The Library's Echoes
Eun Chae-won left, and Kang Tae-san found himself alone in the vast two-story library.
The scent of charcoal smoke clinging to his clothes mingled with the heavy smell of paper, leaving him oddly fatigued.
She wants me to analyze the scripts and give my thoughts…
Until now, his acting had been built entirely on lived experience. The stalker’s madness, the killer’s cold detachment, the victim’s despair, the lifelong bachelor’s awkwardness—he had focused on recreating their lives rather than applying technique.
But the two scripts in his hands were different. They were stories he had never experienced.
Especially Kim Geum-suk’s fantasy romance, whose protagonist was a non-human being. There was simply no way to live that.
How am I supposed to analyze this with just my own head?
Then his gaze drifted to the enormous bookshelf Eun Chae-won had mentioned earlier.
Wait… this space…
Her explanation came back to him. Choi Hyung-tak had built this place so actors could study—early drafts of hit works, revised versions, even rare old script collections.
If she was right, countless actors had passed through here. The finest talents under Kidari Entertainment had read, researched, and found breakthroughs in this very spot.
Then…
The image of the Odae Mountain mushroom hunter’s cabin flashed through his mind. That, too, had been a shared space used by many people over time.
Simply cleaning it had let him experience the hunters’ memories of finding mushrooms—and in the end, he had actually been able to gather them himself.
Wouldn’t this place work the same way?
If I clean this space… maybe…
Instead of one person’s life, he might absorb the very eye for reading scripts that had accumulated here.
His heart began to pound.
Kang Tae-san immediately looked for something to clean. The library was well maintained, but the shelves holding the older script collections looked like they hadn’t felt a human touch in quite some time.
Perfect.
He fetched a towel from the bathroom, soaked it, and wrung it out thoroughly. The moment the damp cloth touched the dust-laden shelves—
Ding!
At the same time, that familiar, stomach-dropping sensation washed over him again. Dozens—hundreds—of memory fragments slammed into his mind like a film reel played at high speed.
This line won’t work if you deliver it like that… the emotion dies!
Eureka! This character’s core is lack!
That’s not what the writer intended. This scene needs to be cut!
The struggles of countless actors wrestling with scripts in this library, and the moments of sudden realization that followed, flashed past like a panoramic highlight reel.
“Ugh…!”
Kang Tae-san swallowed a short groan and pressed his temples.
This was nothing like absorbing one person’s memories. Only the fragmented, intensely vivid moments of “realization” from dozens—perhaps hundreds—of actors crashed into his brain.
Professors’ lecture notes from the Korea National University of Arts, tattered side-script memos from veteran Chungmuro actors, even Eun Chae-won’s own late-night character analyses whispered to herself—all of it played in his mind like a brutally edited highlight reel.
The experience ended in mere minutes, yet Kang Tae-san couldn’t open his eyes for a long while.
It felt as though an entire library had been crammed into his head.
…My head’s going to explode.
When he finally opened his eyes, the world looked different. More precisely, the eight scripts on the table in front of him looked completely different.
Even before reading the synopsis, just the author’s name and title instantly revealed each script’s value, commercial potential, and risks. It was as if every industry rumor and academic paper had been downloaded straight into his brain.
Kang Tae-san picked up the two scripts Eun Chae-won had selected.
Even the ones she chose are extraordinary.
His eyes raced across the pages. Combined with the script-reading skill he had just gained and the photographic visualization technique from engineering student Lee Jae-yoon, his reading speed had become almost superhuman.
The first script was Kim Geum-suk’s latest work. The author who had delivered back-to-back hits with her previous two dramas. She was, without question, Korea’s foremost fantasy-romance writer—every broadcaster and production company was chasing her next project.
This story was a romance between an immortal being and a modern human. While following the successful formula of her earlier works, it still carried her signature sparkling dialogue. The script itself was flawless, smooth, and effortless to read.
Next, he picked up the script by the unknown writer. Strictly speaking, the writer wasn’t unknown.
