T/N: Gwiro (귀로) literally means “returning road” or “Way Back”; thinking of using this moving forward.
“My background, you say?”
“Yeah. Ever since this movie caught on, lots of people have been curious about you.”
“Won’t… won’t that cause trouble?”
Rowoon could not decide whether he should be pleased or worried.
No matter how he looked at it, nothing good could come from the public digging up the original Rowoon’s past.
“Not really. The reaction is actually pretty positive. Your old reputation is getting dragged back up again—but there are more people taking your side. They’re saying, ‘Didn’t he have a reason for acting the way he did?’ and so on.”
The manager spoke while scrolling on the phone that had been practically glued to his hand since before the premiere.
“Some even say that the attitude controversy before was something you did on purpose—like the promise you made at the press conference—just to stir up attention.”
It was a huge misunderstanding.
‘Is that… good? I guess it’s good, right?’
Rowoon’s conscience pricked a little, but for him—who needed to clean up the sins of the “original body”—it was fortunate.
‘Fine. If I keep doing well, I can turn their misunderstanding into the truth.’
During the free-hug event, Rowoon realized something.
Contrary to his fears, the majority of people showed goodwill toward him.
When he cautiously offered friendliness, the goodwill came back doubled.
‘It depends on how I act.’
If he had kept running away out of fear, he would never have known that some people actually liked him.
‘In a way, I owe this to the quest too.’
Not everyone in the world can like you—after all, even Jesus or Buddha has haters.
And conversely, not everyone will hate you either.
How you keep the balance between those two depends on what you do.
‘If back then I’d thought like I do now, would something have changed?’
Rowoon recalled the days he had locked himself in his room.
Back when everyone shunned, blamed, and rejected him.
If he had mustered even a little courage, would he have avoided recalling only regret in that moment of death?
The past was past—there is no way to know the right answer.
He just realized once more the simple truth: if you only run away in fear, nothing ever changes.
That day, one of Rowoon’s old traumas was healed.
Everything was going smoothly.
Thanks to the perfectly timed “bait” at the beginning, the movie easily broke a million admissions and fired the starting signal for its box-office run.
The free-hug promise that the two leads had made became an enormous topic, pushing ticket presales like a faithful workhorse.
It was even called the number-one driving force that lured moviegoers back to theaters, which had been quiet for a while, keeping first place in advance-sales rankings.
With many people watching it multiple times and strong word of mouth, attendance was rising quickly; some were predicting that, after passing 3 million, it might even go beyond 5 million.
Yet, even while everything seemed to be going well, Rowoon could not simply rejoice.
“The completion rate isn’t going up…”
Current quest completion: 90 %
Before the release it had been 73 %.
Now it had climbed to 90 %.
The problem was: it had been stuck at 90 % for quite a while.
“If admissions keep rising but the percentage stays the same, it must mean there’s something else we have to do, right?”
[Most likely, yes.]
“It’s not easy.”
[It’s a quest that gives you an extra life—did you think it would be easy? Still, the difficulty feels annoyingly high. Those old fogies are so mean—tsk.]
While Rowoon had been absorbed in filming, Cheong-hwa—who had been absent for a while—had returned a few days earlier.
After running around to make up for several hundred years’ gap, she no longer gasped at phones or TV.
[What if it fills up when you hit ten million admissions? They say that number’s incredibly hard, but isn’t it a worthy goal?]
Apparently her study had paid off; Cheong-hwa offered a quite plausible guess.
“It doesn’t seem that way. Given the quest description, there must be something more.”
No fancy action scenes, nor a heart-wrenching romance; it was closer to a healing film.
That such a movie was heading for five million was encouraging.
No matter that it was the comeback of Kang Chaheon and Koo Il-hwan—if the film itself were boring, these numbers would be near impossible.
In other words, if a gentle healing movie is just good, it can easily pass five million.
[You saved a film that was about to be scrapped—be satisfied. What more could there be?]
Thinking it over, Rowoon answered.
“Revenge.”
[Huh? What?]
“The revenge isn’t finished yet.”
Even before the release—when he first sensed that the quest might require more than just box-office success—Rowoon had been thinking.
