I Regressed and Became Too Good at Brewing - Chapter 67

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Episode 67. For the Sake of Growth (3)
The conditions and plot were simply difficult to accept.
Of course, Sang-hwan wasn’t foolish enough to miss that this alcohol would serve as a crucial element throughout the film.
‘Both the catalyst for the two characters meeting and the very theme driving the narrative—it’s all tied to this drink.’
But liquor came in endless varieties, didn’t it?
Besides, he was someone who poured all his energy into film production alone.
To begin with, he was the kind of person who never touched anything stronger than soju or beer at company dinners.
So how could he possibly know anything about Meari, this traditional Korean alcohol?
Yet somehow, he could sense it.
His instinct—honed over years of making films—was telling him something.
‘Wait… is the alcohol actually the main focus?’
It wasn’t just a matter of source material.
He couldn’t shake the impression that this entire narrative had sprung from a single glass of drink.
Otherwise, how could such a tightly woven plot be so thoroughly interlaced with alcohol throughout?
Sang-hwan wasn’t the type to keep his doubts bottled up inside.
“You didn’t… write this while drinking, did you?”
“Your eye’s still sharp, I see.”
“You crazy bastard!”
Unable to restrain himself at that answer, he grabbed the screenplay and smacked his friend across the head.
A lack of patience again, no doubt.
“How the hell are you showing me this? A guy who made three ten-million-viewer films in Chungmuro, then vanished into a five-year slump—and this is what you bring back? A screenplay you wrote while plastered?”
“So you don’t like it?”
“I don’t! Not one bit, you asshole!”
“Then there’s nothing to be done.”
Wan-gu simply nodded and smoothly slipped the screenplay into his bag.
“Looks like I’ll have to make it alone, then. What else?”
“Do you have a plan?”
“Roughly, yeah?”
“Ugh…”
Come to think of it, Wan-gu had always been like this.
Even when he shot his first ten-million-viewer film, he’d shattered the conventional wisdom that audiences didn’t care for heavy, noir atmospheres.
His second was a romance, and the one after that blended family comedy with melodrama.
He was a director who never followed formula, and precisely because of that, he could succeed—so this temperament was only natural.
“Let’s hear it then. This rough plan of yours.”
“First, I’ll bring in Su-bin.”
“What? Ha, so there’s some new actress I don’t know about with the stage name Su-bin, is there?”
“No. Jeong Su-bin.”
Thump.
The moment that name left his lips, Sang-hwan shot fully upright from his half-risen position.
Without hesitation, he seized Wan-gu’s wrist just as the man turned to leave.
“How? You? How in the world?”
“What do you mean how? I’ve been asking her to keep working on projects with me. She’s got to do one eventually. This might be my last film anyway.”
“Wait… your funding… you’re not planning to bankroll this entirely yourself, are you?”
“I’ll put in my own money, and I’m thinking of reaching out to everyone connected to Songhada. Since the alcohol’s front and center, they’ll probably invest.”
“Well… I suppose that makes sense…”
Sang-hwan’s mind began spinning rapidly.
He’d assumed the man was acting recklessly, but it seemed he’d already mapped out a way to pull together the cast and investors to some extent.
He could leverage the fact that they’d be using the alcohol—which would be central to the story—to secure additional funding from the Distillery.
And it didn’t look like it would require massive capital anyway.
So then?
Having quickly run through the numbers, Sang-hwan composed his expression and spoke to Wan-gu.
“Alright. Let’s do it. Do it.”
“You said you wouldn’t?”
“Damn it! The math checks out, so I’m saying we should! Hand over the manuscript again! Let me look it over properly before I decide!”
With that, Sang-hwan sat Wan-gu back down and read through the screenplay once more.
Yes, even on a second reading, the plot was rock-solid.
The kind with genuine power to move human hearts.
‘If this thing actually succeeds…’
That was when the thought struck him.
“Hey, Wan-gu. If you can’t get sponsorship for this alcohol, what’ll you do?”
“Why can’t you take it?”
“Well, things can fall through during contract negotiations, you know? What if this Distillery suddenly says they can’t invest in us?”
It happened often enough.
Deals that seemed to be progressing smoothly could collapse at the slightest hitch—that was common in this industry, as people bluntly put it.
Even partnerships with major corporations or professional investors fell apart sometimes; a small-scale Distillery would be no exception.
Throwing out the question with that thought in mind, Wan-gu answered this way.
“What are you saying? Why would they invest in us?”
“Huh? I thought we were supposed to get investment from them?”
“Exactly—why would they give us money? We’re the ones giving them money.”
“Huh?”
“What?”
“Ah?”
Wan-gu and Sang-hwan both tilted their heads in confusion, their lines of thought running parallel to each other.
As they grappled with what the other was even saying, Sang-hwan’s eyes caught on a phrase written at the top of the first page of the screenplay.
“Hey… really now… I’m asking just to be sure, but…….”
“Yeah?”
“Are you seriously not making this movie unless we use this particular spirit?”
“Of course not. Didn’t you ask me earlier whether this spirit was the centerpiece?”
“So you’re going to pay them money just to make absolutely sure you use this spirit?”
“That way there’s no room for gossip.”
“…Just die. You’re insane.”
Sang-hwan unleashed a torrent of curses at the version of himself from the past who’d proposed they work together.
Regardless, they’d already put the idea out there, so the movie had to be made.
Neither of them could have known.
What lay at the end of this mad conversation.
Or how far Wan-gu and Sang-hwan would ultimately rise because of it.
* * *
– Say, have you done something wrong?
A week had passed since the conversation with Han Gyeong-su.
In that time, quite a lot had happened.
