[“The One Who Defined His Era is watching you.”]
A translucent blue window—something straight out of a video game—appeared.
It was a message so unusual that you’d hardly ever see it in either games or real life.
But Han Sung-tae didn’t register the message with his eyes.
“Hey, I leveled up yesterday! I was grinding like crazy!”
“Oh! So what tier are you in now?”
“Silver!”
“Damn, you little punk.”
The voices of children were heard.
He saw the scene of a lecture hall from his college days, the memories coming at him as vividly as a rapid slideshow. He couldn’t fathom what was happening.
“I was definitely hit by a car and should have died…”
What he couldn’t understand was that he—who should have perished—was very much alive. The sensation of being hit by a car and rolling on the road was still strikingly vivid. By all rights, he should have died; if there were an afterlife, he should have gone there.
“Ah, could this be the afterlife?”
He had never visited the afterlife, nor had he experienced death. Thus, he couldn’t tell why he was here now, or what situation he was in. The only thing he knew for sure was that he was in a lecture hall—the same one he’d attended as a college student.
“Have you done any preparation for the assignment?”
“I did, but… I’m not sure. The professor gave us such a tough assignment. Even if I prepared, I’m not sure I’d be able to pull it off properly.”
“It’s not just you, right? You should have tried out some monologue acting. I practiced alone, and man, it was really hard.”
The conversation about the assignment and monologue acting drifted from the group ahead. Their voices were familiar—the very topics of assignments that the professor had given him back in his freshman year. Perhaps that assignment could have been a turning point in his life, yet Han Sung-tae had never managed to seize that opportunity.
“Back then… I was so busy working part-time to make ends meet that I barely got any sleep.”
His already scarce hours of rest had completely vanished while he worked. He earned money just to survive, and because of that, he lacked time to properly prepare for the professor’s assignment. In the end, he had no choice but to let that opportunity slip away.
Clatter.
Before he could fully grasp the situation, the lecture hall door opened and someone entered.
“Professor Lee Hye-yoon.”
Han Sung-tae’s body tensed and trembled as he watched her climb onto the podium. She was the mother of his best friend, Kim Min-seok, and also a professor in the Department of Theater and Film at Korea University—a kind soul who had once helped steer Han Sung-tae onto the right path during his college days. If anyone deserved to be called a mentor, it would be Lee Hye-yoon.
“I’ll begin taking attendance. When I call your name, please respond slowly. Kim Na-yeon…”
At her words, the students began answering, and Han Sung-tae, still in a daze, joined in. Although confused, the lingering sensations in his body allowed him to answer naturally.
“Today, as we discussed last week, we’re going to do monologue performances. I mentioned then that these monologues would count toward your grades, right? I trust that everyone has prepared diligently. But before we begin, let’s establish the order.”
At her words, the students looked nervous. To a college student, nothing was more important than their grades—and here she was, reminding them that their monologue performances would affect those grades.
While Professor Lee Hye-yoon continued speaking, Han Sung-tae remained in a daze.
In a situation where, after dying, he had returned to the past—who could possibly come to their senses?
“It’s a bit disconcerting, but I know I’ve come back to the past,” he thought.
Slowly, he began to accept the circumstance.
“Ah, I really hope I don’t end up with Park Chang-sik.”
“Me too. Every time you get paired with that guy, it never ends well.”
“Whenever we’re together, people can’t help but make comparisons.”
Murmurs about Park Chang-sik floated around. At the mention of that familiar name, Han Sung-tae felt a strange sensation.
“Yeah, that damn Park Chang-sik was there…”
Within the theater department, Park Chang-sik was famous—in both good and bad ways.
“The order will be from left to right, then.”
“Ah!”
At Professor Lee Hye-yoon’s words, the students’ expressions alternated between relief and dismay—some pleased, some not so much—especially at the thought of having avoided Park Chang-sik. Among the varied reactions, Han Sung-tae let out a wry smile.
“Come to think of it, I was right behind Park Chang-sik.”
Like a memory from the past, Han Sung-tae’s turn came immediately after Park Chang-sik.
“Wow, I dodged Park Chang-sik. What a relief.”
“That guy’s Han Sung-tae, right? Man, you really have no luck.”
“Yeah. It’s lucky for us, but he does look pathetic.”
He could feel the furtive glances of his peers—some worried, some relieved.
Without a word, Han Sung-tae glanced sideways and saw Park Chang-sik wearing a faint smile. Unconcerned about who would perform next, Park Chang-sik paid no mind to anyone. Turning back, Han Sung-tae looked at the desk before him.
Lying there was the script for the monologue he was about to perform, accompanied by messages:
[“The One Who Creates Laughter in Tragedy is watching you.”]
[“The One Who Defined His Era is expecting your performance.”]
