The Genius Actor Who Lives Twice - Chapter 29

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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 29

An empty Practice Studio at Daehan Arts University.
While other students in the adjacent studio were actively rehearsing scenes, Sungsu and I spread scripts across the floor and worked on them together.
And so the script was finished.
There was definitely a reason why Sungsu was already working beside Kim Sukhyun, a writer.

“Sungsu, you said you’re taking Playwriting Department classes together, right?”
“Yeah. Double major.”
“Do you happen to have a pen name in mind for later?”
“I’ve already settled on one, actually.”

No matter how much I rummaged through my memories from before the regression, I couldn’t recall any writer by the name Sungsu.
I knew similar pen names, though.

“Sungsu-gi.”

For a moment, I nearly lost my composure in shock.

“What? Does it sound strange? I combined my name Sungsu with Sukhyun.”
“No. The pen name’s impressive.”

With the script completed, I gathered with my project group members again.

As I handed out the script, each member took a copy.
And then.

“You wrote this in just a few days?”

Baek Arin asked in astonishment.
Of course she was surprised.
Scriptwriting wasn’t the kind of field where your skill jumped dramatically in a day or two.
There was tension in her hands as she held the pages.

“The outline must have been quite rough.”

Kim Suho spoke matter-of-factly.

“The dialogue comes alive. The scene transitions are natural, and each character has distinct appeal. Let’s go with this script.”

This time, no one disagreed.

“Now we need to assign the roles.”
“There are three roles, but there are four of us, so one person will have to handle the filming.”

The three roles were structured like this.
Minwoo, an actor who can’t act and who later commits murder.
Jintae, who takes on the role after Minwoo is cut from the film.
And the Director, who is filming all of this.
The four of us eyed each other cautiously.
Being theater majors, they’d probably all want to play actors.

“Since the roles don’t require a specific gender, let’s each say what we’d like to do. I’d like to take the role of the Director.”

She wasn’t saying she’d handle the actual filming.
She meant she’d perform the role of the ‘Director’ within the play itself.
At Baek Arin’s words, Han Seohyun nodded slightly.

“Since Suho seems to have real acting ability, how about he takes on the killer’s role? I think that would really bring the piece to life.”

Kim Suho thought for a moment before responding.

“Yes, I understand. So the only things left are finding someone to handle the camera and one more actor for Jintae’s role?”
“No.”

I stepped forward.

“I’d like to play Minwoo.”
“What? That won’t work. The roles overlap.”

The moment Baek Arin spoke, our eyes met—Kim Suho’s and mine.

“So you’re after the killer’s role too, Gijun?”
“Yes.”
“Wouldn’t another role work? The director’s part, perhaps, or another character?”
“No. I really want the Minwoo role.”

Kim Suho had no intention of backing down, and neither did I.

“Still, wouldn’t it be better if Suho took it? He has so much on-set experience from his child actor days… and in terms of recognition, having him as the lead would really elevate the project score and overall quality.”

Baek Arin continued to push Kim Suho’s case.

“I won’t fall short either.”

That’s when Kim Suho let out a soft laugh.
It carried absolute certainty—that I didn’t stand a chance.

“Then this is simple.”

Footsteps echoed from somewhere distant.
Professor An Chiwon was approaching us.

“It’s not unusual for actors to compete over roles.”

With a heavy voice, Professor An Chiwon pulled out a chair and sat down across from me. His sharp gaze swept between Kim Suho and me alternately.
Baek Arin spoke carefully, perhaps still wary from her academic probation last time.

“Still, I think Suho would be better.”
“Anyone can talk big about acting. If you both want the same role, then act like professionals and settle it with an audition. I’ll be the judge.”

For a split second, something flickered across Kim Suho’s eyes.
Rather than being caught off guard by Professor An Chiwon’s sudden appearance, he seemed amused—the corners of his mouth lifted almost imperceptibly.

“If the professor himself will judge, we’d consider it an honor.”
“Good. Let’s see what kind of performance this text can be elevated to.”

After Professor An Chiwon left, Kim Suho’s gaze turned back to me.
It was the stubborn pride of a veteran actor—someone who wouldn’t yield an inch.

“I’m looking forward to a good match.”

Finally, on the same starting line, the moment was approaching when I would face off against Kim Suho—who had once loomed so far above me as the lead.

* * *

In the end, Kim Suho and I were to perform in front of Professor An Chiwon.
I couldn’t be certain that I could defeat Kim Suho through acting alone—he’d accumulated overwhelming skill since his child-actor days.
But at the very least, I couldn’t bring myself to yield this role to anyone.
Even though it was a synopsis I’d written, Sungsu proved more capable than expected, and the script’s quality had risen considerably as a result.
Above all, I found myself completely absorbed in Minwoo’s psychology—the actor becoming a murderer.

[Director: Cut! Hey, Minwoo. Are you fooling around? Why does your acting look so fake? There’s no darkness in your eyes at all.]
[Minwoo: I’m sorry, Director. I was trying to express the role well, but…]

That desperation to fully inhabit a character.
I understood that yearning for recognition all too well myself.

