Tap, tap.
Han Seong-tae tapped his foot on the stage floor, sending a light, rhythmic sound throughout the venue.
Woosh.
He spun the cane in his hand this way and that. In bizarre motions, his Pierrot continued to perform.
[“He Who Found Laughter in Tragedy” says you need to be even jerkier.]
Following the God of Acting’s guidance, he moved at once. His jerky, mechanical motions were reminiscent of a wooden puppet on strings.
I think I finally get how I’m supposed to act.
The deeper he got into the performance, the stranger he felt—realizing that the things the God of Acting had been telling him were truths he wouldn’t have grasped in his previous life.
Tap!
He spun around once, tapping his foot in a lively beat.
I see what they meant.
Previously, he wouldn’t have understood a word of it, but now it was clicking.
[“He Who Found Laughter in Tragedy” says your gestures and voice should be even more exaggerated.]
Their advice became the path that led him to perfect his Pierrot performance.
So this is the world they’ve been seeing.
Once a talentless actor, he could at last glimpse the realm of the truly gifted—and how beautiful and vibrant it was.
[“One Who Defined an Era” dabs at their eyes with a handkerchief, saying your performance is heartbreaking.]
He was a smiling Pierrot again. In Act 2, he had wiped away his makeup—but in Act 3, he’d restored it to perfection. He looked once more like a proper clown: comical, and simultaneously sad.
The more he performed, the more he became the Pierrot. He had given the character a full backstory—imbuing it with meaning—so much so that he was living its emotions.
A Pierrot, feeling what a Pierrot would feel.
Thinking the way a Pierrot might think.
A Pierrot who laughs yet grieves at the same time…
The more completely he merged with the character, the broader the painted red grin on his face became—though hidden beneath the makeup, his actual mouth turned downward.
I want to keep going.
So, as his time onstage drew near its end, he felt a keen regret. He wanted to linger there just a little longer. Say just one more line. But he couldn’t, and that pained him.
Rattle…
Stage props were swiftly carried away, and he stepped down off the stage himself.
He cast a glance at the audience.
“…Not bad, right?”
“Mhm, it’s good. Especially…”
Lee Hye-yoon and Choi Ye-chan were chatting there in the front row. It was noisy enough that he couldn’t make out their exact words.
He let his eyes wander further along the row, and at the far end of that first row, he stopped cold.
That person…
They stared blankly at the stage, mouth ajar—as though in some kind of powerful shock.
I think I’ve seen them somewhere before…
Tilting his head, he tried to recall. There was something familiar about them that kept drawing his eyes.
“Seong-tae, nice job. Here, water. You’re sweating buckets—must be hot.”
Kim Min-seok blocked his line of sight. Accepting the water he offered, Seong-tae let his gaze shift away from that unknown figure.
If I can’t remember clearly, they probably aren’t someone crucial.
If it were someone truly important, there was no way he’d be this unsure.
“Not much left now. Let’s keep it up,” their class rep encouraged the exhausted cast.
Each act ran 20 or 30 minutes, and Their Story had three acts total. If this were just practice, maybe it wouldn’t be so draining. But in front of a live crowd, every line and gesture had to be chosen with care—so the fatigue was intense.
“Aren’t you exhausted too? You’re stubborn as hell.”
“No time to be tired. I’ll practice every spare minute.”
“Ugh. Fine—knock yourself out.”
Kim Min-seok shook his head in disbelief. Han Seong-tae flashed a quick smile and lowered his gaze to the script. With the end of the play in sight, he took a deep breath, determined to give his all in his final scene.
“Seong-tae, you’re on.”
He headed back onto the stage.
[“One Who Defined an Era” watches your performance in awe.]
[“A Man of a Thousand Faces” smiles, calling it an excellent performance.]
[“He Who Found Laughter in Tragedy” applauds you.]
His acting, his presence, filled the stage.
Clap, clap, clap!
Everyone watching him broke into applause.
What am I even looking at right now?
Jeong Du-sik found it hard to trust his own eyes. A manager at PAN Entertainment, he’d met many actors over the years—but none had ever struck him so powerfully. A clown pranced about the stage.
—Hee-hee-hee!
With that bizarre laugh, the clown dashed here and there, flamboyant and crude. And all the more captivating for it. How crazy, that a college student’s acting could captivate him.
Their school—Korea University’s Theater and Film department—held this kind of production every year, a dime a dozen. No wonder his supervisor had pawned off the job on him, telling him to go see it in his place.
Who would’ve guessed there was a student actor like that?
Since he’d had zero expectations, he was all the more stunned.
