After a full hour of rehearsal, the session ended.
What was meant to be a light run-through had turned into something nearly as intense as a real performance, thanks to Park Chang-sik and Han Seong-tae.
“Good job.”
“You too—you worked hard.”
“Man, why was that rehearsal so rigorous? Those two don’t seem to get tired at all.”
“Well, Park Chang-sik’s always been good, I guess. But what’s up with Han Seong-tae? His acting is so stable.”
Murmurs sprang up among the students, commenting on Han Seong-tae’s performance as well as Park Chang-sik’s.
“Seriously. Even at that monologue thing the other day, he seemed different. Don’t you think he’s changed somehow?”
“So it wasn’t just me, huh? He’s not like he was in class before—feels like he’s a lot more focused now.”
They looked at Han Seong-tae in a peculiar way. Until recently, he hadn’t been someone they paid much attention to. Sure, he worked hard, but he didn’t have much talent—he wasn’t good enough to stand out. As a result, he’d mostly gone unnoticed.
That was just a week ago.
“Hey, Seong-tae, good work today.”
“Oh, you too.”
“Come on, I hardly ‘worked.’ All I did was walk around and watch.”
He was “Passing Extra,” and Seong-tae was the “Pierrot” (clown). It wasn’t hard to see which role was more demanding.
“Still, it feels like your acting’s improved.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I’m not saying it’s some huge, dramatic change, but there’s more weight to it. It used to feel lighter, but now there’s more substance.”
Yes, his acting had changed. Han Seong-tae knew exactly why.
Because I carry twenty years’ worth of experience.
Even if he wasn’t born with great talent, two decades of hard work would inevitably show results.
“Yeah, come to think of it, it’d be stranger if you didn’t improve. No one else practices like a madman the way you do.”
“Seeing me, people might think I’m dedicating my entire life to acting.”
“Aren’t you?”
He grinned. “You’re right. I’d be okay dying as long as I can act.”
After all, he had died once.
“You’re nuts.”
“Hey, that’s a bit harsh.”
“If you’re not nuts, who is? You literally skip sleep until you nearly pass out, all for acting.”
He did at least manage three hours of sleep nowadays. Still, Han Seong-tae felt a little wronged.
“You going home now?”
“Yeah. I’m done with classes.”
“Let’s grab something to eat, then. There’s a new snack shop nearby. Supposedly, the prices are dirt cheap—they sell gimbap for a thousand won per roll. You can afford that, right?”
A thousand won per roll? That was a total steal.
“Definitely. Let’s go.”
“Knew it. You need to grab anything else?”
“Just my script and a couple textbooks.”
“Cool, I’ll wait outside. Don’t take too long.”
With a nod from Han Seong-tae, Kim Min-seok headed out.
“You don’t think you’re overdoing it? Won’t even eat with us…”
It seemed they’d been waiting for Kim Min-seok to leave, because no sooner had he gone than Park Chang-sik sidled up.
“Even if you hate us, how could you. We’ve been inviting you for days now. Don’t you think you could spare some time for us, Seong-tae?”
He must have heard part of the conversation with Kim Min-seok—there was no other reason he’d say something like this.
Since when were we close enough for him to talk to me like this?
He still found it puzzling, but he didn’t show it on his face. This was hardly the first time Park Chang-sik pulled something like this.
“We’re not asking for much. We’re all Theater & Film majors—why not stick together? Keep turning us down and you’ll be isolated. You know some people already don’t think highly of you, right? Soon you might end up eating alone.”
“Then so be it.”
“…What?”
“So, are you done? If you don’t have anything else to say, I’m leaving. My friend’s waiting for me outside.”
Park Chang-sik’s face shifted to one of utter disbelief. He’d clearly never expected such a blunt shutdown from Han Seong-tae.
“I’m off.”
Han Seong-tae slipped past them.
If you want to play politics, at least do it competently. This is just pathetic.
It seemed like Park Chang-sik was trying to tarnish his image, but unfortunately for him, such weak maneuvering wouldn’t work on Han Seong-tae.
I’ve been on the receiving end of enough petty politics in my time, he thought.
With twenty years’ experience, he remembered how his acting career had crashed due to the press near the end. Compared to that, this little stunt felt laughable.
“What took you so long to get your stuff?” Kim Min-seok asked when he reappeared.
“Sorry, had some pests bothering me.”
“Pests? Did you get bit by a mosquito or something?”
“Close enough. Let’s go, I’m starving.”
Han Seong-tae gave Kim Min-seok a playful shove as they left.
[“The Founder of Jeet Kune Do” suggests a jog on such a nice day.]
Han Seong-tae shook his head. While September used to mean the start of autumn, these days it still felt like midsummer—hot enough to make you not want to go out at all.
[“The Founder of Jeet Kune Do” insists that maintaining physical fitness is crucial for an actor’s career.]
“And that’s why I’m doing these squats,” Han Seong-tae panted, repeatedly bending and straightening his legs, breath coming heavy.
He didn’t want to go outside in the heat and had a lot to do at home, so he was at least getting some exercise indoors.
They said it was just “light exercise,” but I don’t think so.
He collapsed onto the floor after reaching a hundred squats, gasping for air.
[“The Founder of Jeet Kune Do” comments that today’s youth have no stamina.]
He’d forgotten, just for a moment, who he was dealing with. He couldn’t measure himself by an ordinary standard—this was the action legend, after all.
[“The Founder of Jeet Kune Do” says to start the next set without resting.]
