The Actor's Stove League

In sports, there's a term called the Stove League. It refers to the period after the regular season ends and before the next one begins—a time for rest, recovery, training, and roster building, among other activities. Actors go through something similar. After wrapping a project, they have their own version of the off-season before diving into the next one.

But unlike sports, an actor's Stove League is wildly irregular and varies hugely from person to person. After all, acting is essentially a freelance gig. That said, the word "rest" didn't apply to Baek Woojin at all. From Song Jun-an's perspective—the guy who was practically glued to his side—Woojin was burning the candle at both ends more intensely than anyone.

The reason Woojin threw himself into acting every single day without a break until cranking in was simple: he had a mountain of prep work. There were way more basics to build before starting this project than he'd expected. For instance, historical dramas demanded far superior vocal projection compared to modern ones, so ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠vocal training was a non-negotiable part of his daily routine. Memorizing scripts was already a given, and he'd even started attending the action school recommended by Director Ryu Chang-min five days a week.

"Isn't three times a week enough?"

The action school was in Paju, Gyeonggi Province. Commuting back and forth from Seoul every day drained a ton of energy. His agency had suggested cutting back, but...

"I'm good. I like it this way."

Woojin's face was practically glowing.

"I wanted to go every day, but everyone was so worried I settled for ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠five."

Jun-an could only stick out his tongue at that.

The role of the king demanded less action than a warrior's, and far less singing and dancing technique than a court dancer's. And yet, Woojin was more passionate than anyone else in the Red Petal cast. He threw himself into every class—horsemanship, dance, singing, swordsmanship—with unbridled enthusiasm.

"Woojin-ah."

"Yeah?"

"No matter how I look at it, you're totally nuts. In a good way, though."

"Haha, that's a compliment?"

"Nah, highest praise. Honestly, I respect the hell out of you."

Jun-an admired the drive but couldn't quite fathom why Woojin pushed so hard. From Woojin's side, though, it was always the same thought: I'm still not enough. Way not enough.

His hunger for the role of Yeonsangun was insatiable. Take a simple record like, "Yeonsangun enjoyed hunting and riding horses." Digging deeper naturally deepened his worries. It wasn't just "enjoyment"—the guy was obsessed.

The king's hunts were called gangmu (military exercises). These were hunting competitions doubling as military drills, tracking moving prey with bows. They lasted about ten days on average, mobilizing hundreds to thousands of troops. Later Joseon kings scaled back to once or twice a year due to the massive manpower drain... but Yeonsangun skipped gangmu altogether for endless impromptu hunts with no justification. Purely for his own amusement, not training.

Records like that survived in the Yeonsangun Diary and Jungjong Annals, condemning him as a hunting maniac. He even mobilized musicians for parties during hunts, hunted in rice fields right before harvest, devastating the populace. Plus, he revived the Office of Falconry—abolished by his father Sejo—for hawk hunting and breeding.

Just from "hunting," Woojin had a laundry list of traits to embody for Yeonsangun. As an actor, that boiled down to: Even if there's no hunting scene, I need to shoot a bow and ride freely like it's second nature. Not half-assed, but like a hobbyist at ease. You can't fake an expert's fluidity.

And it wasn't just hunting and riding. For leisure scenes, the same applied to singing and dancing. One thought bred another, one question another—inevitably leaving him feeling perpetually deficient as he filled the gaps.

"I don't want to just pretend to be Yeonsangun."

Woojin set down his script and gazed out the window before continuing.

"I want to become him."

That quiet declaration encapsulated his resolve for the project.

"Master! I'm here."

"Woojin? You're here?"

Someone greeted him warmly. Yoo Jae-hong, martial arts advisor for Red Petal. A top-tier action director, president of the Korean Martial Arts Acting Association, and staple in Ryu Chang-min's films—a key member of the so-called "Ryu crew." His action school was the biggest in the country. More than just action, it taught singing, traditional dance—everything ancillary to acting.

"I see you more than my wife these days."

"Haha, we part ways on weekends, at least."

It had been three months since enrolling. They still used formal speech, but the rapport was genuine.

"Riding lesson today, right?"

"Yep."

"And the film crew and reporters are coming soon."

"Really? I hadn't heard."

"Right, first movie for you."

Yoo explained while prepping gear.

"Dramas usually film making-of at readings or sets. Movies cover more ground."

"Makes sense. Always wondered."

"Simple—movies have longer shoots, longer prep."

He stepped beside Woojin.

"Historical dramas especially; actors need tons of prior training, so studios assign instructors."

"Just historicals?"

"Not always. Modern dramas? Dialects usually. Yanbian or North Korean accents."

For Woojin, with limited lead experience, these tidbits from a veteran were pure joy.

"Dialect practice doesn't make great making-of, though."

"True."

"You could say pre-production making-of is a historical film staple."

"Exciting. First time for me."

"Yeah. Enjoy it—nothing special."

Yoo patted his shoulder.

"Train as usual; they'll film. If they need extras from you, they'll ask."

"Got it."

"Reporters just snap promo pics."

"Thanks for the tips."

"Anyway, let's go! Time to ride."

"Yes, Master~"

Woojin hopped into Yoo's car.

They arrived at the riding stable near the school.

"Let's ride!"

Gearing up for safety, they approached the horses immediately. Woojin had ridden this one exclusively for three months.

"Please take care of me today too, Yeonma."

He'd named it after yeon—the king's ceremonial carriage. Stroking its head, Yeonma bobbed up and down like a nod. Once standoffish, it now responded eagerly to Woojin's touch. Rumor had it the production would let him use Yeonma for filming if he wanted.

Maybe that's why mounting felt so reassuring. Visions of Yeonsangun and Yeonma in frame kept flashing in his mind.

—Ihihihiiing~!

Woojin tugged the reins; Yeonma neighed powerfully and bolted forward. Yoo's horse chased close behind.

This is the best.

Early autumn breeze whipping from horseback—refreshing, invigorating. Riding opened his chest, brought inexplicable exhilaration.

Yeonsangun must've felt this.

Even mid-gallop, thoughts of the role persisted—but right now, they didn't hurt. Maybe that's why he kept coming back. Without these small joys, surviving the brutal transformation into Yeonsangun would be impossible.

"Director Yoo!"

"Yes, Woojin?"

"This feels amazing!"

Woojin yelled, urging harder. Yoo smiled, keeping pace.

Bit by bit, time passing, Woojin was becoming Yeonsangun.

Home ↔ Action School ↔ Practice Room. The routine without special schedules was winding down. Time flew, cranking in imminent. Media interest in Ryu Chang-min's swan song naturally spiked, promo articles flooding in.

Photos of Woojin's horsemanship, swordplay, traditional dance, singing classes accompanied them.