The Genius Actor Who Lives Twice - Chapter 2

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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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Chapter 2

Beneath brilliant light, the black stage gleamed in silence.
The still stage breathed softly, waiting for an actor to fill the empty space.
This space could become anything.
I would fill it, make it overflow with presence.
Something stirred deep within, rising like heat.

“I can do this.”

I stepped onto the stage, one foot at a time.
Tension weighed down my legs, yet my chest swelled with anticipation.
Thump-thump.
On either side of the black stage stood two large televisions.
They would close in on the applicant’s face through the camera and broadcast it to the monitors, allowing the judges to see every detail.
A yellow tape square marked the center of the stage floor, catching my eye.
I remembered—I had to step inside that taped border and bow before beginning.

“Good morning. I am applicant number 127 from group A. I will begin my performance.”

Seconds later, I began to view the audience through the eyes of my character.

Minutes before Yeon Gi-jun took the stage.
In the audience, Professor An Chi-won was bored as he evaluated the students.
Over seven thousand students had applied for this examination, and he had to watch hundreds of applicants every day.
Some of them performed “adequately,” but most never rose above amateur level.

“I wish there were at least one exceptional student. They all seem so much alike.”
“Come now, Professor An—your standards are just too high. Lower your expectations a bit.”
“Still, I keep hoping for at least one to appear.”
“Ah, here comes the next student.”

When Professor An Chi-won glanced over, a young man was standing on the stage.

“He’s handsome.”
“Is he a trainee?”

Beautiful and handsome people often applied to the acting program without having properly studied the craft, encouraged by others to pursue entertainment.
This student was probably one of them.

“I am applicant number 127 from group A.”

Professor An Chi-won’s gaze, which had been fixed on the paper, lifted toward Yeon Gi-jun.
His pronunciation and vocalization were both good.

‘Has he done some basic training?’

But that would be the extent of it.
Pronunciation and vocalization could be developed through repetition alone, without much difficulty.
Acting, however, was different.
One had to constantly analyze a character, then embody that analysis in the body—to speak and move on stage with intention.
The pitch and pace of dialogue, down to the smallest habits of the role.
No student barely twenty years old could possibly manage such a long and difficult process.
Then Yeon Gi-jun closed his eyes briefly, gathering his focus.
A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth.
That smile could only come from someone who truly savored this stage.

He’d wondered if it was arrogance, but a student brimming with confidence wouldn’t freeze up in front of an audience or camera once they were thrown into a real production.

‘I’ll know once I see him in action.’

The student’s eyes opened.
He fixed his gaze straight ahead, and slowly parted his trembling lips.

“Jealousy.”

Professor An Chi-won flinched.
In that single word, hurled out raw, there was a metallic rasp—as if something were being scraped and torn.
Though the audition hall had no microphone, that voice carried heavily all the way to the judges’ bench at the far back of the room.
The male student standing center stage on the platform exhaled a long breath and continued his monologue.

“Anyone who’s felt that emotion knows it. How contemptible and pitiful everything they possess becomes.”

It was remarkable.
His face and build were clearly those of a high school student, yet the words flowing from his mouth carried the shadow of a middle-aged man corroded by inferiority.

“Today I heard Mozart’s composition. An incomplete score, hastily finished this morning after he’d drunk through the night without finishing yesterday. Do you know what that performance was like?”

The man’s face twisted increasingly.
How could anyone describe that emotion?
Despair? Hopelessness?
An ordinary actor would have portrayed it that way, but what this man was expressing was something far different.

“It was transcendent.”

Admiration. Reverence.
Before a talent he couldn’t help but worship even as he hated it, the young man willingly fell to his knees.

“I felt as though I’d go mad from how transcendent it was!”

Because the music he’d spent his entire life perfecting was shabby and worthless compared to that of a genius.

“Mozart is probably laughing somewhere in this city right now, drunk on wine. I can still hear it. That frivolous laughter.”

The student’s trembling hands rose slowly and wrapped around his own head.
Then, as if he could bear it no longer, he brought both hands down hard against his skull.

“Like metal scraping against glass—that laughter makes me feel as though my very brain will be torn out!”

It was the scream of one not chosen by God.

“If you granted me desire, you should have granted me talent too. How much suffering do I endure because of this meager, cursed ability!!”

The student’s shoulders heaved roughly. His eyes reddened, and then a single tear traced down his cheek.
The professors had become spectators, their gaze following the young man’s eyes.
The man laughed—a hollow, powerless sound.

“……This must be my fate. To live as a stone, not a jewel.”

He cast a desperate, pleading gaze toward the God who had turned away from him.
A chill ran down Professor An Chi-won’s spine.
The student’s eyes were directed straight at him.
As if begging him to understand—this one’s entire life, dedicated but ultimately unfulfilled.
There were no words, yet he was expressing it with his entire body until the very end.
‘I wanted to shine too.’

* * *

From the start, Professor An Chi-won had never cared much for Amadeus—the play about Mozart and Salieri.
The real historical Salieri hadn’t actually been on such poor terms with Mozart.
The playwright had simply imposed a dramatic frame for effect: “the mediocrity who envies genius.”
If the character were purely fictional, that would be one thing, but An Chi-won had always felt a resistance to the way real historical figures were distorted and consumed for entertainment.
Yet the Salieri this student had just shown him was different. Separate from historical fact, it possessed a strange and compelling power.
Acting, after all, is the art of making people believe a lie as truth.
In that sense, thanks to this student, his view of Amadeus had shifted.

