The Genius Actor Who Lives Twice - Chapter 26

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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 26

Since I didn’t have any close friends, I quickly scanned the students around me.
The one person worth considering was Han Seo-hyun, sitting right beside me.

“Hey, Gi-jun. Want to be in the same group as me?”

Of course she’d agree.
Han Seo-hyun had solid acting skills, so she absolutely had to be in our group.
That was one person secured.
I would’ve preferred to prepare scenes with just Han Seo-hyun and me, but that wasn’t an option.
The minimum group size was fixed at four members.
Shin Da-hye was sitting not far from where I was.
I stood up quickly from my seat.
Then I headed straight toward where Shin Da-hye was sitting.
If I remembered correctly, Shin Da-hye was the second-ranked student in the Acting Department this year.
She happened to be absorbed in her mobile phone at the moment.

“Da-hye?”
“Huh? Me?”

She tilted her head in confusion.

“Would you be interested in being in the same group as me?”

Shin Da-hye wore an awkward expression and showed me her mobile phone screen.
What appeared was a group chat.

“I’m sorry. I’ve already formed a group with some other students.”

Several familiar classmates were already discussing joining together in the chat.
I told her it was a shame and turned to head back to my seat.

“Has everyone formed their groups?”

Professor An Chi-won looked at me and a few others who apparently hadn’t formed groups yet, then continued.

“Those of you who haven’t finished forming groups yet, please come over here.”

Han Seo-hyun and I locked eyes.
We moved to the spot where Professor An Chi-won had called us.
Gathered there were:
Me, Han Seo-hyun, Choi Byung-chul, the woman who’d been filming that vlog earlier.
And Kim Su-ho.
I hadn’t expected Kim Su-ho to remain unchosen.
I’d assumed he’d be picked immediately given his considerable skill.
Now that I thought about it more carefully, I could guess why nobody had wanted to pick him.
The skill gap compared to themselves would be so obvious that they deliberately avoided taking him.

“How are we supposed to… work as five people?”

At Professor An Chi-won’s words, everyone exchanged uncertain glances.
In that moment when no one stepped forward to speak:

“Could our group take one of them?”

A man raised his hand and asked.
He was from the group that included Shin Da-hye, though the rest were people I didn’t know.

“Come up front and pick one person.”

A man approached at Professor An Chi-won’s words.

“Let’s go, Byung-chul.”

Choi Byung-chul had been selected.
The two of them looked like they already knew each other.
Perhaps they’d met at orientation.
After Choi Byung-chul left, exactly four of us remained.

“Now that all the groups are formed, you may spend the remainder of class holding a meeting.”

We gathered our things and moved to the nearest desk, settling in.
First, we each introduced ourselves.

“I’m Baek A-rin. I’m a second-year Acting Department student, and my hobby is photography.”

She was the woman who’d been filming a vlog earlier.

“So introductions are done. Should we decide on a Group Leader?”

Silence fell at Baek A-rin’s suggestion.
Naturally, no one would want the role.

“I…”

Han Seo-hyun opened her mouth.

“If no one else steps forward, I could…”
“I’ll take it.”

I cut off Han Seo-hyun and stepped in.
When ideas needed consolidating or something unsuitable came up, I’d have to reject it decisively—and I doubted she had it in her to do that.

“Well, then—since we’ve chosen a Group Leader, we should probably think about what kind of project to film…”
“What about a Web Drama like this!”

Baek A-rin spoke, slapping the desk.
This one’s imagination had no limits.
With the planning capacity, budget, and manpower available to college students at the start of a semester, producing anything resembling a Web Drama was impossible.

“A Web Drama would be too difficult. It’s hard enough to film that volume in a short timeframe, and even if we did, the quality would suffer.”
“Come on—I still think we could pull it off if we tried.”

Seeing no point in arguing further, I looked toward Kim Su-ho and stayed quiet.
With his industry experience, he’d have useful advice.

“For me, quality comes first.”

Exactly.

“So if we’re making a Web Drama, we’d need to start filming daily from next week onward.”

That wouldn’t work.

“What about… a play?”
“A play is fine with me as long as the quality is good.”
“I think we should focus on One-act Plays.”
“Then shouldn’t we make a film with a vlog concept?”
“I disagree. I’d prefer something that demands more acting, rather than vlogging.”

Opinions flew in every direction, and like a ship with too many captains, we kept drifting further from shore.
Our discussion simply circled in place, never narrowing down toward any real decision.

“Everyone has classes next, so let’s wrap up here. Before we go, I have one more thing to mention—the evaluation criteria.”

Professor An Chi-won cleared his throat and continued.

“All members must contribute to creating the work. Team Harmony is also a graded component, so keep that in mind.”

Until that moment, I’d thought the group composition was actually fine—we just weren’t good at synthesizing opinions.
After all, we had Kim Su-ho and Han Seo-hyun on our side.
It wasn’t until I overheard other students talking about Baek A-rin that I changed my mind.

