant it.”
When Yeon-woo nodded with a smile, the fan rummaged in her bag again and pulled something else out.
Hmm? Isn’t that a Rudolph headband?
Manager Kim Min-su, standing behind Yeon-woo, took it for him.
Before managing Yeon-woo he had handled girl groups at another agency, so he knew this culture well.
The fan-service custom of putting on the hat or headband the fan wanted and showing the requested expression or aegyo.
“Please do the velvet antler just once!”
In that instant Yeon-woo froze solid, and cold sweat began to trickle down his back.