Chapter 85
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Translator: Wjin
Chapter: 85
Chapter Title: Jirisan Elf Audition
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“If you have any good ideas, feel free to share them anytime. Just enjoy yourself today—no need to hold back on my account.”
“Oh! The president gave us the green light!”
“Eek! I said don’t! Why are you only teasing me?!”
It felt like the first time she’d smiled so brightly.
For the past year, I’d been living on edge. I’d honed my blade with thoughts of revenge and suffered under the pressure that I had to succeed no matter what. I longed to find Number 7 and fought off loneliness by writing every day.
Is this my reward?
I was grateful for Ye-jin and Jin-seong, but the real marvel was having people around who could share even a sliver of my secrets—ones they couldn’t fully grasp.
“Ah! Pizza’s here! Senior, I’ll get it! Stay seated!”
“Are you nuts?! Seriously!”
Yi Myung-han must have found teasing Shin Do-rim hilarious. Thanks to him, everyone was laughing and chatting away.
Jirisan Elf Private Audition!
With the original novel so famous and its author’s drama pulling in over 40% ratings, it was huge news among actors.
But the lead role’s requirements were brutally strict.
An elf.
How could a human pull off an elf? Above all, they needed elf-like beauty. Ears could be done with makeup, but everything else had to shine in the audition.
That’s why rumors flew:
This is the audition to crown Korea’s top flower boy!
Naturally, thousands were cut at the document screening. Even actors proud of their looks dropped like flies, and if your skin wasn’t pale enough, you didn’t fit the elf vibe.
I made it this far.
To make it as an actor, you needed a top agency, a fancy school like Hanyejong or a gifted arts high school, or training at a renowned Seoul academy.
Even sticking it out in theater didn’t guarantee chances, and rookies without connections struggled to land even bit parts.
Street casting?
Ancient history. These days, kids started lessons in elementary school, and rich ones got private tutors.
He fit none of that.
Everyone’s so impressive.
He felt intimidated. Maybe it was the city folk glow on their faces.
He touched his own face. Rough skin, never touched by lotion.
His father was on welfare. Fifteen years ago, after Dad’s hit-and-run, he’d grown up on government aid.
“Number 99, come in.”
He shot to his feet, calming his pounding heart as he walked into the audition room in his worn clothes.
Don’t shake. This chance won’t come twice.
He wore his father’s faded suit. The hem rode up above his ankles. The pants clung like they might split, but it was his only option.
“You applied online, right?”
Yeah. No other way.
One of the five seated judges continued.
“Can you brush back your bangs?”
No money for a salon. He’d let his hair grow to his shoulders, unkempt.
Swoosh.
He swept all his front hair up with his hand.
“Ho.”
“Not bad, huh?”
God gave him poverty, despair to his father, the sorrow of abandonment to his mother—but this face? One of a kind.
A young man asked.
“Height’s 168 cm, correct?”
He knew who it was. Jirisan Elf’s author and Memento Mori president. He’d read a few of his webtoons.
“Yes, exactly 168.1.”
His only gift was his face. Height fell short of average—probably from poor nutrition.
The glamorous woman beside the Memento Mori president asked.
“Did you style your hair like that on purpose?”
“I did my best.”
Bus fare took priority over a haircut. Even that left him skipping meals.
“Curly hair, right?”
“Yes.”
He’d read the Jirisan Elf novel. When the protagonist, living like a beggar in a Jirisan hut, was found by officials, gasps erupted at the face peeking through wild hair.
But that was the 7-year-old child role. He needed to show teen or older. Bushy hair wouldn’t cut it.
A middle-aged man asked—probably the director.
“No experience at all? Not even club activities?”
“I practiced by watching TV.”
“...That’s it?”
“Yes.”
Murmurs rippled at his answer.
—Great visuals, no acting creds.
—Too bad.
—Thought we found him.
—Mask really pops, doesn’t it?
—Height’s a letdown.
—But school scenes need growth, so maybe not.
Someone said no more questions.
“Let’s see your acting.”
He knew the lingering doubt in their eyes. Since age five, he’d cared for his ailing father, always home, watching TV together.
“Beginning now.”
Fifteen years. Even in high school, his routine barely changed. To handle Dad’s messes, he rushed home after school. No friends, just TV.
When did it start?
He began mimicking. First songs, then actors’ lines, eventually news anchors’ intonations.
—Huh?
—What’s he doing?
—Should we stop him?
He stripped down to his underwear, kicking off sneakers. Dad’s tiny pants clung skin-tight.
He dropped to the floor—not flat, but crouched, chest hovering like something lay beneath.