First, Han Gyeong-su had done exactly as promised—successfully organizing all of Songhada’s document templates and manuals.
Going further, he hadn’t missed a single word of their conversation in the pavilion, implementing everything into practice.
Of course, the approval of Songhada’s staff had been essential to the process.
‘Wow! If this just works out, it’ll be amazing!’
‘I think we should have done this ages ago!’
‘Hooray! We’re free!’
‘…Fantastic!’
If even Ye-eun, who was usually cautious in expressing her opinion, showed that kind of reaction, that said everything.
In any case, more money was invested.
Since it would be difficult to construct new equipment and systems right away, they’d expanded the staff handling packaging and miscellaneous tasks.
Perhaps because the Distillery sat deep in the mountains near Yeongwol, they’d offered competitive wages.
Finding new workers didn’t take long.
‘Master Craftsman. Next I’ll look into government subsidy programs.’
As expected, support program announcements had been posted, and with Han Gyeong-su’s help, they were able to complete organizing and submitting the necessary forms.
So why was all this being mentioned?
“Sorry? What kind of trouble have I caused?”
– Huh. You really haven’t done anything? Are you sure?
Given that everything they’d done amounted to just this, there was no reason for Yun Ju-ho, the representative of JuJu Daily, to be calling like this.
And certainly not in such an agitated state.
“I’m not aware of anything. Has something come up?”
– Something’s come up, alright. Something very significant.
“Sorry?”
Normally, Yun Ju-ho wouldn’t have spoken that way.
Even when friction had arisen with Gaeseong during the popup store opening, he hadn’t used the word “significant” like this.
Then what on earth could it be?
The answer wasn’t long in coming.
– Apparently you’re making a film.
“A film? Why would we suddenly be making a film?”
– Exactly. I knew you’d react like this—you only know about alcohol. A film, of all things?
“I mean, what does that have to do with us?”
– Of course it matters! They’re saying they’re going to make a movie about Songhada’s alcohol!
“I’m sorry?”
What on earth could this fresh idea be.
I heard the words clearly enough, but they wouldn’t connect in my mind.
A movie. Alcohol. Songhada.
I had to think for a long moment about whether these three things could possibly be linked before I finally grasped what was being said.
And I asked.
“Why?”
– That’s! Well… I’m not sure either…….
The email sent to JuJu Daily hadn’t come from anywhere else—it was from a film production company called A-dot Film.
To be honest, movies fell outside my sphere of interest, so I didn’t know much about them, but through Yun Ju-ho’s explanation I could piece together the general picture.
A-dot Film.
Originally a small production house, but one that had grown alongside Wan-gu—a screenwriter and director who’d made three separate Ten-Million-Viewer Films.
That made perfect sense.
After all, this was the only company that had stepped up to handle Wan-gu’s film productions when everyone else had turned him down.
So those three blockbuster films were undoubtedly evidence of A-dot Film’s talent.
– They asked me to invest.
“Will you?”
– I’d like to, thinking of you… but honestly, there’s so much to consider. And the fact that we haven’t heard anything through normal channels suggests it might not have come from A-dot at all. It could just be someone’s prank.
Thinking this way seemed like the more rational approach, frankly.
What film company, even one just beginning to make a name for itself, would make a movie centered on traditional Korean alcohol produced in a small-scale distillery?
“Then it’s a scam.”
– Well… but the thing is, a screenplay came with it, and…… Do people really run scams like this? At least in all my years running a company, I’ve never heard of anything like it…….
Yun Ju-ho said he’d been skeptical at first.
But when he’d read the screenplay that came attached, out of curiosity, his thinking had grown complicated.
And for good reason—it was far too compelling.
He’d abandoned his work entirely and become absorbed in reading the script.
– And do you know who the screenplay was credited to?
“Who was it?”
– Wan-gu.
“What?”
The next thing he said made me stop in my tracks.
Because I knew that name too.
Wan-gu.
The Ten-Million-Viewer Director.
Even someone like me, with no interest in film, couldn’t help but know his name—a man who’d made three consecutive blockbusters and risen to the rank of master filmmaker.
“A screenplay written by him?”
– That’s what they said.
“And our alcohol is the subject?”
– Not just the subject—it’s the central material.
“Hmm…….”
I couldn’t believe it.
Or rather, I could believe it all too well.
“It’s a scam.”
– …that’s probably it, isn’t it?
We’d switched to the opposite position entirely.
Why would a director with nothing left to achieve suddenly write about our alcohol as central material and decide to make a film about it?
And what production company would step forward to make such a movie?
Fine, being generous a hundred times over—let’s say it was possible.
Even so, there was one question that wouldn’t go away.
“If that were the case, they should have contacted us at Songhada first—that would be the proper order.”
– That’s why I’m asking. To see if there’s been any communication I’m not aware of.
“There hasn’t been. We’ve been too busy changing our systems lately.”
– I imagine you must be swamped. Equipment expansion?
“Not yet. We’re in the preparation stages.”
So Yun Ju-ho’s call naturally drifted toward talk of Songhada’s recent developments.
Since we’d both already dismissed it as a scam, there was no point dwelling on it further.
That’s what I thought.
Until I stepped into the office after hanging up and came face to face with Se-jun, who was absolutely vibrating with excitement.
“Hey! Yeon-woo! Did you hear?”
“What? Huh?”
“Wow! You really didn’t know! Look at this! I just found out when Han Gyeong-su showed me—there’s an email like this!”
When I looked at the phone screen Se-jun thrust toward me….
[Director Wan-gu Park, who is helming the film (working title), respectfully proposes sponsorship to the representative of Songhada.]
There it was—the very thing I’d dismissed as fiction just moments before.

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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