“I can’t! If I do push-ups next, I won’t be able to do anything tomorrow!”
[“The Founder of Jeet Kune Do” regards your lack of grit with disappointment.]
They wanted him to do 100 squats plus 100 push-ups per set, for a total of ten sets. Who on earth could manage that just by forcing themselves? Certainly not him—he wasn’t some superhuman.
[“A Man of a Thousand Faces” says to ignore that muscle fanatic and focus on what really needs doing.]
[“The Founder of Jeet Kune Do” retorts that all living beings should cultivate their muscles.]
[“A Man of a Thousand Faces” furrows his brow.]
Shaking his head at the overlapping messages, Han Seong-tae glanced down at his phone. He saw the word Kathakali and a series of videos. Kathakali is an Indian form of dance-drama where actors convey stories through dance, hand movements, and facial expressions, with no spoken dialogue.
He’d been researching references for his Pierrot role.
[“He Who Found Laughter in Tragedy” suggests that Kathakali may not fit the backstory you have in mind.]
He still hadn’t found anything conclusive. He’d also explored other possibilities:
Chinese ‘face-changing’ (bian lian) was too specialized, and he didn’t have enough time to master it.
Traditional Japanese theater—Noh, Kabuki, Bunraku, Rakugo, Manzai—also didn’t match what he wanted to achieve with his clown character.
[“He Who Found Laughter in Tragedy” sighs that a simple clown reference might be the only option left.]
Western clowns were another possibility, but it was tricky. He couldn’t just jet overseas, and online resources were limited. There were some videos, but video alone had its limitations.
“Honestly, the best way is to go in person…” he muttered.
But where would he go? Traditional clown performances were increasingly rare, and any scheduled shows were weeks or months away.
[“He Who Found Laughter in Tragedy” sighs in frustration.]
He shared that frustration. He had no clue where to turn next.
“How about the folk village?” came a voice from nearby.
It turned out the answer was closer than he expected.
“Seong-tae,” Kim Min-seok said with a sigh. “Why am I here?”
At that, Han Seong-tae glanced around. They were standing in front of the entrance to the Korean Folk Village. Groups of people were filing in.
“Planning on going in, aren’t we?”
“Yeah, but why me? How did I end up here?”
“Because you suggested it.”
“When?”
“You mentioned the folk village and that it’d be a good place to see some traditional Korean clowns.”
“But why drag me along? You could’ve come by yourself!”
Looking at his friend, Han Seong-tae asked quietly, “So… you don’t want to?”
Kim Min-seok scratched his cheek in embarrassment. “It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s just that you never paid attention any other time I wanted to go somewhere, and now suddenly you’re all for it. I mean, what’s gotten into you?”
“You said it yourself—if we’re looking for Korean clowns, the folk village is the place to see them.”
“I didn’t know you’d get up and go right away.”
Seeing Kim Min-seok’s sheepish grin, Han Seong-tae couldn’t help but laugh.
“We’re not really here for fun. I’m here to study acting. There’s no reason to postpone it, so don’t worry about it.”
“And even here you’re all about acting…”
“If not for acting, I wouldn’t have any reason to come. Right?”
“True… it’s not like the tickets here are cheap.”
While Kim Min-seok shook his head, Han Seong-tae headed straight toward the entrance to the Korean Folk Village.
[“He Who Found Laughter in Tragedy” wonders what a Korean ‘clown’ act might be like.]
[“One Who Defined an Era” is intrigued by those hanbok (traditional Korean clothes).]
[“A Man of a Thousand Faces” glances up from the script to look around.]
The Gods of Acting seemed fascinated by the place. Staff members in various traditional outfits were everywhere—some dressed as beggars, some as government officials.
[“He Who Found Laughter in Tragedy” suggests referencing a character called ‘Gwangnyeon.’]
Hahoetal masks also caught his eye.
[“He Who Found Laughter in Tragedy” brightens at a matchmaker character, calling it refreshing.]
He also noted the traders and peddlers. Their cheap, boisterous style of speech didn’t come off too crude. Wandering through the Korean Folk Village, Han Seong-tae felt a surge of inspiration. In his previous life, he’d never come, claiming he was too busy practicing. Experiencing it firsthand now, he realized there was a lot to learn.
“Min-seok.”
“Yeah?”
“You said these people are employees of the folk village, right?”
“I mean, yeah, but not in the usual sense. They’re more like performers. I heard they even have to audition for these roles.”
So they were basically actors who’d auditioned. That explained their natural performance—the very definition of ‘acting in daily life.’ Watching them fully inhabit their roles gave him plenty to think about.
“I think we’ve seen almost everything,” Kim Min-seok remarked. “How about you?”
“Let’s just check over there.”
“The government office?”
“Right. We haven’t been there yet. I want to see what it’s like to be a satto.”
Without waiting for a response, Han Seong-tae walked over to the office area, which was just as crowded as everywhere else.
“Satto! I swear I saw him here! Trust me, sir!”
“All right, go have a look. But if you can’t find the criminal you spoke of, I’ll have you punished.”
“Leave it to me! My memory is second to none.”
Folk village employees were playing out a scene among the visitors—a beggar character and the satto (magistrate), weaving in and out of the crowd.
“Huh?”
“…?”
As the beggar roamed among the people, he made eye contact with Han Seong-tae. The beggar’s mouth curled into a grin. Han Seong-tae tilted his head, wondering what was up.
“I’ve found him, Satto! The criminal who’s been stealing the hearts of all the village ladies is right over here!”
…What the heck?
Hahoetal mask
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