“Is that person who was filming vlogs the same year as us?”
“No. She’s a year ahead.”
“Then why is she here?”
“I heard she got Academic Probation and is retaking the course.”

One potential weak link in the group.
Could we really pull this off?

* * *

I left the classroom and entered the empty Practice Room alone.
Before I worried about the assignment, I decided to prepare the role of Haneul properly.
It was time to say goodbye to the character.

“Then I should give a proper farewell.”

Through acting.
The final scene was Haneul’s death.
I’d never died before, so I had no real sense of how to express it.

‘Death… dying….’

Then something flickered in my mind.

“To be, or not to be. That is the question.”

A famous line from Hamlet.
I spoke it aloud.

“Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing end them.”

Then I paused, and spoke the next lines very slowly, almost in a whisper.

“To die… to sleep.”

I’d found my clue.
‘If death is simply like falling asleep.’
I set an alarm on my mobile phone for ten minutes ahead, then lay down comfortably.
And I closed my eyes as if drifting into sleep.
I felt on the verge of falling under at any second.
My mind grew hazy, and consciousness began to sink—just before the edge.
Clinging by the thinnest thread.
As awareness grew murky, existence itself began to fade.
My heart still beating, yet consciousness drifting further and further from the body.
Sensation drained from my fingertips; my breathing turned shallow.
A void of nothingness.
Cold and hollow emptiness.
The grip of consciousness slipped away into the abyss.
Death.
That primal terror—the end of all living things—tightened around my throat.
Then.
Ding-ding-!
The alarm sang out and my eyes snapped open.
In simple terms, I’d only dozed off for a moment.
Yet losing consciousness felt like briefly touching death itself.
Thump-thump.
My heart hammered violently, and the sensation of death still clung to my fingertips.
I looked into the mirror.

“Let me try acting.”

* * *

Critic Baek Jun-ho had been scheduled to give a special lecture to third and fourth-year students of the Acting Department at Dae Ye Jong today.
He’d arrived early, passing through the corridors and hearing students running through their practice.

‘Such youth.’

Then a good voice drifting from deeper within the practice room naturally drew his attention.

“Police headquarters iron bars, single iron bars. Prosecutor’s office iron bars, double iron bars. The soy sauce factory manager is….”

The student inside finished loosening their jaw, then closed their eyes, sinking into the performance.

‘I suppose I could watch for just a moment.’

In that instant, the student’s arm trembled slightly.
Though their eyes remained shut, their face twisted as if they were imagining something fearful.
It was strange.
Simply preparing, saying nothing—so why did Critic Baek Jun-ho’s gaze remain fixed on this actor?
Just as the student’s lips were about to part,

“I didn’t expect to find you watching the students here.”

A voice from behind made him turn reflexively.
It was Professor An Chi-won.

“A fine place, wouldn’t you say?”

Baek Jun-ho smiled and looked back at the student.

“It is. A space where young saplings take root and bloom.”
“I see this scene every year, yet I never tire of it.”
“I envy you.”
“A critic of your stature could surely arrange a position here if you wished.”
“I’m an observer, not a maker. Those who wish to become makers must learn from makers.”

Baek Jun-ho had been about to add ‘Like Professor An Chi-won,’ but he couldn’t.
Not with the anguished shriek that erupted from inside.

“Aaaaaagh!”

As if pierced by a blade, the student cried out.

“Help me, please, please! I’m begging you. I made a mistake, I made a terrible mistake….”

He crawled across the floor on his breath—short, ragged, barely held together.
The desperate thrashing of a man clawing for life.
From the corners of his eyes, tears streamed with an aching attachment to existence.

“My brother. I have to go to my brother….”

Baek Jun-ho found himself holding his breath without realizing it.
Gulp.
Even knowing it was a rehearsal, he felt a sudden urge to rush through the door and save this man.
That’s how desperate the acting was.

“I want to live….”

His lips moved with a voice that barely came out.
Thud.
His arm fell limp to his side.
Soon the light in his eyes faded, and they slowly closed.
His breath stilled at last, and he slipped into eternal rest.

“……!”

Baek Jun-ho felt his spine go cold.
If this had been a proper performance, he would have applauded.
But this was a rehearsal.
He didn’t want to disturb the student now.
Professor An Chi-won smiled gently at Baek Jun-ho.

“We’ve had a lot of talented students come in this year.”
“So they’re first-years, then? But more than that—why isn’t an actor like that well-known? It’s strange that directors aren’t already scrambling to sign them.”
“They’re still being refined.”
“I’m sorry—what do you mean by that?”
“They’re still growing. That student—I remember seeing them during the entrance exam, and their skill has improved since then.”
“Is that really so?”

Critic Baek Jun-ho had been waiting for fresh talent.
He watched so many films, and he was always waiting for something new to break through the same familiar faces that dominated the screen.
Professor An Chi-won, aware of this, opened his mouth.

“You can have high hopes. When that student steps out into the world, they’re going to make waves.”

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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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