The Sprout (3)
Koo Yang-man sniffed the pine mushroom Kang Tae-san had given him.
He gently brushed the soil from its white body, then tore it lengthwise in one long strip.
He popped the split mushroom straight into his mouth. It felt as though the mountain’s vital energy, where the pine mushroom had grown, flooded his senses.
Next, he drizzled a little sesame oil, sprinkled on a pinch of salt, and took a bite. The rich nuttiness, the savory salt, and the fragrant aroma of the pine mushroom blended perfectly—an absolute delight.
Even as he chewed, he savored every last bit, reluctant to let the flavor disappear, chewing and chewing until nothing remained.
Watching Koo Yang-man indulge in a single mushroom was… well, in the best light it looked like a commercial, but in the worst it looked downright gluttonous. His eyes were slightly glazed, and he clearly wasn’t in his right mind. Either he was acting, or he was genuinely obsessed with pine mushrooms.
“Tell me the truth right now. Where did you get this from the market? If you’re lying, forget acting—I’ll kick you out on the spot.”
He planned to let it slide if Tae-san lied with confidence, but throw him out if he hesitated and confessed. Yet Tae-san simply told the plain truth.
“I went to Odaesan.”
“Odaesan? The one in Hongcheon? How did you get there?”
“I took the bus.”
Tae-san showed him the intercity bus ticket he’d bought through the app. Koo Yang-man was stunned. He himself had been staying right at the foot of that mountain until last month, yet he’d never managed to find any pine mushrooms. How on earth had this guy done it?
“Even veteran foragers give up on Odaesan’s slopes. So how exactly did you find them?”
Tae-san pulled out a folded piece of paper as if he’d expected the question.
“What’s that?”
“My phone was dead, so I couldn’t take pictures. I marked the spots on paper. There were places where pine mushrooms grow.”
“What? Let me see!”
Koo Yang-man reached out to snatch it, but Tae-san swiftly pulled the paper away.
“What are you doing?”
“Please teach me. If you show me how to act, I’ll tell you where they are.”
Koo Yang-man couldn’t help but chuckle at Tae-san’s bold counteroffer. Coming up with the idea to go all the way to Odaesan for pine mushrooms was already crazy enough, but actually finding real ones and then bargaining with his teacher? This wasn’t your average lunatic.
“So you’re saying you actually foraged them yourself? Wild ones? Right here in the middle of Seoul?”
“Yes. That’s what you asked for.”
His clear eyes shone with certainty. There wasn’t a trace of a lie.
‘Is this kid actually insane?’
After years in the industry, Koo Yang-man had occasionally met people like this—actors who revealed a terrifying obsession and persistence in the strangest places. He saw that same wild gleam in Tae-san’s eyes now.
“Are you serious about becoming an actor?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you can make a lot of money. I can work hard at anything, and when I put the same effort into every job, acting seems to pay the best.”
“You’re obsessed with money.”
“And it’s fun.”
“Fun?”
Tae-san recalled reading and rereading the script for Bad Boyfriend. Imagining and portraying someone else’s life. Playing Do Hoon-jae, a victim of school violence, had been painful because the character resembled Yang Sun-il, yet understanding and showing that life had made his heart race. Becoming someone else was something he had never even imagined before. As an orphan, he had simply accepted his life and fought to survive day by day. But the life of an actor meant constantly becoming someone else—living lives he had never experienced, dreamed of, or possessed.
“That part was really fun. I’ve never really looked for fun in life before. Acting out other people’s lives… it was new to me.”
Of course, what excited him was purely the act of studying and researching someone’s life—the unique nature of the acting profession that set it apart from part-time jobs. Koo Yang-man interpreted it differently.
‘But the roles he’s played aren’t exactly wholesome, are they?’
Tae-san had drawn attention with roles like a psychopathic stalker and a serial killer. Koo Yang-man, taking his words at face value, found himself thinking Tae-san was more than a little unhinged.
“Ahem. Well… it’s a job that requires a certain kind of madness. Being an actor, I mean.”
Of course, what Tae-san meant was different from what Koo Yang-man assumed. Just as he had experienced the warm memories of housewife Park Sun-hee while cleaning, Tae-san wanted to understand the world more broadly by living through many different lives. For now the roles he’d played were tragic and violently extreme, but eventually he would take on all sorts of characters. To do that, he needed technical study of roles rather than just harrowing experiences.
