The Genius Actor Who Lives Twice - Chapter 25

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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 25

I headed to the university the day after filming wrapped to attend my first class.
Though the campus buzzed with energy welcoming the new students, the School of Performing Arts building felt eerily quiet.
The seniors preparing for performances were likely locked away in the theater.
They had their own concerns to worry about.
So it fell to the freshmen alone to bring life to the campus atmosphere.

“Anyone want to grab drinks after class?”
“This guy threw up the last time we did orientation camp.”
“Oh my God, don’t bring that up!”

The Drama Division building where the new students gathered was chaotic, with everyone mingling indiscriminately as they tried to get to know one another.
I, for the record, was not among them.
I’d missed the freshman welcome event and the opening ceremony due to filming Nanpa, and by the time I could have joined in, the bonds had already formed.
I decided not to let it bother me.
We’d be working on projects and putting on plays together for the next four years anyway—friendships would come naturally.
I settled into a corner seat and opened my acting notebook.

One scene left.

The Nanpa shoot was charging toward the finish line.
Just one more scene, and my first role would be complete.
I’d played roles before, but this was my debut in this life, and I wanted to do it right.

I let out a soft hum.

When I’d first taken on the role, there’d been some pressure.
Nanpa was such a well-made production that I’d worried I might drag it down.
But with each shoot, as long as Director Choi Il-hyung didn’t ask for different takes, I’d been pulling it off without a single mistake.
So I had to finish strong.
Ha-neul’s final scene.
I was lost in thought about how to play it.

“Um, excuse me.”

I glanced over and recognized the face beside me.
It was Han Seo-hyun.

“Is… is there a seat next to you…?”
“Of course.”

I shifted my bag and made space for her.
Seeing Han Seo-hyun brought Han Seo-jin to mind—I’d seen him not long ago.
They were siblings, and their faces did share a certain resemblance, but their personalities were completely different.
If he was rigid brick, she was soft tofu.

“By the way, are you… are you filming a production…?”
“Yes. And I think we’re the same age—I remember that from the entrance exam. You don’t have to speak so formally with me.”
“Oh, th-thank you!”
“I said, speak casually.”
“Right, okay.”

Huh, this wasn’t quite the Han Seo-hyun I knew.
Landing a first role was no small feat, but if it was Han Seo-hyun, she’d pull it off.
I’d watched her win Best Supporting Actress before the regression.
I shook off the unnecessary thoughts and turned my attention back to my own work.
I still had to film Ha-neul’s death scene.
How was I supposed to express this?
Death. Dying.
While I was lost in thought, the classroom suddenly went silent.
Struck by how completely the noise had vanished, I lifted my head instinctively.
Oh.
A boy with striking foreign features was opening the lecture hall door and stepping inside.
It was Kim Su-ho.
An actor who’d made his name with overwhelming talent since his child actor days.
More than that, he was also the lead in a production where I’d appeared as an extra during the days I drifted from set to set before my regression.
Kim Su-ho glanced around at where the students were sitting, then took a seat in the front row.

“It’s, it’s Kim Su-ho.”
“I knew it was really him.”
“I’d heard he was top of our school, but seeing him in person is something else.”

A few students whispered among themselves.
But surprisingly, after a moment of startled reactions, the atmosphere quickly settled into calm.
Rather than treat him as a celebrity from the television screen, they seemed to want to stand as equals with him—fellow first-years and fellow actors.
Still so innocent, all of them.
A laugh was about to escape when—
Thud.
Someone in the front row pushed their chair back and bumped the desk where I was sitting.

“Oh, sorry about that.”

She was recording a video on her smartphone in selfie mode.
It looked like she was filming some kind of personal vlog.
In this day and age, self-branding and PR were important competitive tools for actors, so there was nothing strange about someone running their own channel like that.
While I was observing the other students, Professor An Chi-won arrived.

“All right, everyone settle in and take your seats.”

Once the students were seated and quiet, Professor An Chi-won began the lecture.

“Welcome. Freshmen of the Acting Department at Korea National University of Arts, School of Performing Arts—Drama Division. I’m An Chi-won, and I’ll be your faculty advisor.”

As I’d thought.
I’d seen on a broadcast once that Professor An Chi-won was Kim Su-ho’s faculty advisor.
I needed to make a good impression on Professor An Chi-won.
I wanted to be cast in a production he would someday create.

“Over the next four years, together with you all…….”

It was right then, as Professor An Chi-won’s weighty orientation continued.
Screeeeak—
The rear door of the lecture hall opened with a sharp scraping sound.
Professor An Chi-won’s words cut off, and in an instant, dozens of eyes snapped toward the doorway.