[“The Thousand Faces wishes to see your acting.”]
Unidentified entities continued to send these messages.
***
“—Do you know the extent of my feelings for you?”
A student ascending the podium spoke, their voice filling the lecture hall. The student, who performed with both hands neatly clasped together, had everyone’s attention.
[“Chan’s Face” lets out a deep sigh at such pitiful acting.]
[“The One Who Creates Laughter in Tragedy” yawns and closes its eyes.]
Even the mysterious beings sending messages were among them.
As the performance was judged by these messages, Han Sung-tae blinked, taking it all in. These were the kinds of messages he’d never seen before his accident—and while returning in time was one matter, these messages were entirely new. Everything felt awkward and surreal to him. Although it seemed unreal at first, from the voices to the smell of the lecture hall and the chill that accompanied the drying of his cold sweat, he realized, “This must be real.”
He had never experienced the afterlife before, so if this was indeed the afterlife—a place that allowed him to re-experience his past memories—that was fascinating in its own way.
“Next up… Student Park Chang-sik?”
Even as he tried to collect his thoughts, the order moved quickly, and soon it was Park Chang-sik’s turn—right before Han Sung-tae’s eyes.
Park Chang-sik was one of the most anticipated students in the Department of Theater and Film. As he ascended the podium, Professor Lee Hye-yoon’s interest was clearly piqued. Until now, it wasn’t that the students who had taken the stage had performed poorly, but none had delivered an act that truly pleased her.
“We’ll begin the performance.”
At Park Chang-sik’s words, she nodded.
Taking a shallow breath, Park Chang-sik then began speaking.
“People often say that life cannot be lived alone.”
In a calm, measured voice, Park Chang-sik performed. His acting was quiet yet punctuated occasionally by subtle movements that skillfully caught the audience’s attention. Even Han Sung-tae—who had been acting for over twenty years—noticed something in his performance.
“Not bad for a student,” he thought.
Just the fact that a student could deliver such a performance spoke volumes about Park Chang-sik’s talent.
[“The Thousand Faces” contorts its features, exclaiming that it can’t bear to watch such pitiful acting and covers its eyes.]
[“The One Who Creates Laughter in Tragedy” remarks that the performance is dreadful whether seen from afar or up close.]
[“The One Who Defined His Era” states that merely imitating well does not constitute true acting.]
But it seemed that only Han Sung-tae held such thoughts; the mysterious message-senders clearly disapproved of Park Chang-sik’s performance. Watching this, Han Sung-tae let out a hollow laugh.
“Yeah. I’ll continue to love you anyway.”
Park Chang-sik’s performance had begun and ended on a calm note. When it finished, the students burst into applause—a performance that could evoke genuine admiration in them. The look on Park Chang-sik’s face as he received the applause, and the nonchalant reaction of his peers, seemed entirely natural.
“He did well, but he’s just at the level of a student.”
Han Sung-tae didn’t find Park Chang-sik’s act overwhelmingly impressive. Perhaps it was because he had seen many accomplished actors—actors so brilliant that Park Chang-sik couldn’t even begin to compare himself. Having shared the stage with such talents in the past, Han Sung-tae wasn’t moved to awe by Park Chang-sik’s performance.
“I might have been impressed back in the day…” he mused.
At the sound of his own name being called, Han Sung-tae stood up.
Although he couldn’t fully piece together what was happening, one thing was crystal clear:
He could act again.
Trudge, trudge, trudge.
As he descended the stairs, his face lit up with anticipation. Whether it was death or the afterlife didn’t matter—as long as he could act, be it in a dream or in this strange realm, nothing else counted.
“Do your best.”
On his way back to his seat, Park Chang-sik spoke to him. Han Sung-tae glanced over and nodded. As he passed by, he could hear a soft mutter.
“…Well, I’m not sure how well you’ll do, though.”
It was Park Chang-sik’s dismissive comment implying that Han Sung-tae’s performance wouldn’t be very good. Even though he was being brushed off, it didn’t sour Han Sung-tae’s mood. After all, Park Chang-sik had been dismissing people for ages, and right now, no one else’s opinion mattered to him. All of his attention was focused solely on the fact that he could act.
[“The One Who Defined His Era wishes for you to deliver a proper performance.”]
[“The One Who Creates Laughter in Tragedy declares that he wants to cleanse his eyes.” ]
[“The Thousand Faces is waiting for your performance.”]
The messages appeared as soon as he stepped onto the stage. Blinking, Han Sung-tae pushed the messages to the back of his mind and re-read his script before descending. It was the same script he had read countless times during his college days—a script filled with unforgettable memories.
Sigh…
He exhaled deeply.
As his performance began, Lee Hye-yoon, who had been resting her chin on her hand, straightened up in her seat.
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