Rice, Bean Sprout Soup, and the Student Soldier's Tears
Rice and bean sprout soup on a brutally cold winter day. Lowest temperature: -27°C. Even in the bone-chilling cold that could freeze your body solid, the heat on the set never died down. Cameras rigged between poles on the hilltop and hillside, action cams built to capture the raw grit of the trenches, period-accurate uniforms layered over thick thermal undergarments, and more. Endless Frontline, which had transformed an entire mountain into its set, was now barreling toward its climax.
A strangely tense atmosphere hung in the air. Was it because they were shooting the highlight scene? Even the casual chatter that usually filled the air had vanished from the hilltop, now choked with a warlike desolation. It had never been this intense before.
'Because of Donghu?'
Han Taekon, the top star actor riding the highest wave of popularity, stole a glance at Kim Donghu. Youth had its perks, it seemed—no hunching even in this weather.
'Whenever Donghu steps onto a set, the vibe turns to thin ice.'
That day, everyone had witnessed Kim Donghu embodying the student soldier. And they'd all realized one brutal truth: slack off, and you'd get crushed. A film debutante could devour them, spark acting controversy rumors, and drown them in backlash. So they'd poured everything into their roles. To avoid being trampled the next time they faced Kim Donghu. In a way, wasn't he the guillotine testing every actor's chops?
'Talking nonsense about a kid.'
Muttering to himself inwardly, Han Taekon slowly slipped on his mask. The mask of Kim Suha, who had to finally deliver an answer to the student soldier's question.
"Cue!"
The director's signal rang out. Today, I would don this mask and confront the student soldier.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Under relentless bombardment that didn't distinguish friend from foe, Kim Suha sprinted through the front lines, where even superiority was impossible to gauge. He'd radioed to halt the strikes as the lines shifted, but bombs already in the air never changed course.
"Scatter! Don't bunch up!"
Standing still meant death. He had to find the safest spot. To survive, to see this war's end—he ran and ran. Lungs burning to his throat, but he ignored it. He had no choice. He had to live.
Even knowing survival was impossible, even feigning indifference to death, the final moments turned every man into a coward.
"Die! Yaaaaah!!!!"
Bang! He gunned down a frenzied commie charging blindly. Probably screaming from death's thrill. Or maybe begging to be killed.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Whoosh!
"Ngh!"
One bullet among the hail grazed his shoulder. Pain should have erupted, but his adrenaline-soaked body suppressed it all.
"Shouldn't we retreat, sir?!"
Kim Suha shook his head at Sergeant Jindong-sik's plea. Retreat where? In a battlefield blanketed by bombs and bullets, sides indistinguishable?
No one had an answer.
"Fuck! Should've never worn those commie uniforms for the cold!"
The People's Army gear layered for warmth had backfired. Amid the dust clouds, uniforms were the only giveaway—and even those were caked in mud, blurring friend from foe.
"If I make it back, I wanna line up the brass and pop 'em all with a pistol."
Sergeant Juhak-san’s words had Kim Suha nodding instinctively.
'Yeah, if we make it back.'
He'd ordered them to scatter, but instinct had formed trios—the highest survival tactic honed on this contested hill through countless skirmishes.
Bang!
Or so it had been.
"Gahk!"
Was there a space less plausible than war? No one expects the guy next to them to drop dead. It defied reality.
"Jindong-sik!"
Worried words, but his eyes darted anxiously toward the bullet's origin.
"...That bastard!"
A boyish face unfit for war, vacant eyes without focus, rifle trained on them. Him. The student soldier who'd asked about rice and bean sprout soup.
Click!
He snapped his rifle up, but the kid had long ducked behind cover. On purpose? Sparing him?
'Why?'
Confusion swirled, but no one could answer. Only then did Kim Suha glance down at the dying Jindong-sik. No time even for last words. Swallowing grief, he pocketed the letter and dog tags.