Quest: “You Were Not Wrong.”
Save the man mired in self-reproach; anyone can make a mistake.
When solving a problem, first grasp the setter’s intention.
Then the answer came surprisingly easily.
“I think we have to correct Director Kim’s ‘mistake.’”
[Mistake? What do you mean?]
“In short, we need to take revenge on the person who dragged Director Kim into the mire. Only then can we prove that the decision he made wasn’t wrong.”
[So you’re saying he has to clear his name, right?]
“Exactly.”
[And by taking revenge on that person, he’ll be able to clear it?]
“Yes.”
Director Kim made Way Back in order to prove himself.
Although the movie by itself is a complete story, knowing that it’s partly autobiographical reveals another layer.
[The hidden meaning of Way Back?]
[Twice as fun when you know—how Director Kim Seong-ha relates to Way Back.]
[Is Way Back fiction or reality? A story stranger than fiction!]
Such analyses and posts existed for a reason.
‘He even dropped hints at the production briefing…’
The suggestive remarks intertwined with the film’s content and fanned the public’s imagination—but no follow-up punch came.
“I have a feeling Director Kim is hesitating right now.”
[Why would he hesitate if revenge is required?]
“I don’t know either. But come to think of it, the director hasn’t done a single personal interview.”
Although many outlets wanted the Way Back team—from major media to tiny monthlies—and the cast had taken some promo schedules, Kim Seong-ha refused every one of his solo interview requests; the assistant director complained about that.
[Well… with Koo Il-hwan basically acting as ambassador, we’re fine—but if the quest fails, I’m in trouble. So what will you do? If the director has no intention of revenge, isn’t that bad?]
Rowoon nodded.
“First I have to confirm that.”
The meeting came quickly.
Kim Seong-ha’s door was always open to Rowoon.
“You’ll be busy from next week—why not rest? What’s up?”
But the director’s face did not look like someone whose film was succeeding.
He looked as though he carried every worry in the world.
“Director, haven’t you been sleeping?”
“Huh? Why?”
“Your dark circles are down to your chin.”
“R-really? I didn’t think I’d lost that much sleep…”
He rubbed under his eyes awkwardly, then stood up and rummaged at his desk.
“Actually, I’d meant to talk to you. Some acquaintances want to cast you and begged me to put in a word.”
He nearly overturned the desk, pulled out some thin booklets, and returned to the table.
“They’re good people, loyal. It’d help you to know them. I wondered when to hand these over, and now’s perfect.”
Rowoon accepted the pamphlets but instead asked the director:
“Director, you’ve been worrying about something, haven’t you?”
“Huh? No? Not really?”
“No way. You must be.”
“I mean, what would I worry about? The movie’s doing fine.”
He tried to change the subject, but Rowoon didn’t let him.
“Yet it shows on your face. Heavy dark circles mean you haven’t slept properly—meaning something’s kept you up. As you said, Way Back is doing well, so it’s not the numbers.”
“Uh…”
“That leaves personal matters. From what I’ve seen, each time the box-office goes up, you look more hesitant than happy.”
“Did I?”
“Yes. And when you refused every interview, I became sure. If you accepted one, you’d have no choice but to tell the truth. Since box-office isn’t the issue, and you refuse to speak—that points to only one answer.”
“Which is?”
Now caught in Rowoon’s pace, the director gulped involuntarily.
“You’re wrestling right now with whether to reveal the truth you’ve kept silent about.”
“…!”
His eyes bulged; mouth hung open.
He paced like a madman, then muttered blankly:
“How did you know? I never told anyone…”
He wiped his face and asked: “How did you figure it out?”
“You gave me the clues.”
“I did?”
“Yes. The biggest was you turning down the interviews. If you went, you’d have to talk. There could be other reasons—you might hate media hype or want to stay mysterious. Still, am I wrong?”
“No, you’re right.”
Collapsing onto the sofa opposite Rowoon, the director confessed:
“Come to think of it, you’ve always startled me—almost like you can read people’s minds, starting from that audition…”
As he reminisced about their first meeting, his eyes turned misty.
Watching him, Rowoon thought:
‘So this does work?’
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