—Hahaha!
The clown was laughing, yet at the same time, he was not. Beneath the makeup, he hid his real feelings while perfectly portraying a Pierrot.
“It isn’t easy to handle emotions that well,” Jeong Du-sik muttered. He’d seen enough actors to know. To him, this clown was no average talent.
“Excuse me, student.”
“Uh… yes?”
“About that clown—can you tell me his name?”
“You mean the clown? That’s… oh, Han Seong-tae.”
He gleaned it from a student wandering backstage. Han Seong-tae…
He’d never heard the name. If this was a first-year production, odds were good the kid didn’t have an agency yet.
A performer of that caliber wouldn’t still be unknown unless…
Jeong Du-sik couldn’t tear his eyes away from Han Seong-tae after that.
Bzzt.
He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.
—So, was it worth going?
His immediate supervisor had texted. Glancing from the phone up to the stage again, he saw:
—Why do you treat me with such contempt?
Han Seong-tae was smudging his makeup as he spoke, and it gave Jeong Du-sik chills.
Incredible. This actor’s insane… How has nobody discovered him yet?
He watched, eyes bulging, certain that this was someone he absolutely couldn’t let slip away.
—Boss, I’ve found someone we absolutely need to sign.
—What do you mean?
—I’ll call you later.
His phone vibrated insistently as more messages came in, but he ignored it, refusing to look away from the stage. He wasn’t going to blink, as though fearful of missing even a moment.
We have to recruit him.
His face was filled with fierce determination. He focused solely on Han Seong-tae.
Rumble.
A rolling backdrop was pushed away by two people. The students buzzed around, clearing the stage.
“That was fantastic, right?”
“That was more than fantastic! You see how everyone applauded the moment it ended? Even Director Choi stood up.”
“Damn, if Choi Ye-chan gave it a standing ovation, we must’ve done something right. Thank goodness.”
“I heard from an older student that how you do in this play can really help your grade. We might get A+!”
“That’d be sweet.”
They all wore wide smiles.
It makes sense they’re excited, thought Han Seong-tae. The audience reacted overwhelmingly well.
With loud cheers and applause, they’d received a kind of attention that was brand-new for these students.
[“One Who Defined an Era” says it’s all thanks to you that they’re getting this applause.]
[“He Who Found Laughter in Tragedy” urges you to hold your head high.]
[“A Man of a Thousand Faces” notes that good acting can move people, which is precisely what you did.]
The show was over, and the Gods of Acting showered him with praise.
This is a new feeling, he thought. He couldn’t recall the last time anyone said he was good at acting. It had been so long, he’d forgotten completely. Everyone used to tell him to give up because he was hopeless.
“It’s… odd.”
And it wasn’t just anyone praising him—it was these legendary presences who had made their mark on history. That realization made him bite his lip without thinking.
“What’s odd?”
“Huh? Oh… nothing, just talking to myself.”
“Well, whatever it is, don’t stand there looking all mopey—let’s go. The others are throwing an after-party.”
“Sure. I’ll grab my stuff and head out.”
At Kim Min-seok’s words, he nodded and stood, gaze falling on the clown costume he’d worn on stage.
Probably won’t have reason to wear that again, he mused. Toying with the fabric, he sighed.
Perhaps because this was his first truly serious role since returning, a pang of regret clung to him.
[“He Who Found Laughter in Tragedy” says that in every meeting, there is also a farewell.]
[“One Who Defined an Era” sympathizes deeply with your feelings.]
He read their messages, then turned to leave.
“Excuse me, do you have a minute?”
“…?”
“Are you Han Seong-tae?”
Someone stopped him in his tracks. At their greeting, his eyebrows twitched.
…Jeong Du-sik?
He recognized the man. On stage in the dark, he hadn’t been certain, but here in the light, he was unmistakable.
I know exactly who this guy is.
“I’m Jeong Du-sik from PAN Entertainment,” the man said, offering a polite smile.
PAN Entertainment’s Deputy Director Jeong Du-sik.
A capable figure who had worked his way up from manager to deputy chief without any outside help.
“I really enjoyed your play. I was in awe the entire time.”
“T-thank you,” Han Seong-tae managed.
A figure like Jeong Du-sik was far beyond the reach of the old him. He felt himself freeze momentarily.
“I have a proposal for you.”
Jeong Du-sik wasn’t one to beat around the bush. Stopping just in front of Han Seong-tae, he smiled warmly.
“I’d like you to work with us. Would you consider it?”
Work with them…
“I…”
Han Seong-tae faltered, words sticking in his throat.
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