Chae Man-ki, the writer of “The Last Dynasty.”
A specialist in historical dramas. His previous works had earned critical acclaim, yet their heavy themes led to dismal ratings and two consecutive early cancellations. The industry regarded him as a talented writer who simply didn’t make money.
Kang Tae-san’s hand paused. No matter how good the writing, if the public turned away, it was over. A writer who had already failed twice—few investors or actors would willingly bet on his third project.
Yet Eun Chae-won is seriously considering this?
Curious, he turned to the first page. And then he held his breath.
…This is insane.
The story unfolded the brutal lives and loves of nameless independence fighters who fell during the Japanese colonial period. Perhaps because of its weighty theme, every single line struck like a blade to the heart.
Without realizing it, Kang Tae-san was completely absorbed.
Some time later—
“Finished reading?”
Eun Chae-won had taken the seat across from him.
“Yes. I’ve read them both.”
“So, what do you think? If you were me, which one would you choose?”
Kang Tae-san let out a long breath and looked back and forth between the two scripts lying side by side on the table. Without hesitation, he slid Kim Geum-suk’s script toward her.
“If it were me… I’d choose this one.”
The corner of Eun Chae-won’s mouth lifted slightly. Her expression said, As expected.
“Why? Because it’s Kim Geum-suk’s work?”
She assumed he had chosen it purely for the name value and commercial prospects.
But his answer was unexpected.
“That’s part of it, of course.”
Kang Tae-san continued in a calm voice.
“Kim Geum-suk is currently the highest-rated drama writer in Korea. Her fantasy romance in particular is considered to have pushed the limits of K-dramas. This script feels like it could reach that same level of quality.”
“……”
For a moment, Eun Chae-won’s expression hardened. That level of industry analysis was something only veteran managers like Park Sang-ho or planning director Moon would make.
What is this guy…?
Kang Tae-san went on, unfazed.
“But that’s not the main reason I’m recommending it to you, sunbae.”
“There’s another reason?”
“It’s an excellent script. But honestly, plenty of actors could play this role even if it wasn’t you.”
He tapped the other script with his finger.
“This one, though? No.”
“……”
“I think you should do something like this, sunbae.”
Eun Chae-won’s eyes narrowed.
“Something like this…”
She felt more than surprised—she was slightly offended. The independence-fighter role demanded tremendous depth and emotional range, while the other was a light, crowd-pleasing fantasy romance. And yet this rookie actor was telling her the romance looked easier than the serious historical drama.
“Kang Tae-san.”
Her voice turned icy.
“Are you looking down on me right now?”
“No! That’s not what I meant at all!”
Kang Tae-san waved his hands frantically and began explaining, drawing on everything he had just experienced.
“Roles that require raw human suffering—the despair of independence fighters, the pain of the era—other talented seniors could pull off with enough research and effort. But this one is different.”
“How so?”
“The protagonist is a non-human being. In other words, not a human role.”
He looked her straight in the eye and repeated what Jeong Seung-il had once told him.
“Sunbae, I heard the industry calls you the ‘Infinite Actor.’”
“……”
“Most actors build characters by adding something to their own experiences… but you erase yourself completely every time you act. Like a blank canvas.”
Eun Chae-won’s expression wavered slightly.
“The emptiness of a non-human existence—only an actress who can empty herself so perfectly, only you, Eun Chae-won, could portray that.”
“……!”
Eun Chae-won swallowed hard. Acting had always come as naturally to her as breathing; she had never known struggle. But that wasn’t important right now.
…This man knows.
It felt as though he understood exactly what her most essential talent—the “infinite state” that had carried her to the top—was, and he was explaining why it fit this particular character better than anyone else could have.
Kang Tae-san drove the point home.
“That’s why I’m recommending this role. Because I believe only you can play it.”
Eun Chae-won looked at Kang Tae-san again. A chill ran down her spine at the monstrous insight hidden behind those clear eyes.