“I want to work harder and get better so that people enjoy watching me act. Just like I do.”
The words flowed out of Tae-san without him realizing it. He had simply wanted to do his best at whatever he was doing, but when Koo Yang-man asked, thoughts he hadn’t even known he had began to organize themselves.
‘This kid is serious.’
Koo Yang-man looked at Tae-san calmly stating his reasons and saw straight through him without twisting his words. While out of contact, Koo Yang-man had received and watched every one of Tae-san’s music video audition clips and drama scenes. One thing had become clear: Tae-san’s acting wasn’t acting at all—it was sincerity. Most new actors, and even many veterans, treated acting as just acting. True method acting was something only a rare few could achieve; most simply made it look convincing. ‘But what this kid does isn’t acting.’ It felt like watching someone who had actually stalked and committed serial murder. One could call it method acting, but to Koo Yang-man’s eyes it wasn’t even that. Even among top stars and leads, there were occasionally actors with this level of immersion. But… ‘To already show this kind of potential at the blue-chip level…’ Koo Yang-man brushed the dirt from his hands and naturally began the lesson.
“What you need right now is technique. Acting is a skill. So we have to start by separating you from the character.”
Most new or blue-chip actors struggled because they couldn’t immerse themselves in a role. Tae-san’s problem was the opposite—he immersed himself too deeply, becoming the character itself. If an inexperienced blue-chip actor got swallowed by a role this early, it could be dangerous. He would be unable to play a variety of characters, and it could even harm his mind and body.
“Today’s training is body liberation. From now on, your head, arms, and legs aren’t yours anymore.”
As the lesson began, Koo Yang-man’s posture and tone shifted subtly. Moments ago he had looked like a hunched herbalist searching for mushrooms; now he seemed like a mountain spirit leaning on a staff instead of hiking poles.
“Hands, arms, feet, legs, head. Examine each one as if it belongs to someone else. Feel every single finger moving, the nerves running from wrist to arm to shoulder to neck to head. Begin.”
Tae-san started with the most basic foundation of acting—feeling his own body. Breathing, vocalization, and pronunciation followed. He learned the fundamentals. During the intense training that lasted several days, he considered using Oronamin F for energy, but he wanted to absorb everything with his own stamina, so he exercised whenever he had a spare moment.
“Alright, today we’ll study Stanislavski’s emotion-based free acting.”
“Oh, today’s lesson sounds professional, sir.”
“Shut it, you brat. Did you think I was making things up until now?”
“Ahem. I might have had that suspicion, just a little.”
“You little punk. Focus!”
In the meantime, the distance between Kang Tae-san and Koo Yang-man had narrowed considerably. Tae-san’s warm, friendly nature had won him over, and the fact that he followed instructions so well made it impossible for a teacher not to like him. Watching Tae-san grow day by day, Koo Yang-man thought, ‘Heh. A pine mushroom from Odaesan. He’s going to make it big no matter what.’ Of course, he never voiced anything close to praise out loud. But deep down he knew: the rookie actor he was raising would soon shake up the entire country.
***
After the final episode aired, lead actress Eun Chae-won was flooded with offers. It was no surprise—she had grown from a child actor into a performer whose solid acting skills elevated the drama’s story even further. Articles poured in praising her charisma and nuanced performance, saying Bad Boyfriend’s Han Soo-ji would be unimaginable without her. The drama ended on a high note, achieving over 17% viewership in today’s difficult market. There had been skeptical voices questioning whether Eun Chae-won truly belonged in the “top star” tier, but her role as Han Soo-ji proved beyond doubt that she was more than qualified. Thanks to that, scripts kept arriving for Chae-won, who had wrapped up commercials and events and entered a rest period.
“Chae-won, what did you think of the script I sent last time?”
“The character was fine, but the story felt lacking. I wasn’t curious about what happened next.”
“As expected from a rookie writer—the impact is missing. Anything else catch your eye?”
Dozens of scripts had come in for Eun Chae-won through Kidari Entertainment. After the company staff and CEO reviewed them, five scripts were passed to her. Chae-won picked up one of the film scripts.
