Even Movies? The Bulletproof Per-Episode Model
Even movies? I was convinced the per-episode payment system wouldn't fail. Sure, there might be some hiccups at first, but it was a strategy that was virtually guaranteed to succeed.
After all, once smartphones became widespread, people would flock to their phones to read novels. I gave Kim Sung-ho a rough outline of the idea.
Kim Sung-ho nodded as he listened, clearly acknowledging the validity of my points.
But capital was the issue. I wanted to handle everything myself, but my age made that impossible.
If I could secure 51% of the shares, I felt confident we could make it work... but no one was going to hand over a controlling stake like that.
Launching through Songi Media meant they'd naturally claim the majority. Still, if they invested under my name, I could probably snag 20-30% of the equity.
Once Munpia succeeded, it would endure as a gateway for new writers even years later. In fact, it was practically the only place for rookie web novel authors to debut.
Other sites allowed it too, but they lacked Munpia's structured system. On those platforms, scouts from publishers or agencies would spot talented writers, send emails, and poach them individually.
Munpia, on the other hand, connected popular works directly to monetization, linking authors and the platform instantly.
"By the way, how'd you come up with this? Per-episode payments...! I never even thought of it."
"I just thought it would be great if such a system existed, so I mentioned it. And there are already sites doing it for real."
"Alright, I'll bring it up."
And Munpia needed to implement per-episode payments fast—before the competition inevitably crashed and burned.
Wouldn't I rake in cash by unleashing the novels in my head? Printing them as books like now was inefficient; I couldn't produce them in bulk anyway.
But with per-episode billing, revenue would skyrocket. As time passed, more platforms would emerge, and successful Munpia titles would launch everywhere—exploding my income.
I was just waiting for that day. No ordinary hustle would buy a Gangnam penthouse; I needed to sweep the money like a magnet.
Screenwriter Kim Mingyu was hard at work on his script.
Frankly, scripting up to the midpoint of Immortal Yi Sun-sin had been grueling. He did his best, but history buffs still nitpicked historical inaccuracies.
Sageuks had inherent limits when it came to perfect historical fidelity. Much from 500 years ago survived only in written annals like the Annals of the Joseon Dynasty—no footage or photos.
So creators filled the gaps with imagination, which inevitably sparked accuracy debates.
But after the midpoint, he could finally breathe easier. From there, he just followed The Song of the Sword.
It wasn't flawless either, but it beat fabricating the early acts from scratch.
The opening of Immortal Yi Sun-sin included some romance, covering Yi Sun-sin's life before passing the military exam—a tricky genre to write, with emotions shifting like reeds in the wind.
Battle scenes were straightforward: fire the cannons, show them exploding on enemy ships. The filming difficulty dropped dramatically.
And ratings were sailing smoothly past 30%—a smash hit, even for a national pride project like Yi Sun-sin's saga.
"Heh heh..."
Chatting with that kid Sora was a bonus too. Not because Kim Mingyu had some creepy fetish—no, it was her razor-sharp smarts.
When scripting the early parts of Immortal Yi Sun-sin, he'd consulted her. Hesitant at first—she was just a first-grader—but she'd offered help during the preview screening for any stuck spots.
He'd been stumped on Yi Sun-sin's youth and pre-exam story. Sora unraveled it effortlessly, with such polish it felt like she'd cribbed from an airing drama.
She'd solved the plot headaches that had him tearing his hair out. Now, they'd shot past the opener into mid-story, with scripts ready through the finale.
Without her, he'd probably be doing sidescript hell—daily rewrites on set. Plenty of dramas still ran that way; no wonder "sidescript dramas" were a thing.
This left him way more breathing room than usual. No all-nighters chained to his desk.
Today's Immortal Yi Sun-sin script was done, freeing him for dinner with his buddy.
He'd never had time for this before; all his past dramas were born from that grind.
While Kim Mingyu focused on TV dramas, his friend Park Sungmin specialized in movie scripts.
"Mingyu, your show's killing it, huh?"
The steaks arrived. The two writers deftly sliced in.
Kim Mingyu grinned at Sungmin's words. "Yeah, got lucky."
"Lucky? Come on. With the whole country hating Japan right now, you picked the perfect project. Felt good watching it myself."
"Heh heh heh!"
Kim Mingyu burst into a pleased laugh. Nothing beat seeing your "baby" succeed as a writer.
Then Sungmin noticed. "Something bugging you? You don't look great."
As old pals, Mingyu could read his face like a book.
Sungmin scowled. "Got a script due, but the story's not coming. I'd borrow a cat's paw if I could."
"That stuck?"
"Yeah. Movie scripts always take forever—you know that. And it drags more with age. Might just quit."
Dramas demanded speed; movies prized depth, with 6-12 months per script. Dramatists would faint.
Sungmin was loaded—stocks, real estate, savings galore. He could retire tomorrow.
But glory called. Even trillionaires kept grinding. Sungmin craved a 10-million-ticket blockbuster before bowing out.
His films succeeded, but topped out at 8-9 million. Enviable to others, but he thirsted for that milestone.
Kim Mingyu thought of a pint-sized fix. "Hey, Sungmin. Want my help?"
"Huh? Aren't you slammed with your drama?"
"Nah, not me—it's this super bright kid named Sora..."
Kim Mingyu launched into a rave about how brilliant and talented Sora was. To Park Sungmin.