Thud. Director Gu Kneels and Topples Forward
Thud. Director Gu Jeong-hwan knelt and pitched forward onto the ground. He tried to push himself up, hand pressing into the dirt, but his legs wobbled like those of a newborn giraffe. No strength left in them.
······What the hell was that just now.
His pupils shook as he recalled a line he himself often used. Fear is a reaction—this was some kind of physiological response. Like in boxing, when a pinpoint punch to the jaw shakes the brain, robbing balance and sending you crashing down, that roar had exceeded the threshold and stirred up some deep-seated something inside him.
Yes, a roar. Recalling that thing—not movie dialogue, but more like a beast's howl—his hands still trembled even now······
Thud. Thud.
Suddenly, a shadow fell over his head. He looked up instinctively.
For a split second, his eyes widened, and Director Gu Jeong-hwan jerked backward.
"Ugh, uwaaak!"
Right in front of him. Blocking the sunlight, staring down expressionlessly—a beast, no, the rookie actor's eyes gleamed fiercely.
"Ah, sorry about that."
"Gah."
"I know you're not supposed to move mid-scene, but there was no cut signal···"
"Ah."
Only then did Director Gu snap back to reality. He lifted his left hand from the ground and checked his wristwatch.
Eight minutes had already passed. Time had flown by like that?
Now the noises around him started filtering in. Actors and staff murmuring, rising to their feet. The villa's second-floor terrace··· the outdoor table on the first floor··· the opposite side of the garden··· the fishing chairs lined up left and right··· all thirty-four people, including himself, wiping sweat from their faces, wearing expressions of utter disbelief.
"That just now······ was it acting?"
"Yes."
Gu Jeong-hwan stared at the man answering flatly, cheering inwardly. ············Perfect.
No, Gu Jeong-hwan corrected himself. Perfect (完璧). A term derived from a flawless jade bead—doesn't it essentially mean without defect?
But this transcended perfection. This man wasn't just flawless; he was delivering a new realm of acting that Gu hadn't even anticipated.
·········How did I not know about an actor like this?
He glanced sideways. Seol A-yoon, who had introduced this man to him, wore the exact same expression. The look of Is this really acting?
She looked just as drenched in cold sweat down her neck as he was, her face saying she couldn't even remember the last time she'd felt an impact like this.
"You okay, Director?"
Gu Jeong-hwan locked eyes with the man watching him, shedding the terrified shell of "human Gu Jeong-hwan" and slipping into box-office-obsessed "Director Gu" mode.
Yes, this is what Jeongjong of Hoshi-jeol should look like.
Grabbing the hand the man extended, Gu rose, his director's intuition extracting the image of Hoshi-jeol's Yi Bang-gwa from him.
Yi Bang-gwa as Jeongjong
One of only two kings in Joseon history—alongside King Taejo Lee Seong-gye—who personally led troops into battle, a martial king from a warrior lineage. At twenty, he fought alongside Seong-gye to slaughter Japanese pirates on the battlefield; a battle-hardened veteran pre-designated as supreme commander of the Gabyeolcho if Seong-gye fell in combat.
Even after becoming Supreme King, he enjoyed intense sports like hunting and polo, sternly rebuking the then-king Yi Bang-won to halt a consort's ritual—such was his dignity.
Yi Bang-gwa, forged in the hell of life and death, should absolutely show that kind of fury when enraged—
·········Nailed it.
The casting was done. Gu had already overlaid his newly reimagined Jeongjong's face onto this man's.
Just one thing. Cheon Yoo-seong, the rookie playing Yi Bang-won, missing today due to food poisoning was a shame.
If I'd seen the chemistry between these two today, it would've been game over··· damn that weakling.
Honestly, it didn't matter. As a 10-million-view director, he was this industry's blue chip—not beholden to time.
For the first time, Gu Jeong-hwan posed a real question to the man whose name he hadn't even remembered until moments ago.
"······So, what's your name?"
"Lee Tae-gyu."
Real curiosity spread across his face.
"How'd you do that just now?"
***
The method was simple. By drawing on the dokkaebi fire stored in his emotion pocket, Tae-gyu had unleashed that roar again.
The emotion of a furious wild tiger—copied the instant he saw those eyes flashing against a foreign night sky—this dokkaebi fire was different from the start, even in color.
Golden dokkaebi fire.
Whoosh!
Unlike all the other emotions Tae-gyu had copied from people so far, this wild tiger's rage stood out immediately. The moment he donned it, power surged like it could flip the world upside down··· but the duration was too short.