“This director… wasn’t it Mo Yeon-hee who did that project the year before last?”
“Yeah, that’s right. She’s the hottest name in Chungmuro right now. This one’s a campus romance, and they sent it to you first. They wrote the script while picturing your image.”
“I liked this one the most too. Since I showed a strong image as a detective, showing a softer side this time would be good.”
Eun Chae-won felt drawn to the female lead she would play. She had chosen acting as her profession from a young age and voluntarily gave up on university. She hadn’t wanted to take someone else’s spot after studying for entrance exams, and she judged that she would learn far more on set than in school. That meant she had never had the chance to live out campus romance fantasies—things like dating on campus, lying on the grass skipping class, or going on club retreats. Expressing something she had never experienced was difficult, which was exactly why acting was so appealing.
“By the way, oppa, have they decided on the male lead?”
“Not yet. Since the female lead is the center, they’ll probably cast the male lead after locking her in.”
“The second male lead isn’t set either?”
“Nope. Why? Got someone in mind who would fit?”
“Hmm…”
Chae-won already had someone in mind. The second male lead was an obsessive yet wounded character devoted to the heroine—an important role that drove the story. It was a part that wouldn’t feel out of place even if given to a top-tier blue-chip actor or even a newly established lead. And the person who came to mind the moment she read the script was… ‘Kang Tae-san.’ She felt certain he would handle the role well. His face had floated into her mind the entire time she read the script.
“What’s Kang Tae-san doing these days after signing with the company?”
“Oh, Tae-san? He’s taking acting lessons. Koo Yang-man is in Seoul right now.”
“The teacher?”
Koo Yang-man had also been Eun Chae-won’s acting instructor. Holding the script, she stood up.
“If he’s here, I should go say hello.”
Eun Chae-won headed straight to the company building and made her way to the fourth floor as usual. The new building hadn’t been up for many years, so she rarely visited the practice rooms, but she often came alone with a script when she needed to focus. Reading scripts while remembering the days she first learned acting sometimes revealed things she hadn’t noticed before.
“Oh, isn’t that Chae-won?”
“Teacher!”
Koo Yang-man, just stepping out of the practice room, recognized her immediately. Even the usually reserved Eun Chae-won showed her delight without restraint in front of him. After a brief exchange of greetings, Kang Tae-san followed behind, having finished his lesson.
“Hello. It’s been a while.”
“Ah, yes.”
When Eun Chae-won greeted him first, Tae-san bowed politely.
“Oh, so you two know each other?”
“Yes, Teacher.”
“Perfect. Come by next time and be his partner. Let me see how this guy’s breathing is.”
“Alright.”
Anyone else would have been shocked at how readily she agreed, but both Koo Yang-man and Kang Tae-san accepted it without reaction. Neither seemed aware that their relationship with Eun Chae-won was on a different level from others.
“Um, just a moment.”
After seeing Koo Yang-man off on the first floor, Eun Chae-won stopped Tae-san, who was about to leave in a hurry.
“Can we talk for a second?”
‘What now?’
Following her into a small meeting room on the first floor, Tae-san felt oddly tense. This person had a habit of giving industry-senior lectures or nagging, so he quickly tried to guess what she might say today. He decided he would just nod along and end it quickly. If it dragged into another meal like last time, it would be nothing but trouble. Meals were best enjoyed in peace. He resolved to agree with everything—no matter what she said, he would say yes. That was the best way to deal with a know-it-all senior.
“Would you like to take a look at this?”
Eun Chae-won handed him a script. On the cover was written Campus Romance.
“It’s confidential, so read it alone. Let me know what you think.”
“Ah, yes! Understood.”
Watching Tae-san immediately open the script, Eun Chae-won thought once again that he had a unique temperament. Normally, a rookie would ask what the script was or why she was giving it to him. But he seemed to understand right away that receiving a script as a new actor was both an opportunity and a measure of his ability. Without another word, Eun Chae-won quietly stepped aside. If he liked it, she planned to subtly mention it to CEO Choi Hyung-tak. Meanwhile, Tae-san let out a small sigh the moment she left.
“Phew. Giving me a script on top of telling me to study acting properly… She really is a know-it-all senior.”