“Exhale.”

I read through the script on a long, deep breath.
This time, I couldn’t rely on any information from the future that my regression had granted me.
All that remained was practice.
Day after day, I drilled and drilled, pushing myself to the absolute limit.
And the more I did, the better I understood Minwoo’s state of mind.
And then, at last.
The morning of the audition arrived.

* * *

Professor Im Hyunsik, who taught musical theater at Daehan Arts University, had lately begun to notice a marked improvement in his students’ caliber.

“Now, take one deep breath in. Exhale with an ‘S’ sound. I’ll time you, so go ahead.”

The students breathed out through their teeth, producing the sharp ‘S’ sound.

“The key here isn’t to expel a large volume of air all at once—it’s to release a smaller amount over a longer duration.”

Several students notably held their own.
While most struggled to manage even fifty seconds, nearly half of the forty students sustained the sound past the one-minute mark.
And two of them persevered all the way to two minutes.

“It looks like both Suho and Gijun have been practicing their breathing technique quite a bit?”

They were the first-year freshmen ranked second and first in their class.
Kim Suho had been known for his acting talent since his child-actor days.
And Gijun—he’d seen him during the entrance exams performing a monologue, a scene with Han Seohyun, and a musical number.
How had such skill gone unrecognized until now?

‘If they saw each other as rivals, their skills would improve dramatically.’

With that thought, Professor Im Hyunsik ended the class.
As he made his way to his office after the lecture,
Professor An Chiwon caught up with him in the hallway.

“Professor Im, do you have anything scheduled for two o’clock tomorrow? I didn’t think you had classes then.”
“No, I don’t. Why?”
“Why don’t you come watch some auditions with me? For this group project, two of my students ended up competing for the same role.”

Professor Im Hyunsik hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should decline due to other tasks,

“It’s Gijun and Kim Suho—they both want to play the same role….”

At that, he agreed at once.

* * *

A practice studio on the second floor of the Theater Department at Daehan Arts University.
One wall was lined entirely with mirrors, while the opposite side was crowded with performance posters and notes pinned edge to edge.
Professor An Chiwon and Professor Im Hyunsik sat at a single desk, positioned against the wall.
And before the two professors stood the actors.
Gijun and Kim Suho.
The two of them faced each other at a measured distance.
Professor Im Hyunsik opened his mouth.

“I hear both of you want this role.”

Professor Im Hyunsik was finding considerable satisfaction in auditioning these two today.

“The script is quite compelling, actually. I can understand why you’re so eager for it.”

When he first read the script that Professor An Chiwon had sent, it was so well-crafted he couldn’t tell whether it had been written by a Theater Department student or a Playwriting Department one.
Moreover, he was pleased to see that these two students—the ones he’d been paying the most attention to lately—possessed a competitive edge.

“So, who’d like to go first?”

Kim Suho stepped forward first.

“In Shadow Tunnel, you gave that scene where you knelt before the killer and begged for your life—it was truly memorable.”
“You’re too kind.”
“With that sensibility you developed then, I think this manic section will suit you quite well.”

Kim Suho gave a light nod, then took his place in the center of the studio.
The moment he closed his eyes slowly and exhaled a deep breath, the ease that had rested in his shoulders vanished entirely, and the air throughout the entire studio froze cold.

“I am a creature that craves the feeling of superiority.”

Kim Suho’s voice emerged low and distorted.
This was self-hypnosis to inhabit the killer’s role that the character plays within the script.
And it was also the moment he genuinely immersed himself in the role of a murderer.
Kim Suho spun a pen in one hand, then snapped it up—and mimed a stabbing motion as if it were a blade.

“Ah. This climax. This thrill.”

The corners of Kim Suho’s mouth twisted in a subtle convulsion.
The fair and handsome visage of a beautiful youth vanished without a trace, replaced now by a grotesque monster that treated the lives of others as mere entertainment.

“I’m seized again and again by the urge to stab. Is my character’s purpose simply to kill? No. My role is not so simple. To break and trample another’s dignity, to feel absolute superiority. What does the life of a mere insect matter anyway?”

An indescribable dread and aura suffocated the studio.
It was masterful acting.
His acclaim since his child actor days, and his acceptance as top of the class—he was proving it all through this very performance.

“Thank you for that, Suho.”

With Professor Im Hyunsik’s admiration, Kim Suho released the tension from his eyes.
Kim Suho wiped his brow, beaded with sweat, and glanced at Gijun.
And he threw a strange smile toward Gijun.

“Next is Gijun.”

At Professor An Chiwon’s call, Gijun walked slowly toward the center of the studio.
Baek Arin, who had never once seen Gijun perform, felt that the role would go to Kim Suho.
What Kim Suho had shown was flawless, after all.
But there was one crucial thing missing from Kim Suho’s performance.
Beneath the killer’s madness lay the character’s raw desolation.
That was something Gijun could express as well as anyone—he had felt it in his own body before his regression.

“When you’re ready, begin.”

And what they faced then was this:
a desperation that only Gijun, who had lived his entire life as an unknown actor, could express.

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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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