‘This one has considerable talent for acting.’

That wasn’t merely Professor An Chi-won’s assessment.

“He’s in his twenties, right?”
“With skill like that, he’d definitely get noticed in the industry.”
“How does someone that young pull off a performance like that?”

Talent alone couldn’t have brought him to this level without relentless effort.
It was clearly a fusion of extraordinary talent and dedication.

“How old is he?”
“Twenty-one, sir.”
“A third-time applicant?”

For someone who’d supposedly taken the exam three times, his acting was remarkably refined.
It was puzzling why he hadn’t been accepted at his previous attempt.

“No, sir. This is my first time applying to the Acting Department. I’ve just completed my military service.”
“Ah, so you enlisted right after high school?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”

Discharged from the military with barely any time to prepare, yet achieving this level of skill—it was remarkable.
Moreover, having served, there’d be no interruptions for military enlistment, and he could enter the professional world immediately upon graduation.
Professor An Chi-won folded his arms.

‘Perfect. He could go straight into graduate studies right after his undergraduate degree.’

An urge seized him to polish this rough gem.

“Arts high school?”
“No, sir. I went to a general studies high school.”
“Any experience with theater groups or screen work?”
“I did one play in middle school. That’s all.”

‘Is he lying?’

There was no choice but to suspect.
One production, and only from middle school—it was impossible that he’d reach this level with merely that.

“Do you think he might be lying?”

If so, that would be a significant deduction, no matter how well he’d performed.

‘But I can’t afford to let talent like this slip away.’

Professor An Chi-won glanced at the other examiners and spoke.

“Hmm, I suspect he’s being deliberately vague—avoiding mentioning the specific production title, otherwise he’d be disqualified.”
“Ah, yes, that’s true. If he mentions titles or detailed personal information during the exam, he’s disqualified.”

If the lie stemmed from such reasoning, it was forgivable enough.
The fact that he knew how to measure his words even became a point in his favor.
Professor Im Hyeon-sik, seated beside Professor An Chi-won, took the microphone and asked his question.

“Have you read many acting books?”
“Yes, I’ve read them and worked to apply what I learned to my acting.”
“Which books have you read, and how did you apply them?”
“I referenced The Actor’s Work and made extensive use of personal memory in my performances. I also studied the sense memory techniques of Utahagen and Chekhov, and Stanislavski’s…”

Hmm. The corners of Professor Im Hyeon-sik’s mouth lifted.
The Actor’s Work was famous enough as a professional acting text that an entrance exam applicant might reasonably have read it.
But the others were different.
They were books dealing with the fundamental nature of acting—difficult reading for an entrance exam applicant.

“Of course, I also referenced Professor An Chi-won’s Research on Articulation Organs for Dialogue Accuracy, and studied the diaphragm and muscles needed for proper vocal technique….”
“Wait—you read the paper as well?”

An entrance exam applicant not yet twenty-one had read the academic paper of a professor at the university where she was applying.
While applicants sometimes watched university student performances, or rarely even works by the professors themselves, reading their academic papers was unprecedented.

“I wanted to understand what kind of scholars the professors at this school were, and what I would be able to learn here. I believed that nothing showed that better than the professors’ papers themselves.”
“That must have been quite difficult?”
“Not at all. Thanks to your clear writing, I learned a great deal from it.”

His oral presentation had been excellent, and his acting was skilled enough to stand shoulder to shoulder with professionals.
Yet it could not be said with certainty that this alone guaranteed passage in the first round examination.

“So it all comes down to the academic record.”

As Professor An Chi-won had murmured, if the academic record fell short, no matter how high the practical exam score, rejection was certain.
The Korean National University of Arts Acting Department’s first round selected candidates on a 60% practical exam, 40% academic record basis.

‘Even a perfect practical exam score couldn’t save him if the academic record was poor.’

Professor An Chi-won passed along the documents containing Yeon Gi-jun’s information with a worried expression, and the other professors wore the same look.
But smiles bloomed across their faces.

“Seems like this candidate has the best academic record of anyone tested today?”
“Thank you.”
“With grades like those, aren’t you applying to other universities too?”
“I’m planning to apply only to the Acting Department.”
“Why not apply to other departments?”
“Because I want to stake everything I have on my dream of becoming an actor.”

His attitude was equally impressive.
Another professor took the microphone and posed a question.

“This is my last question. What kind of actor do you want to become?”
“I want to be an actor who never gives up.”

Professor An Chi-won craned his neck, wondering what he meant by that.

“I understand well that actors on stage don’t always have shining moments.”

The professors fell into their own contemplation at those words.
They too had known moments of struggle, when no one paid them attention.

“There will certainly be days when I fall, moments when I want to give up. But I want to keep moving forward.”

Yet even so, they pressed forward, reaching where they stood today.
After a moment of silence, Professor An Chi-won took the microphone.

“Yes… thank you for your effort. Let’s end the examination here.”
“Thank you.”

Thus Yeon Gi-jun’s practical examination for the Korean National University of Arts Acting Department came to an end.
Watching his retreating figure, Professor An Chi-won’s lips curved upward.

‘I’d really like to collaborate with that one someday.’

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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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