The Genius Actor Who Lives Twice - Chapter 34

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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 34

Midterm examination period at Daehan Arts University.
Between Ahn Chi-Won’s assignments and everything else, there was no shortage of things demanding my attention.
In Lim Hyun-Sik’s Musical Theatre class, each student had to perform intensely for ten minutes.
In Lee Hye-Young’s dance class, we had to create a new piece using the movements we’d learned and perform it.

“Ugh… I’m dying.”

After finishing my last exam, I shuffled toward the cafeteria like a zombie.
Having recklessly burned through my youth like this had come back to haunt me.
I could now truly feel what it meant to be so tired you might collapse.

“Gi-Jun!”

Startled by a woman’s voice from behind, I turned around.
It was Baek A-Rin.
Her expression was bright and showed no signs of exhaustion, which suggested she’d given up on her midterm grades.
She must have decided to pour everything into her NewTube channel instead.
I was actually grateful for how hard she’d worked during our group project this time.

“I’ll buy you lunch!”

For some reason, she insisted on treating me to a meal.
With nothing particular to say, I gave a polite response and was about to start eating when—

“Have you seen this?”

She showed me a one-line review from the critic Baek Jun-Ho.
Persona. The famous critic Baek Jun-Ho had left a review on the film I’d made.
And it was quite positive at that.
I felt my chest swell with emotion as I took a spoonful of rice.
If I’d heard Baek A-Rin’s next words after swallowing, I would have definitely choked.
She told me something I couldn’t believe.

“Our short film won first place!”

* * *

Grand Prize at the short film festival.
Having never received an award for acting before, I felt utterly bewildered.
The first thought that came to me was stronger than the feeling of joy.

‘Am I really receiving an award?’

As an actor, I’d been to countless auditions.
I’d failed hundreds of times and only managed to land a few minor roles.
While I watched award-winning films at festivals and applauded, I’d always wished that someday I’d stand on that stage myself.
But that someday had never come.
And now the work I’d created.
The work that carried my performance.
Had won the Grand Prize.
Tears began welling up, so I turned away.

“What? Are you crying?”

Baek A-Rin asked playfully, her face full of mischief.

“It’s not like that.”
“Gi-Jun is crying!”

Baek A-Rin pointed at me with a grin, teasing.
Han Seo-Hyun chuckled softly from beside me, while Kim Su-Ho nodded thoughtfully, saying it made sense for a first time.

“So what do we do about the prize money?”

The prize was five million won.
We’d planned to split it evenly—one point two-five million each—and save it.
But then.

“I’m fine, really.”

Kim Su-Ho said it flatly.
Given the productions he’d filmed so far, he probably didn’t see this as serious money.
Still, I was grateful he’d stepped aside so willingly.

“I—I don’t need my share either.”

Han Seo-Hyun declined as well.
Were his parents judges?
Prosecutors or lawyers—either way, they were people of the law, so money wouldn’t be tight for him.
Meanwhile, I was cramped into a two-room flat with my father, and money was something I needed.

“Then, A-Rin, we split two-fifty each—”
“I’m good too.”

That caught me off guard.
She had twenty thousand YouTube subscribers and lived alone in a tiny rented room—living expenses had to be eating into her budget.
But Baek A-Rin wasn’t someone I’d seen before my return.
So I had no information about her future.
Instead, she offered me an alternative.

“Gi-Jun, from what I can tell, you’re going to be incredibly successful.”
“Me?”
“Yes. So when that happens, come on my YouTube channel once. We’ll call it even on the two-fifty.”

I nodded in agreement.
Five million won.
Since Shipwreck hadn’t released yet, I’d set that aside—but for a first project, this was serious money.
I promised A-Rin again that I’d definitely make that appearance.

* * *

After the midterm examination ended, I headed to Nabi Actors.

“Hey, you made it?”

On the desk at the office—my first visit in a while—thick stacks of scripts were piled high.
Dramas, films, streaming series.
Every genre imaginable.
They must have come through Kim Hyun-Deok’s various connections.

“Take your time going through them. Pick a few that interest you, and we’ll talk it over, then make contact with the producers.”

Once I’d chosen, Kim Hyun-Deok would probably do his own legwork on those selections.

“Oh, and quite a few directors have called back after seeing the short film. They’re new directors, but they want to work with you.”

Kim Hyun-Deok tapped the film files he’d set aside on one edge of the desk.
I picked them up and flipped through them.
Unfamiliar names.
Directors who, even in my previous life, had never made a name for themselves.
I turned through the other scripts one by one.
A few familiar titles appeared.
But none of them had succeeded at the box office.
No matter how brilliant the direction, the world doesn’t run on good work alone.
Investment, distribution, luck.
Only when countless elements align does a name become known.
And thinking about it, since he’d only shot one short film, he wasn’t yet in a position to receive calls from successful directors anyway.

“Ahem, ah.”

Tae-Hoon emerged from the Work Studio, clearing his throat.
Since I’d introduced him to a singing audition program last time, he’d been in intense training.
He was still registered as an actor with the agency, but he’d be switching to a singer soon.

“Looking at scripts?”
“Yeah.”

I watched his reaction carefully.
He showed much less enthusiasm than before.
It seemed he’d grown more interested in singing than in acting.
There wasn’t a particular work I wanted to choose, but I feigned interest for Kim Hyun-Deok’s sake.

“I think I should keep looking through them.”
“Right. No need to rush the decision.”

Knock, knock.
Someone tapped on the door at that moment.

“Ah, he’s here.”

Kim Hyun-Deok stood and opened the door.

“Hello.”

The man who entered wore a neat shirt.
He appeared to be in his late twenties.
Though dressed formally, he gave off an air of comfort rather than rigidity.

