The Drama Writer's Meeting
"Hello. I'm drama writer Kim Min-gyu."
Kim Min-gyu, with his mature and steady presence, greeted Sora and the others with a gentle smile. When he offered a handshake, the calluses on his palms revealed a life that hadn't been easy. Of course, he shook hands with Team Leader Kim Sung-ho first. Yoo Min-ah, who had tagged along like Sora's favorite stuffed toy, also exchanged greetings. In the world of social etiquette, where mutual respect was essential—especially with someone older—one couldn't help but bow deeply. Korea had a culture of hierarchy based on age. Even a single year's difference meant treating the elder as a "hyungnim." In America or other countries, a 3- or 4-year gap might just mean friends sharing a meal, but that was the culture of those with big noses. Korea, steeped in Confucian traditions, wasn't wrong for ranking by age.
Sora bowed politely as well. After all, she was in the subordinate position right now.
"Hello. I'm novelist Lee Sora."
Sora wasn't sure if she could call herself a novelist yet, but outwardly, that's what she was. No one doubted it. Bowing to the drama writer who had chosen her work wasn't wrong at all. If anything, it was like applying lubricant to smooth things over.
Kim Min-gyu chuckled warmly at Sora's greeting.
"No need to be quite so formal..."
At his age—with even granddaughters—Kim Min-gyu didn't feel the need for such deference from a child who resembled his own granddaughter, even if she was younger. Sora's first impression was that of an adorably cute little girl. Men in their midlife like him naturally softened around kids like her. It was an instinct passed down from ancient times. That was why grandmas often preferred grandkids over their own children. When kids and grandkids visited, grandparents would ignore the kids to play with the grandkids. But that didn't mean they didn't love their children. Maybe it was just familiarity breeding contempt after so many years. Or perhaps instinct favored the young ones more. The reason was unclear.
"Haha. I've heard a lot about you. I love historical novels, and yours hooked me from the very first paragraph. Other novels didn't have that pull."
"Haha..."
"I truly enjoyed it. I'm rereading it now, and each time, new layers emerge. I couldn't believe someone your age wrote it."
I couldn't say it was someone else's novel. In this world, it was credited to me... Strictly speaking, I'd just transcribed a book from another world. But hearing formal speech from someone forty years my senior felt off. Even Yoo Min-ah, twenty years older, calling her "unnie" was awkward enough. A man in his early fifties using honorifics with me gave me chills. I couldn't take it anymore.
Sora spoke politely to Kim Min-gyu.
"Thank you. And please, speak comfortably. You're much older than me, so honorifics must feel uncomfortable for you."
"Is that okay?"
From Sora's words, Kim Min-gyu could tell she possessed unusual intelligence. Comparing her to his own granddaughter made her stand out even more. At his age, a few words were enough to gauge someone's level—maybe 90% accurate, if not 100%. That's why first impressions mattered so much; 70% of it was set right away. Fixing a bad one took enormous effort. They called it framing. In that sense, Kim Min-gyu nodded readily. The kid's smarts were no joke.
After some light chat, they got to the point.
"Anyway, we're planning to adapt your novel Song of the Sword into a drama... That's fine, right?"
The meeting was already wrapping up, contracts signed, but Kim Min-gyu checked just in case—considering Sora's age. Kids that young were unpredictable. If she suddenly said no to the drama, there'd be no recourse. A minor and a little kid was a powerful combo; even signed contracts could be torn up. Physically, kids were weakest, but society didn't run on muscle. Socially, minors held immense power. Crimes against them drew harsher sentences. Adults fighting adults? Whatever. But touch a child? Unforgivable.
Sora nodded at his words.
"Yes. I'm the one who's grateful."
"Heh heh. Talking to you feels like chatting with an adult."
I flinched! Counting my past life, I was no spring chicken. I couldn't share exact years, but combined, I was older than Yoo Min-ah. Plus, I had eight years in this life.
"This time, we're prepping a major historical drama. Budget's 30 billion won, they say. Pondering the lead character, your book inspired me."
Kim Min-gyu showed Sora's novel Song of the Sword. Elegant handwriting, thoughtful design from Kim Sung-ho's agonies. It screamed "collector's item." Though it hadn't sold much.
"30 billion?"
"Yeah. Oh, this is confidential... You'll keep it quiet, right?"
Kim Sung-ho's jaw dropped at the budget, unmentioned even in the meeting. Watching him, I wanted to toss a fly in that gaping mouth. Just a thought, of course.
"No way... That much money?"
In the 2000s, 30 billion was worth more than 100 billion in the 2020s. Money's face value doesn't change, but purchasing power does—inflation. Today's 30 billion was worlds apart from 20 years later. If I invested in that famous IT company I remembered, it could've grown 200-fold to 6 trillion. But that company existed only in my memory. Similar ones here, but this parallel world made pinpointing tricky. And I didn't have the cash anyway. Just pie in the sky. I'd invest in stocks once I had money, but gains wouldn't be huge—worlds differed slightly. Virtual currency, though? I'd buy tons. If it mooned, goodbye one-room hellhole. If not, write it off. Problem: still over a decade away. Better to write novels and earn now. I desperately wanted out of that cockroach-infested hole. Too long bunking with bugs. Boring as hell.
The meeting continued smoothly. How could it not? Adapting Song of the Sword to drama thrilled Sora and the staff.
But as talk flowed, Kim Min-gyu hesitated, then spoke up. Song of the Sword was a near-perfect masterpiece as a novel. But for drama? Not quite. Written like poetry, they'd reference it but needed changes. Specifically...
"We'll need some adaptations. Is that okay?"
It meant altering the novel's content.