"That the same kid from before?!"
"Yeah! Picking us off clean in this mess."
"Then what do we do?"
"Kill him first."
Kim Suha muttered it like a mantra. Kill first, or die. Sergeant Juhak-san nodded at the resolve. In the aimless chaos, a singular target emerged. Revenge? Or relief at having direction?
Kim Suha and Juhak-san bolted. The shots had come from higher up the hill—the first bombing zone, yet the kid clung to life, targeting him.
Boots pounded earth and unidentifiable corpses. No time to check if they were reds or allies. With a goal, nothing else mattered. His head cleared.
Then—
Bang!
The student soldier's shot rang sharper than any other.
"...!"
No scream. Just a hole in Sergeant Juhak-san's head. No dog tags this time. I'd end up the same anyway.
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat!
His rifle spat fire blindly toward the kid. One had to hit, wound him somewhere. And it did—right as his mag ran dry, the kid staggered.
Good. Fair's fair—you suffer too.
Click!
Kim Suha bayoneted his rifle and pursued. Stumbling, the kid still dove straight into the safest trench. Instinct over experience—that's how he'd survived so young.
The moment he entered the trench mouth after him—
Bang!
The kid's bullet pierced Kim Suha's shoulder. A headshot should've been instinct, but his side wound threw the aim.
Click-click. Empty again.
"Comrade, doing well?"
"You're no comrade of mine, you little shit."
Squelch. Squelch. Mud-caked boots trudged forward. All his effort for one kid.
"Here to give me that answer?"
"What answer."
Too late, Kim Suha realized. Rice and bean sprout soup. Absurd. They started the war living better, yet quizzing on meals?
"Never had it either."
Luxuries had no place in war. Laughable.
"You did all this over that? Answer me!"
"What could be more important?"
The bayonet trembled ridiculously. Whose was it? They stared, words drawing death nearer. Whose end?
The kid smirked bitterly. Yours. Because—
"My sister doesn't lie."
Sure, they had it—but wouldn't share. The kid didn't buy Kim Suha's words. He'd come for truth, not lies.
'Then why'd my sister have to die?'
No one here could answer. That's why he had to live. If nowhere had rice and bean sprout soup—not even in the North, where poverty starved them of it. Why'd his family die so pointlessly? Why'd his beloved sister shield him to her death?
To hear that answer, he had to survive.
Slash!
To live, the kid lunged to kill the liar. His bayonet—honed solely for slaughter—thrust straight for Kim Suha's heart.
'Sis, I'll live double for you.'
Thud!
"...?"
Distracted by her memory? The bayonet plunged into the kid's lung.
He flailed desperately, but—
Scraaaape.
Blocked every time. His prized bayonet work crumbled in survival's frenzy.
Shiiiink!
The blade carved free.
"Hahk... hahk..."
Kim Suha eyed his handiwork. Devil slain—self-inflicted wounds like medals. Then reality hit: a little boy.
"..."
What had he killed? War's tragedy? Inevitable fate?
Under that doubt, the kid stared at his slowing hands. If sis were here, she'd warm them, saying they were cold.
Sis, my beloved sis.
'I miss...'
The thought cut short. A tear traced his cheek instead.
Sorry, sis. Died without rice or bean sprout soup.
Zoooohm.
The camera slowly zoomed on Kim Donghu, then pulled back. Fade out amid dwindling gunfire and bombs.
"CUUUUUUT!!!!!!!"
Director Kang's fiery bellow echoed across the set.
Clap-clap-clap-clap-clap.
He leaped up, clapping furiously—silent, tiny claps. But the message was crystal clear.
'Kim Donghu! Kim Donghu! Our Donghu!!!'
How'd he pull off those final tears? Crying in that moment?
Director Kang choked back surging emotion.
'Method acting? Ha, what a joke.'
This was Kim Donghu at 100%. He was certain.
Our film? Ten million viewers, easy.