Like a thunderbolt crashing down, the tiger's emotion had rocked his entire body with intense, lingering force—then vanished just as swiftly as it appeared.
And it seemed to need some recharge time before reuse.
This was the conclusion Tae-gyu reached after holing up like a hermit in closed-door training, observing wild tigers for days.
·········Animal emotions apply differently from human ones.
They faded fast. Whether copied from zoo tigers or through a live cam, the principle held.
Back then, the zoo tigers' emotions had felt faint—maybe because nothing eventful happened, or maybe animal emotions just dissipate quickly; Tae-gyu had tilted his head uncertainly.
But observing the life-or-death rawness of wild tigers, he now knew for sure.
······This power from that old man has its own handicaps.
There were limits to using animal emotions like human ones.
Whether hunting, playing, protecting cubs, burning with desire, or sating hunger—the flames blazed fiercely then, but he could only unleash them in bursts. Regrettable, but···
·········The effect is undeniable.
Even that brief blaze had flipped the whole set—he knew it already.
"Can you start tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow?"
"I'd shoot scenes right now if I could··· damn it, why'd Cheon Yoo-seong get sick today of all days···"
Director Gu acted as if the test was already passed.
"Anyway, I'll text you tomorrow. Hey! Assistant director! Bring tomorrow's schedule!"
Gu bellowed somewhere offstage. As the set erupted in excited buzz, Tae-gyu slowly smiled.
No new emotion poured from his pocket, yet a strange one lingered on his face.
"This guy's it, yeah! Fixed—let's lock it in!"
The wild tiger's fleeting blaze had cleared, revealing the base emotion beneath.
Different from Tae-gyu's usual deadpan state.
Yes. This was the secret of the power he'd uncovered while observing wild tigers' dokkaebi fires for days, copying the densest ones, experimenting on himself.
Whoosh! Crackle!
Sacrificing one emotion pocket let him merge two emotions into one.
Quick switches without facial application, or layering them simultaneously if desired—that was Lee Tae-gyu.
So right now, while the tiger's limited-use rage recharged, he'd switched to immersion in this other base emotion.
"No contract yet? Fine, whatever. Send it to his agency later."
"······."
"I'll text tomorrow—come then. You landed the role, feel good?"
The base emotion he'd sacrificed a pocket to fuse with the tiger's fury was perfect for this moment.
"I'll send more character details—memorize 'em··· hey, Lee Tae-gyu, right?"
"Director."
This emotion let him call out the 10-million director's attitude—even after that performance, still assuming he could boss Tae-gyu around.
In this jungle of an industry, amid snake-like people, it enabled calculated moves for maximum gain: calm yet smoldering.
"Thanks for your hard work."
"What?"
In other words, diving into his most ambition-fueled emotion, Tae-gyu bowed and turned to leave.
"······What? What the hell? Where you going?"
***
Inside the black van. After much deliberation, Tae-gyu's manager and stylist finally decided.
"Can't do it."
"Yeah, let's go."
He was their charge, after all. Even if he'd told them to wait in the car, they couldn't leave him alone in that sketchy spot.
Lee Tae-gyu. Unlike the ordeal with Kim Hwan, this rookie had made no excessive demands—just shown consideration for them. Their hearts were softening.
"·········Huh?!"
They peered out the window.
From the villa atop the hill where the camera test was—Lee Tae-gyu trudging toward them.
That gait carrying some oddly ominous vibe made the manager sigh faintly.
"Did he bomb it?"
"Huh? What."
The stylist pointed.
Behind Tae-gyu. Someone was following.
"Isn't that Director Gu Jeong-hwan? Trailing our actor?"
No. Not just one.
"Wait. What the—those people."
Gu Jeong-hwan, chattering nonstop behind Tae-gyu, turned and yelled. Staff from the villa grabbed gear and swarmed after him like a horde.
Zombie apocalypse vibes—the stylist and manager exchanged glances, then hurried to fling open the van door for their actor.
Slide!
"Actor? What's going—"
"Let's head out."
"W-Wait! Tae-gyu, hold on!"
Tae-gyu planted one foot in the van. Director Gu grabbed his shoulder.
Panting hard from the chase, he wore a baffled expression.
"······Huff, huff. Didn't you hear? You passed the test. You're working with me."
"Can I have some time to think?"
"What the hell is this?!"
As Director Gu yelled in disbelief, the manager and stylist—turning—soon spotted it.
"You applied for the camera test yourself, right? Came all this way for the Jeongjong role!"
"Yes, I wanted it."
Something flashed in their actor's eyes.
Crackle!
A suspiciously familiar glint, just like their agency's rep.
"·········Until twenty minutes ago."