Just how many bridges had he burned in every possible direction up till now?
And now Rowoon had to shoulder the consequences of that body’s accumulated misdeeds.
‘If this keeps up, I won’t even get cast—I’ll just fail miserably, right?’
Failing miserably would almost be a relief.
His life literally depended on this.
‘Well, yeah. Even I wouldn’t believe it if someone said they’d master acting in just three days.’
Still, not a single person was willing to help?
Apparently so—someone even thought he was a voice phishing scammer!
He was on the verge of panic.
But there was someone even more alarmed by this situation.
[What is with these people?! Why are humans so heartless?! Anyone can turn over a new leaf if they try!]
It was utter chaos.
The Starlights’ constant ding! messages of alarm, and Cheong-Hwa ranting about how humanity had lost all compassion, as though the world were ending.
If one judged by their reactions alone, you’d think it was D-1 until the apocalypse.
Rowoon was certainly anxious—his death was imminent—but he found it strange that Cheong-Hwa seemed even more on edge than he was.
[If this keeps up, we’re all doomed!]
It sounded like a famous movie quote he’d heard somewhere.
But it was true enough—Cheong-Hwa and Rowoon shared a single fate.
[We’ve waited so long for this chance, only to have it all end because we can’t find even a shred of help? Do you have any idea how hard it’s been for me to hold on all this time? They kept calling me a half-baked spirit, belittling me—can you imagine what that does to your self-esteem?!]
His complaints were somewhat peculiar.
He ranted on about vague matters, only to abruptly compose himself:
[No, I mean—it’s not just about my own problems. For you, this is your one precious chance. Not just me, but all those other old coots up there agree about that.]
“A chance? For me?”
What chance? He’d died and barely came back to life.
[Do you think all those Starlights are just watching for no reason? Sure, part of it’s because they put you in debt and they’re here as creditors—but more importantly, you’re the only one who can free them from their own regrets.]
“…Huh?”
He realized he kept repeating “Huh?” since earlier.
[Those old codgers may have endless power, time, and interest, but guess what they don’t have?]
“Well… no idea?”
[A place to actually use that power and interest.]
“…?”
[Specifically, they want to get involved in the mortal world, but they can’t. Heaven’s laws forbid direct interference. But then—]
Cheong-Hwa flashed brightly, as if making a crucial point.
[That’s where you come in! It wasn’t intentional on your part, but it lets them engage in your world ‘legally’!]
Some heavenly beings might not care about descendants, but many did. Some tried to appear in dreams to give their heirs lottery numbers; some sacrificed their chances to accumulate merit just to protect their descendants. Others tried to repay kindness from their mortal lives, or hold onto grudges.
[Officially, they aren’t allowed to meddle in the mortal world, so they pretend not to care. But some do. For them, you’re a legitimate loophole—no shady workarounds required.]
According to Cheong-Hwa, Rowoon was their first big opportunity in ages.
[So don’t worry. I’ll grab those old-timers by the scruff if I have to and figure something out!]
He vanished in a blaze of determination.
‘Is that… for real?’
But the ding! of the Observers going “Ahem, hm-hmm” while Cheong-Hwa spoke suggested he wasn’t lying.
Sure enough, a few hours later, Cheong-Hwa really did bring back reinforcements.
[All right, say hello! I’ve brought an old fogey who can help you!]
“What?”
[He’s called ‘Headstone.’ The guy can’t resist anything fascinating or entertaining. And he used to be well-versed in acting, too.]
“…Is that really okay?”
Given how no one on earth wanted to help because of the previous owner’s horrible reputation, this was like a life-saving oasis. But… was it allowed?
[Sure it is. As long as you stay alive, they get to submit more requests or whatever. You’re in debt to them, remember? They have to keep you alive to collect. Plus, it’s a chance for them, too!]
Bemused, Rowoon nodded along.
‘So maybe I’ll be able to rely on those Observers for help going forward?’
He felt both intrigued and excited by the idea of receiving assistance from such mystical beings.
Cheong-Hwa proudly declared that he’d imposed conditions.
[I made them swear that helping you won’t count toward their own request gains—but they’ll have no choice but to help anyway. The longer you live, the more chances pop up for them. Win-win!]
He let out a weird, triumphant chuckle.
[Anyway, Headstone will help you! Stop worrying about those cold-hearted humans. With Headstone around, you’ll be just fine!]
That’s how Rowoon ended up receiving the training he’d so desperately needed—inside his dreams.
And with Cheong-Hwa’s backing, there was nothing to fear.
‘It’s tough, but surprisingly fun and incredible.’
He ate, slept, then woke only to drift off again. Over and over, he returned to that dream realm to practice “acting.”
