A single muttered complaint echoing through the silence.
The problem was that the grumbling was all too clearly heard.
[Argh, that jerk’s got a face like a squashed rice cake, all flattened out! How dare he talk such trash to someone this esteemed…!]
Cheong-Hwa reacted first.
He was so outraged that Rowoon, on the contrary, found himself oddly calm.
“…What? What are you looking at?”
“Were you talking to me just now?”
When Rowoon asked, the man—Kim Jeong-ryul—scowled sharply.
“If it was about you, so what. What are you gonna do about it?”
So it was him.
[Should I just rip his throat right out? Lee Rowoon, summon the execution blade at once!]
As Cheong-Hwa hopped mad with fury, Rowoon’s brow creased.
He’d only decided a few days ago that he would no longer remain speechless when people threw verbal punches at him.
But—
‘Let’s hold off for now. If I pick a fight, it’ll only get more complicated.’
It wasn’t the right time.
After all, not dying had to come first if he wanted to live more proactively.
‘…First I need to survive.’
So staying focused on the audition was his priority.
Just as Rowoon tried to turn his attention back to the script:
“Your acting skills really are trash, right?”
Apparently displeased that Rowoon was ignoring him, his rival kept taunting him. Worse yet:
“And now we’ve ended up in the same team—what a stroke of bad luck. We even have to deliver lines together. Tied to someone who can’t get through a single line properly, it’s obvious I’ll end up looking terrible too. If you had even a decent level of skill, we could actually do something. Ugh, unlucky.”
He’d completely floored the gas pedal on his rant.
‘So ‘team’ meant that…’
It seemed they were placed in groups to play off each other’s roles.
“Why bother trying to do something you’ve never done before? Just throw money at it like you always do and snag a part. Why do you have to drag random innocent folks down with you? Why’d it have to be me? I mean, can you even memorize your lines this time? Last time, you couldn’t say more than what—one sentence? You messed up a few measly words and caused dozens of retakes. People like you on set cost everyone else so much time.”
His resentful gaze raked Rowoon up and down.
“Anyway, same old superficial style. You don’t even know what’s really important to an actor.”
‘This was precisely the “past karma” coming back to haunt him.’
He’d anticipated trouble, but this was worse than expected.
‘Then again, is there any reason for me to stay silent right now, when he’s talking like this?’
Part of him warned he should keep calm for the bigger picture, while another part recalled his vow not to stay quiet anymore. The two sides clashed for a moment before tipping in one direction.
‘If I just clam up here, it’ll look like I’m admitting he’s right.’
If he endured this quietly again—even after he’d changed—what would be different from how it was with Garion? Back then, he’d stayed silent because most criticisms were actually true. But this time, they weren’t.
So Rowoon spoke up.
“I’ve memorized everything, so you don’t need to worry.”
“…What?”
That shut Kim Jeong-ryul up for a second. He frowned and asked again:
“You memorized it?”
“Yes, I did. And for the record, I also memorized the script we were all given beforehand.”
It was only a couple of pages’ worth of lines, maybe four or five sheets at most—easily done in a single read-through or two.
“And as for doing this ‘just for fun’? Not once have I ever taken it lightly.”
‘Just for fun?’
If anyone here was desperate, it was Rowoon. His very life was at stake. It was practically a life-or-death question, like in some old novel.
“…Wow, now you’re spouting ridiculous lies.”
“Why lie about memorizing the lines when I’ll get caught anyway once we start?”
Taken aback at Rowoon’s retort, Kim Jeong-ryul faltered. Then, for some reason, as Rowoon stared directly at him, his eyes started to quiver.
“Hey, can you two keep it down? You’re not the only ones in this waiting room.”
Just then, a timely interjection came from another person—Sim Sae-ro, who’d been assigned to the same group. He was slouched in a corner looking over his script. As he lifted his head to speak, Kim Jeong-ryul flinched, glancing from Rowoon to Sim Sae-ro.
“Damn it…”
He muttered a curse under his breath, then sprang up from his seat and stormed out of the waiting room.
‘Is that even allowed?’
The thought crossed Rowoon’s mind.
‘Well, no point worrying. I’d rather focus on what I have to do.’
He still felt a bit wronged, but provoking a troll was never wise. And Sim Sae-ro showed no indication of caring about Kim Jeong-ryul’s abrupt exit, either.
‘Hmm… can this audition go smoothly with a team that’s already so tense?’
It was a concern, but then he reminded himself:
‘When have I ever had a team without problems? It’s not like I can fix it now.’
He really did have the worst luck in teams. But at least he had experience forcibly managing a dysfunctional group back in his Garion days. That taught him not to sweat it too much.
Some time passed.
“Lee Rowoon, Kim Jeong-ryul, Sim Sae-ro? You’ll be up soon. Uh… where’s Kim Jeong-ryul?”
A staff member came in to call them, scanning the room quizzically.
“Huff, huff… Kim Jeong-ryul… present!”
“Please don’t disappear like that. It causes problems.”