“You can’t escape me.”
Huuuuuh.
His long exhale misted the floor. He licked it.
—Gasp….
“Kill me with that knife now. Or live with me forever.”
The floor he stared at held a woman’s agonized face—imagined, yet vivid to all.
His gaze never wavered. Hunched back bound her; feet arched like bows, toes propping him.
Hands grasped air—her face.
“Say you hate it. You can. Tell me you want to break free right now.”
His blazing eyes, fixed downward, stayed hidden, but the thirst burst forth.
Whoosh!
He rose, arms cradling someone. Mouth gaped wide, snapping at nothing.
Gulp!
A choking sound seemed to echo.
He eyed the judges. Emptiness filled him, desire writhing within.
Hiss.
Sucking blood. How did he breathe to make that sound…?
“Huh?”
“Th-that…!”
Judges recoiled in shock.
Blood trickled from his mouth.
“……”
“……”
“……”
The act ended.
“Thank you.”
He bowed, vampire vanishing.
The Memento Mori president asked.
“What was that blood?”
He answered flatly.
“Bit my tongue.”
“On purpose?”
“No. It just happened.”
The glamorous woman snapped angrily.
“Actors need to take care of themselves! Get treatment—now!”
He gathered his clothes, jamming bare feet into crumpled sneakers. No one spoke.
Na Young-woong.
19 years old. Born January 1.
168 cm, 53 kg.
A profile believable for a girl—nothing else listed.
“Insane…”
As he left, I finally spoke.
First time like this. I’d lived through wild experiences, but someone’s acting making my hands shake? Never.
“Ha, haha…”
Director Byeon just laughed.
Three minutes, tops. That was it.
We should’ve heard him sing for the Jirisan Elf lead, but we were all too stunned.
Sa-ra asked.
“What do you think?”
I couldn’t find words. Director Byeon replied.
“Great projection. Clear enunciation. That soft voice carried perfectly.”
Writer Byeon exhaled deeply.
“A genius. We were all immersed.”
True. Undeniable. A twinge of envy for that raw talent hit me too. I need to write like that!
I said.
“Not an elf—a dark elf. That’s the snag.”
Honest take. Don’t misunderstand.
Sa-ra concluded.
“Have him come back after treatment.”
A staffer went out. We’d seen 98 acts before. Now, all those faces blurred away.
Perfect character!
Director Byeon, still grinning, said.
“Even if not for this, I’ll put him on my theater stage. With training, he’ll be huge.”
I asked cautiously.
“Can training make him an elf?”
“……”
Director Byeon lacked certainty there. Could we strip that decadent, dreamy darkness? Tame a wild wolf that bites its own tongue into a man?
“Moving to the next anyway.”
Auditions couldn’t stop. We’d see him post-treatment.
“Hello! Looking forward to working with you!”
The next actor entered, but he didn’t register. Nor the ones after.
When footsteps halted, the staffer announced.
“Na Young-woong.”
He returned.
Sa-ra asked immediately.
“Treatment done?”
“Yes.”
“Good. We cut your audition short due to the incident. Anything else to show?”
Her rapid speech betrayed her excitement.
Na Young-woong said blankly.
“I can do anything.”
Some confidence.
Director Byeon said.
“Sing. A cappella.”
He closed his eyes. Bloodthirsty lips parted, pure voice flowing.
—Can you believe it? In my dreams, you’re the princess lost to magic.
Gulp. I clamped my mouth, fearing my swallow would annoy.
—Your every gesture toward me…
Everyone knows this song. High expectations for the original meant any flaw would be merciless.
But today, we savored forbidden thrill.
He opened his eyes, singing like a fairy-tale prince.
—Through the enchanted castle, across the swamp.
Chills—nearly pissed myself. High notes that natural since Hye-ri on Queen auditions? First.
—The world feels precious if we’re together.
I’d barely listened to others.
Director Byeon eyed me.
“No training needed.”
Na Young-woong lived in Sintanjin, he said. Post-audition, we grabbed food, and now Sa-ra’s car was driving him home.
She offered a hotel for tomorrow, but he refused—Dad was waiting.
Was it my imagination, or did he outshine her Benz S-Class from the back seat?
I asked.
“Shooting means days you can’t go home. That okay?”
“I’ll manage.”
His gaze shifted from window to me—my heart raced. That look? Not normal.
I’d seen those eyes before.
Eyes of the dead.
From those dragged to hell, resigned to all.
What life forged that surrender in this kid? Since when?
Even at dinner, he barely spoke beyond answers.
I wanted to know more.
“Why Jirisan Elf, of all things?”