‘Though, if I’m being accurate, it’s less acting and more living someone else’s life.’
Acting is about expressing a character: through movement, speech, facial expressions, etc.—it’s basically an imitation. The level of realism in that imitation defines the acting skill. If the audience truly feels the actor is that character, then that’s brilliant acting.
‘A character has infinite traits, and how I choose to display them can make that character come alive or make it fall flat and lifeless.’
During just two days of training, Rowoon experienced dozens of different lives—indeed, he became those people.
In one dream, he was an old man; in another, a tiny child; in yet another, he wasn’t even human but an animal. He lived out each life, then moved on to the next. It was a miraculous form of training only a godlike power could create.
This first-hand experience taught him more than any lessons could. He absorbed everything: the character’s background, relationships, worldview, thought processes. He stored up that knowledge as if he had personally lived it.
He gained a crucial insight:
‘How to fully immerse myself.’
He’d had a somewhat related experience in his idol days:
‘Basically, it’s about committing to a concept—nothing new if you think about it that way.’
Idols often need some acting ability, after all. Album jacket shoots, music videos, photo cards—he’d had to commit to a concept before. But he’d never tried proper acting, so it had seemed scary, a vague idea he wasn’t sure how to tackle.
Instead, it turned out to be surprisingly fun.
He was forced into it for survival’s sake, but after two days of rolling around in dream after dream, he found himself enjoying it.
‘I used to wonder what would have happened if I’d been born someone else, or if I’d made different choices…’
He’d thought about that often:
—back when his family barely acknowledged him,
—when his group collapsed under scandal,
—when he was stuck in a cramped room, composing songs released under someone else’s name.
He constantly wondered about the paths he hadn’t taken.
This dream training wasn’t a direct answer, but living someone else’s life eased some of that lingering thirst.
‘It’s a shame.’
He only discovered this fascinating field now.
Rowoon felt a deep regret that there was just one day left of these dream sessions.
[Yes, do your best until the very end. Then you won’t have regrets.]
“I won’t have regrets. I’ll make sure of that.”
He needed to sleep now.
Rowoon closed his eyes.
And the dream training began once again.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay with you?”
The manager watched anxiously as Rowoon got out of the car.
In his past life, such a scenario would’ve been unthinkable. His manager wouldn’t have bothered driving him all the way here.
Rowoon thought wryly:
‘How’s such a kind-hearted manager supposed to survive in this world?’
Seeing the man fretting, he replied:
“I’m fine, Hyung. I’m not a kid, you know.”
‘No, you’re actually worse than a kid right now…!’
He liked that amnesiac Rowoon had become more docile, but that gentle nature in such a pretty face… it made the manager worry. Before, Rowoon was so fierce that there was zero concern for his safety; if anything, people worried for whoever crossed him.
Now, it was the opposite.
‘How’s a sweet kid like that going to handle this harsh world…’
“Isn’t it too early, though? You still have two hours before the audition starts. You’ll really be okay on your own?”
“I focus better alone. I’ll call you when I’m done.”
Look at that—he used to hate waiting even five minutes; he’d often show up late on purpose. Now, he arrived two whole hours early, probably out of concern for making the manager wait.
In the few days he’d spent with amnesiac Rowoon, the manager felt he was getting a sense of him.
They parted, each secretly worrying over the other:
‘His face looked bad. Does he have empty-nest syndrome or something?’
Rowoon recalled glimpsing the manager’s phone search history early that morning. But he set the thought aside.
Focus. The audition is what matters now.
He looked down at the papers in his hand. The thin synopsis had become worn and tattered—he’d hardly let it go, always scribbling notes, analyzing, and studying.
‘I can do this, right?’
He had to succeed for the quest—and, more importantly,
‘I’m sick of dying without accomplishing anything.’
No more being swept along by other people’s mistakes.
He had only three days to prepare—an incredibly short time.
[Feeling nervous?]
Suddenly, Cheong-Hwa appeared at his side. Fortunately, thanks to some negotiation with the heavens, he could remain hidden so the bustling café didn’t flip out.
“I am, but I did everything I could.”
He remembered the past three days of effort. Another thought crossed his mind:
‘If only I’d had an opportunity like this before I died…’
It was a pointless wish, but the regret remained.
[Don’t dwell on it. You’ve done your best!]
Cheong-Hwa sparkled, as if he understood exactly how Rowoon felt.
Yes. Now wasn’t the time for regret. Soon, he’d learn the outcome of his efforts.
Rowoon opened his notebook and focused, immersing himself in final preparations.
Inside the audition venue, someone was pacing anxiously:
‘I’ve got to find at least one decent actor…’
It was none other than Director Kim Seong-ha of Guiro.
His insides were churning with worry.
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