An Umbrella, Two Swords, and a Hesitant Director
Just as I'd predicted, the company decided to fund this production in full.
The money was coming from Cheon Financial.
There were two investment firms tied to Flame: Sunny Investment and Cheon Financial. The names made it obvious enough — Sunny Investment was the one connected to S&M, while Cheon Financial was the company Cheon Yua personally controlled. And if Cheon Financial was covering the entire investment, then in the end, this was Cheon Yua's call alone.
She's going to swallow this whole thing by herself?
Our Heavenly Demon, it seems, has developed quite the appetite for money.
"The production company has been decided — it's Phoenix."
"Ah, Phoenix."
While Cheon Yua, Yang Yuri, and I had been wrestling with the script, they'd gone ahead and settled on the production company as well: Phoenix Studio.
Not the absolute best in Korea, but a solid, reliable outfit that could hold its own among the top three. They were apparently so meticulous with their paperwork that quite a few investors actually preferred them for it.
And above all, Phoenix Studio owned the largest late-Joseon-era outdoor set in the country.
Our setting wasn't simply the late Joseon period, of course, but building a brand-new set from scratch was apparently more of a hassle than making use of one that already existed. We'd be layering a good deal of CG over it to sell the steampunk aesthetic, but constructing an entirely new set would take far too long, or so they said.
"And for the mine, we're building a separate set in Taebaek. That much we can't really avoid."
Even so, we couldn't get away without building any sets at all. Quite a few scenes took place at the mine, so a new set was necessary — and they'd settled on Taebaek for it. Unsan was in the northern territories, after all, and Taebaek was the closest match in atmosphere they could find.
Honestly, this sort of thing was the production staff's job to worry about, not mine. The only thing that genuinely concerned me was who would be directing the drama. It was hardly rare for the quality of a show to rise or fall entirely on the shoulders of whichever PD was behind the camera.
"So, who's the PD?"
"Ah, that. Nothing's confirmed yet, but it looks very likely to be Director Bang Jin-gyu."
"Hmm..."
"You don't know him?"
"The name rings a bell, but I can't quite place him."
"Well, you have been out of the industry for a few years. Have you seen City of Steel?"
"City of Steel... isn't that a movie?"
"That's what I said — a director."
"Ah, right, of course."
As the film industry slid into its doldrums, it had become far from unusual for movie directors to cross over into television. Especially with OTT originals, which were frequently pre-produced and shot under conditions barely distinguishable from film.
Director Bang Jin-gyu, working out of Phoenix, had presumably made the leap for much the same reason.
"If it's City of Steel, that's actually promising..."
I had a vague memory of the film. It was known for strikingly stylish action sequences, if I recalled correctly. Our drama leaned heavily on action in a lot of places too, so his chemistry with the material seemed like a good fit.
And above all, City of Steel had been cyberpunk. Cyberpunk and steampunk were both subgenres of science fiction, so a director who'd worked in that world was bound to be a better choice than some PD who'd never touched it. SF wasn't exactly a common genre, and there were precious few directors with hands-on experience in it.
It seemed Phoenix had agonized over the choice and picked the right man.
"Though apparently he keeps turning it down."
"Turning it down? You mean he doesn't want to take the project? Why not?"
"Something about not feeling it, apparently. Phoenix is at a bit of a loss."
"Are there no other PDs?"
"It's not that there aren't — it's that Director Bang is simply the best person for the job."
"Fair enough. This isn't some small-change production, so we do need someone capable."
"That's why there's been a lot of hand-wringing lately."
A man who'd shot cyberpunk clearly had a genuine interest in the genre — so what was making him refuse this one? Surely he wasn't one of those 'cyberpunk only' purists who couldn't lower himself to steampunk? If that were his style, he'd never have abandoned the film industry for television in the first place.
Curiosity got the better of me after hearing that Director Bang was reluctant to take the project, so I sat down and watched City of Steel, his old film. Maybe because my own level had changed so much since the old days, the whole thing felt completely different now. Back then I'd watched it with half an eye; watching it now, I could see it was genuinely well made, and I understood why people had praised it.
My own role, especially, was a character whose action scenes mattered a great deal, so this was not something I could afford to be indifferent about.
"Oh? Father? Yes, Father."
I was midway through deciding that Director Bang was better than I'd expected when my father called. He wasn't the type to reach out first without reason, afraid I might be stressed about something — so what could this be about?
I tilted my head and picked up.
"Son! I hear you're starting a new project!"
"Ah, well, that's how it's shaping up."
"Hey, that stings. I have to hear about my own son from somebody else first?"
He was sulking about why I hadn't told him about the new project myself. Father, no project has even properly started yet — where on earth did you hear this?
"Nothing's officially decided yet. Where did you hear about it?"
"Chan-soo told me. He's at the shop right now."
"Ah, Uncle Chan-soo?"
Right, Uncle Chan-soo. The man who'd introduced me to PD Yoo Myung-woo happened to work at Phoenix. Now that Phoenix was producing our drama, he must have sprinted straight to my father the moment he heard the news. These people really don't let grass grow under their feet.
There was still a long stretch of time left before production even began, and I'd been planning to break the news slowly.
"So you're with Uncle Chan-soo right now?"
"Yep, that's right."
Uncle Chan-soo was famous for being a people person, so he probably had plenty of close friends throughout the company. Naturally, he'd have connections with Director Bang as well.