“Say hello. This is your manager from now on—he’ll be handling Gi-Jun.”

A manager.
The company was gradually taking on its proper shape.
Now that I thought about it, it never made sense for the representative to trail after his actors himself.

“I’m Park Do-Hyun. I’m twenty-nine. It’s a pleasure to work with you.”
“I’m Yeon Gi-Jun.”

I shook his hand.
His grip trembled slightly.

“I’m… actually a fan of yours.”
“Really?”
“I went to a short film festival recently and saw your film. Your performance in Persona was quite impressive.”

How long had it been since I returned to the past, and already I had a fan?
My first fan, and he’d become my manager.
There would be plenty of work ahead for us to do together.

“Right now there’s no project, so there won’t be much for a manager to do at the moment, but that’ll change soon enough. Alright, so you’re all set, Gi-Jun.”

Kim Hyun-Deok glanced sideways at Tae-Hoon.
Tae-Hoon had no work, so there was no real need for a dedicated manager.
When something did come up, Kim Hyun-Deok or Park Do-Hyun could handle the pickup.

“Still, I need to get him to the audition tomorrow. If Gi-Jun’s schedule is clear, would it be okay if Park Do-Hyun goes to pick him up?”
“Actually, I have something on my schedule, sir.”
“Something? What is it?”

Before the regression, I’d spent countless days pounding the pavement, handing out headshots everywhere.
Because of that experience back then—or perhaps because I now knew the future—I had no intention of just waiting for good roles to fall into my lap.
Armed with knowledge of what lay ahead, I planned to actively pursue audition opportunities myself.

“Opportunities to get your face in front of people don’t come around easily in this business. I’m planning to participate in the same audition program Tae-Hoon’s doing tomorrow.”

* * *

was famous enough to have reached its fifteenth season.
When the first season aired last year, it pulled in over fifteen percent viewership, and the producers were approaching this season with the same high hopes.
I’d expected a typical filming set, but the scale was far more impressive up close.
There were far more people than on a film or drama set.
Unlike films and dramas, which typically used two cameras and at most four, variety shows had to capture multiple performers simultaneously.
So the sheer number of cameras was, in a way, inevitable.

“Wow.”

Tae-Hoon beside me let out a soft exclamation.

“Please confirm your participant number.”
“Yes, here it is.”

After receiving our numbers, Tae-Hoon and I moved into a practice space.
Cameras were everywhere, wielded by various producers.
One man stood out.
Sparse stubble on his chin, shabby clothes.
So that’s him.

“Ah.”

I warmed up my voice without paying him much attention.
And then I sang.

* * *

Jang Eun-Jeong, a producer of , watched the contestants and thought carefully.

‘I need to lock in someone with real star potential first.’

It would make editing easier later.
The stronger contestants would appear early, of course, but she also needed those who could serve as dramatic turning points.
That’s when two particular contestants caught her eye.

“Tae-Hoon, don’t be nervous.”
“Right, okay!”

Two handsome young men who appeared to be friends.
She thought this was definitely worth using.
First, she filmed the man called Tae-Hoon.
Tae-Hoon sang.

‘Hmm, not bad at all. He should pass the preliminary round without trouble.’

Next came the friend’s turn.
The PD went straight to film the man called Gi-Jun.

‘Hopefully he has some skill too. Then again, it might be funny if he can’t do it since they’re friends.’

When she held up the camera with that thought in mind, Yeon Gi-Jun showed her not a pop song but a piece of Musical Theatre.

[A genius turned to fossil.]

His vocal technique was solid—strong enough to make other contestants across the room turn and look.

[Why does the city beneath my feet spin so?]

Clear, pristine tone crowned with perfect diction.
The lyrics weren’t merely sung; they came through like dialogue, each word deliberate.

[Fly. Let us fly once more!
Even if the sun blinds these eyes,
Let us soar once more!]

Even in the high registers, his voice never wavered.
But what truly caught her eye was the acting itself.
A man who looked ready to collapse any second, yet a bird gliding through distant sky, yearning to take flight once more.
That hunger gleaming in his eyes.
And a single tear that seemed to whisper of death.

“So this is why people watch Musical Theatre….”

She heard herself speak aloud without thinking, and walked toward Yeon Gi-Jun.

“Let me conduct an interview. Why did you bring Musical Theatre instead of a pop song?”

The man gave an unexpected answer.

“I’m sorry. I just remembered somewhere I need to be urgently.”

He returned the name tag he’d received and spoke.

“Don’t use my footage.”

And with that, he vanished.

“What on earth…?”

* * *

I’ve never had any illusions about becoming a singer.
And I don’t believe my singing is good enough for that, either.
But acting—I had some confidence there.
So if someone asked me a question like this,

“Nice to meet you. Are you interested in acting?”

The answer should naturally be yes.
That’s what I’d been aiming for all along.
The man I’d noticed earlier was shabby-looking, with sparse whiskers and worn clothes.
After handing my name tag to the PD, he kept following me out.

“Yes, actually I’m an actor.”

His expression turned grave.

“How fortunate. Let me introduce myself.”

He handed me a business card.

Hong Young-Do.
The first Korean to win the Palme d’Or at Cannes, and a director whom the world’s top actors vie each year to collaborate with in Korea.
Yet now he had no film to his name and bore the hollow-eyed look of a wreck.
The alcohol smell clinging to him suggested he’d been drinking heavily the night before, which struck me as strange, but it was undoubtedly Hong Young-Do.

“I’d like to invite you to audition for me.”
“An audition?”
“Yes, I’m in the early stages of developing a new film.”

I knew it well.
Hong Young-Do, who would one day win the Palme d’Or at Cannes. The first film he would create.

“Of course I have to.”

I would appear in that film.

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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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