“……?”

What?
Why is he here?
The moment I recognized the face coming through the door, I couldn’t help but flinch.

“I apologize for being late.”

The person who’d entered was, astonishingly, Choi Byung-chul.
He ranked fifth as an alternate? How was that possible?
Did people who got top marks at other schools drop out?
What was going on here?

“I apologize.”

He bowed his head and stepped inside, searching for a place to sit.
The moment our eyes met briefly, he jerked his gaze away.
Four years at the same school as that guy?
Ugh.
I really hope we never end up in the same project group.

“Before we begin the lesson, there’s something I need to address first.”

Professor An Chi-won continued, his eyes fixed on Choi Byung-chul.

“Everyone here is in this classroom because you want to act, correct?”

When the students didn’t answer, Professor An Chi-won wiped the smile from his face and asked again.

“……Correct?”
“Yes, sir.”

Only then did the students respond, cautiously.

“Creative drive is as easy to kindle as it is to snuff out. If you’re working alone, it doesn’t matter when or if you finish—but when you’re creating something together, that’s a different story entirely.”

Professor An Chi-won stepped forward and turned to Choi Byung-chul.
Even from the back of his head, you could see how pale he’d gone.

“Your name?”
“C-Choi Byung-chul.”
“Choi Byung-chul. What right do you have to grab someone’s ankle while they’re running toward their dream?”
“…I’m sorry.”
“I’m not asking for an apology—I’m asking for an answer.”

I’d never known Professor An Chi-won to be this frightening. He always wore such a gentle smile.

“What happens when you show up late to a film set? Do we keep all those dozens of people waiting for you? And if it’s a theater performance at four in the afternoon and the actor doesn’t arrive until five—what then?”

Choi Byung-chul had been late before, back when they were filming Nanpa.
He’d earned an earful for it.
Professor An Chi-won turned back to address the entire class.

“From now on, you must become people who keep your appointments absolutely. Yes, sometimes a small group can drive a project forward, but with acting—one person’s failure can ruin everything for everyone.”

I found myself setting an alarm on my phone at that moment, suddenly aware I might oversleep and be late someday.

“Now, to continue the lesson: many graduates of our school have called this place a furnace. That’s how grueling these four years will be. Good actors aren’t born—they’re made. Most of the time, they’re made.”

His expression had softened slightly from before.
He was skilled at wielding both carrot and stick.

“Since this is our first class, I won’t keep us long. Today we’ll just do orientation and wrap up.”

The students let out a small cheer at that.

“However, there is one promise I’d like you to make with me each time we have class.”

Professor An Chi-won wrote on the blackboard with chalk.

“Until high school, education follows a system of rote instruction. For artists, that’s absolutely the wrong approach.”

He brought over a chair and sat down in the center of the lecture platform.

“I don’t want to teach by simply telling you, ‘Acting is like this.’ That method contradicts our university’s educational philosophy.”

Professor An Chi-won spoke while meeting each student’s gaze in turn.

“There are no right answers in acting. Each person has their own approach. So whenever you have a question, ask it. Even if I’m in the middle of speaking during class, that’s fine.”

He continued, scanning the room.

“This class has no exams. There’s only one assignment. You have one thing to do.”

Professor An Chi-won stood from the chair and picked up chalk again.

“By the end of the semester, the goal of this class is to create a single work.”

A work?
Did we have to put on a play at the school? Starting from first year?
By late April, I had another project I wanted to get into.

“The format of your work is unrestricted. Theater, web dramas, short films—as long as it’s a work where actors perform directly, I don’t care at all. If it’s a performance, I’ll watch it myself and evaluate it. If you produce it as video, just submit it.”

Since I was already in the middle of shooting Nanpa, it would be better to keep it short.
While focusing on Nanpa, I had to create something that wouldn’t disappoint Professor An Chi-won.
That way he’d be willing to cast me later.

“Groups will be between four and six people. Outside of class time, you can contact me anytime for feedback. At midterms, I’ll evaluate how far each group has progressed. And at the final exam, you’ll need to submit your work.”

The most important part hadn’t been mentioned yet.

“Your groups….”

Right. With any group project, the difficulty changes depending on who you’re working with.
If you end up with someone who disappears or tries to coast, you’re doomed.
So I needed to be on a team with capable people.
I silently prayed that I’d be grouped with decent people.

“You can freely form groups with whoever you want to create a work with.”

Wait…?

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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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