Since it had come to this, why not ask Uncle Chan-soo about Director Bang? I knew a mere actor like me probably shouldn't be poking his nose into such matters, but no harm in trying — I wanted to know why Director Bang was turning down the project. How could I decide whether to give up or to persuade him otherwise without knowing the reason? I genuinely liked the man's direction, but I couldn't afford to cling to him indefinitely, either.
"Ah, Director Bang. I know him. Come to think of it, they're saying he's practically got the job. Hmm... he's not a bad sort. A bit odd, but not bad."
"Really? They say he doesn't want to take this project, though."
"Huh, really? That's a surprise. He's dedicated to his craft — why would he? If I had to guess..."
When I asked my father, it turned out Director Bang Jin-gyu was the archetypal artiste — a director who lived and died by inspiration. He didn't roll cameras until the muse arrived. And when it came to actors, that tendency ran even stronger: if a performer didn't spark something in him, he simply would not cast them. Ever.
"If it's not the actors... then it's me again, isn't it."
If Director Bang was refusing a project that was otherwise fairly unproblematic, then the issue had to be the cast. Cheon Yua was an actress practically every director clamored to work with, so the problem could only be me, the confirmed male lead.
Would it kill him to at least agree to an interview-cum-audition, then?
"Ah, Director Bang's a bit timid, you see. His last project flopped. He's not the kind of man who can demand the moon from an actor some investor forced into the production — and with things going badly, I'd wager he's just been stewing over it alone."
"Oh, is that so?"
So the man who shot action with such wild abandon wasn't nearly so bold in temperament. Well, if that's how it was, then I'd simply have to show him what I could do.
They call him an action artisan, don't they? Then surely showing him action potent enough to set his inspiration boiling was the answer. If actors were the only thing he was picky about, that actually worked in my favor. It also meant that paired with an actor who could feed his muse, he'd deliver firepower far beyond his usual capacity.
That's just how these people were. When the mood struck, their efficiency soared; when it sagged, nothing got done at all.
From the sound of it, they'd probably strong-arm him into taking the project one way or another, but given the choice, it would be far better for everyone if he could start on a high note of his own accord.
"...What are you doing right now?"
"Ah, I'm about to shoot a video to send to the director. Word is he's picky about his actors."
"I see. And what exactly are you filming?"
"Yi Myeong's swordsmanship, obviously. The man's an action artisan — you can bet swordsmanship is what he's most worried about."
"Hmm... fine. Go ahead."
The moment I hung up with my father, I headed straight for the practice room. I'd brought along a camera — the same one I used to review my acting practice — and somehow Cheon Yua got wind of it and came down to the practice room herself.
When she asked what on earth I was up to and I told her I was filming an acting reel to send to the director, she declared that she would simply have to watch, eyes brimming with curiosity, and claimed a seat.
Which made sense, come to think of it — Cheon Yua had never actually seen my action performance up close. All these various incidents had led her to assume I could handle myself, but seeing it with her own eyes was another matter entirely.
Well then. I suppose I'll need to put my back into it.
A breath out.
Ordinary sweats. And in one hand, a black umbrella.
I'd deliberately skipped any props or costume because I figured this would land harder. If I could deliver compelling action in a state of total non-readiness, it would set a director's imagination on fire. I want to work with this actor properly. Imagine what he'd look like with a full costume and props. No director alive would fail to think exactly that.
In clothes that promised zero action, I began to sweep the umbrella in slow, deliberate arcs.
For this, the sword of Mount Hua was supreme.
The essence of the Mount Hua sword lay in its swiftness, its illusion, and its softness. Peerless in sheer elegance, it was the perfect swordwork for Yi Myeong in the drama's early chapters — aloof, aristocratic, untouchable.
From there, I linked Plum Fragrance Across Ten Thousand Miles into Flowers upon the Fallen Snow, and then into the Ten Thousand Transformations of the Plum Blossom, flowing seamlessly from one to the next until the first sword dance was complete.
A breath.
Then, having cleared one movement, I shifted gears entirely — because the Yi Myeong of the later chapters was a killer who'd taken up the blade for vengeance.
I chained together the forms of the Soul-Seizing Sword of the True Demon, one of the Divine Cult's foundational techniques, weaving them into an entirely new sword dance. Like the Mount Hua sword, the Soul-Seizing Sword prized swiftness and illusion, and its forms were every bit as ornate — but where it differed, and differed sharply, was in the sheer force of its killing intent.
Even stripped of any inner energy, the menace in the swordwork itself was another matter entirely. This style came out genuinely vicious.
The contrast between the Mount Hua sword and the Divine Cult's sword was, as it happened, the perfect framework for showing the gulf between Yi Myeong in the story's beginning and Yi Myeong at its end — exactly the kind of comparison I wanted to put on camera.
"Oh. My. This isn't just good — not by a long shot."
"Is it?"
"Yes. Honestly... I'm quite surprised."
As I unfolded the two swords back to back, Cheon Yua, who'd been watching from the side, let out an utterly sincere gasp of admiration.
Good heavens.
The Heavenly Demon, marveling at my swordsmanship?
Of course I knew that wasn't literally true. But watching her wear that face while admiring me like that, it felt as though the actual Heavenly Demon had just paid me a compliment. And let me tell you — that is a rare treasure indeed.
All in all, it was a distinctly pleasant feeling.