“S-sorry, I needed some air to focus…”
“All right, just follow me.”
At last, all three were taken to the audition room. As soon as they entered:
[Starlight (Requester) expresses overwhelming nostalgia!]
[Starlight (Requester) sheds tears of joy!]
[Starlight (Requester)…]
A flurry of message windows popped up.
‘What the heck is this now?’
[Hey, old codger! Now’s not the time to get all emotional. Our boy needs to focus! Quit wasting your energy and save it for later!]
Thankfully, Cheong-Hwa’s words seemed to work, and the endless pop-up notifications halted. Past the gradually fading windows, Rowoon could see inside the room: two cameras aimed at them, and a large table up front.
‘Those must be the judges. Is that Director Kim Seong-ha?’
He was taken aback. The man was obviously lacking motivation—half slouched in his seat, showing no interest in even looking their way. The other panelists appeared to notice, too, because they were being almost too friendly, likely to compensate.
“Hello, good to see you. Since fate has brought us together, how about some quick introductions? Starting from the right.”
At the judge’s prompting, Kim Jeong-ryul (on the far right) began:
“Hello! I’m Kim Jeong-ryul. I’ve been acting for 8 years and currently belong to the Dandelion Theater Company. I’ve performed in…”
A judge who’d been jotting notes spoke up:
“Oh, Dandelion? You must be pretty good. They don’t take anyone without solid acting skills. Are you hoping for a lead role?”
“Haha, I’ve been lucky. I’ll do my best with any part they give me!”
“I like your attitude. All right, next is Sim Sae-ro?”
Slightly more concise than Kim Jeong-ryul, Sim Sae-ro’s introduction was neat and to the point.
Then came Rowoon’s turn.
“All right, next is Lee Rowoon. Hmm, it says here you’re also an actor? Everyone in this group has experience. So, Lee Rowoon—uh, hang on. ‘Actor: Lee Rowoon?’”
The judge’s reaction was odd.
“Really? That Lee Rowoon?”
“…?”
“Huh. Lee Rowoon is auditioning?”
They evidently recognized his (previous owner’s) name.
He was supposed to be a nobody, so how does he have so much negative fame? It takes a certain talent to be this notorious with zero actual reputation…
Unluckily, Rowoon had to inherit those misdeeds.
He couldn’t help wondering just how badly the previous owner had behaved.
Still, at least the judge didn’t explode like Kim Jeong-ryul had—he just gave Rowoon a dull, unimpressed look.
“Well, we’re not here to chit-chat. Let’s see some acting. I assume you’ve all prepared your assigned scripts, so let’s skip those. We’d rather see some live performance. Whoever feels ready, please step up. We’ll pick a scene from the short scripts we handed out earlier, and you can pick someone here as your partner.”
Upon hearing this, Kim Jeong-ryul and Sim Sae-ro stiffened a bit. But Kim Jeong-ryul squared his shoulders and stepped forward.
“Oh, Mr. Kim Jeong-ryul—good. Who’s your partner going to be?”
“Lee Rowoon.”
“Huh… Mr. Lee Rowoon, is that okay?”
“Sure.”
Kim Jeong-ryul shot Rowoon a blazing look.
‘He definitely wants to trip me up.’
Still, Rowoon wasn’t planning to roll over and let that happen. He needed to survive, after all.
“We’ll use the piece from Dear My Romeo.”
When the judge indicated which text to use, Kim Jeong-ryul motioned Rowoon forward. As Rowoon stepped into place, he mused:
‘He must be confident in emotional acting.’
The chosen snippet was an intense emotional scene, one that, without strong acting, would just be a clunky reading.
“I’ll play the female lead. You take the male lead, Lee Rowoon.”
“Sure.”
This snippet began with the male lead’s lines—so Rowoon had to start first.
“Oh, you can look at the script.”
One of the judges, misunderstanding Rowoon’s pause to collect himself, tried to reassure him.
“No, I memorized it all, so I’m good.”
Kim Jeong-ryul, still holding his copy, froze.
“All right… if you say so. Go ahead, start.”
Hoo…
Rowoon took a deep breath.
This was the key moment.
“Don’t worry about anything else; just do my best.”
One rival was bent on sabotaging him, and the judges were already dismissive. But if he were going to give up that easily, he wouldn’t have come this far.
He inhaled deeply, then exhaled, letting his eyes close and open again. The lines began:
“Use me.”
A controlled, calm voice, hinting that he was holding something back. Yet beneath that restraint, a storm of emotion was clearly churning—an edgy duality that came across unmistakably.
“Don’t choose anyone else. Take me, and get up on that stage.”
In that moment, Rowoon no longer appeared to be some once-notorious scoundrel. Instead, he was just a man on the brink of collapse, consumed by love.
And, a short while later…
“Mr. Lee Rowoon? Are you sure it’s really you? This isn’t some stand-in, right?”
…said a director whose eyes shone with the fervor of a mad artist, his face lit with near-maniacal delight.
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