Chapter 100: The Encounter of Masters

Seok Jin-man cleared his throat and got straight to the point.

“Writer. I can’t say whether this script will win my contest or not. More than anything, the scale of this script is at a level that’s difficult to produce in the current Korean market.”

“Then just don’t select it. I’ll look elsewhere.”

As Park Ra-el started to rise, Seok Jin-man, who had only listened intently until now, spoke firmly.

“If CL can’t make it, then nowhere else can.”

“……”

“Writer Park, the only place in Korea that can bring your work to life is us.”

That was precisely why he submitted this script not to just any contest, but to a competition held by , a production company under the CL group.

He’d never produced a drama himself, but judging by the quality of the finished dramas, he could estimate the kind of budget involved.

There weren’t many production companies in Korea with the solid financial backing to support the vast universe of .

“The title of contest winner is important, but what’s even more important is with whom and where you launch your drama. That is the most crucial point.”

At Seok Jin-man’s sincere advice, Park Ra-el fell silent.

Writing entertaining stories was his domain, but making dramas—that, he instinctively realized, was this man’s field.

“Can it be done on Setflix?”

Park Ra-el wanted his perfect script to be produced perfectly, in a perfect place.

“Let’s make it happen.”

Seok Jin-man was of the same mind.

---

Hapjeong-dong workspace.

After watching Director Bong Chan-ho’s , I became obsessed with scouring Godflix’s new releases, desperate to find a new drama.

I sampled the first episodes of all those 3-point-something-rated works that caught my eye from their thumbnails and synopses, and I could clearly see that Godflix’s quality had definitely taken another step up.

Until now, Korean actors only acted in Korean. Now, Japanese, Chinese, Westerners—all kinds of actors appeared.

For example,  was a time-slip romance starring Taiwanese protagonists.

, about con artists chasing other con artists, had a Korean male lead, but featured women of Latin American, Black, and White descent—such diverse casting.

There was even a blockbuster that broke away from the standard format: .

The story took place not just in Korea, but freely spanned East Asia, Southeast Asia, America, Canada, Australia, and Europe—worldwide—using supernatural powers to search for the female protagonist and exact revenge.

‘This isn’t just about writing scripts anymore, is it?’

In Korea, 99% of drama actors are still Korean.

Occasionally, a foreigner might show up, but only as a bit part, and even then, the “foreigner” is usually a Korean actor made up to play a Chinese-Korean character.

From the perspective of a homogenous nation like Korea, seeing a foreigner as a main character in a domestic drama is bound to break immersion.

‘ and  should go to Im Seong-hee and Jung Tae-mi, and be adapted as much as possible to a Korean setting.’

 is a family sitcom, so with the help of assistant writers, we can work together on it, and  can pretty much be kept as is, following the Godflix content.

‘The problem is .'

Of the five works,  was the most enjoyable for me.

The main character’s situation was immersive, the story itself was compelling—if released to the world, it would undoubtedly be a massive hit.

‘But it feels like such a waste to restrict it by shifting the setting only to Korea.’

The protagonist’s non-human abilities would be too limited that way.

If I’m going to do it, I should do it right.

With that thought, several American and British dramas I’d enjoyed came to mind as references.

The real concern was: even if I write this as a script, is there any director or production company in Korea capable of handling all this massive overseas location shooting and flashy CGI?

‘Our company alone can’t possibly cover the production costs.’

At minimum, it’d have to be the CL Group or Fan Entertainment to even consider tackling this script.

And if there’s a director capable of matching the quality of a finished Godflix work…

“Writer?”

CEO Seo Soon-ae knocked and entered the room when I called for her.

“Actually, I was going to clarify what you asked me about recently, since I’ve heard some rumors…”

“Has Director Bong Chan-ho decided on his next project?”

“Hmm, I don’t think it’s set yet. I heard he plans to do a series. Apparently he’s reviewing scripts from the U.S.”

“I see.”

“Is there a script you want to show Director Bong Chan-ho?”

I briefly explained to Seo Soon-ae the content of  up to episode 4, as I’d seen on Godflix.

It would be even better if I could show her an actual script, but I still wasn’t sure.

Whether to remake it purely for Korea or produce it globally, true to the original.

‘Even so, I doubt Director Bong Chan-ho would take on a new project.’

Seo Soon-ae, who had shown all her skepticism plainly on her face, suddenly had a new gleam in her eye after hearing my story.

“Writer, just hearing about it makes me excited! If you write the script, I’ll find a way to get it to Director Bong Chan-ho, no matter what. Absolutely.”

“What if we have to scale it down? Is there a production company in Korea that could handle it?”

“If Director Bong Chan-ho joins, we’ll find a way. We can get investors for the money. I mean, it’s Director Bong Chan-ho and Writer Lee Jung-hyuk!”

Looking at Seo Soon-ae, flushed with excitement, I felt a sense of certainty.

This time, I was going to create a drama with Director Bong Chan-ho that would leave a mark on the Korean drama industry.

---

Main conference room of CL Media Group headquarters.

Today was the day , an external division of CL Media, reported its annual goals and got schedule confirmation.

Inside the conference room, ’s Head of Production, Seok Jin-man, and department heads from various divisions sat on both sides of a U-shaped table.

At the highest seat sat Director Jeon Min-jung, upright, receiving reports from the heads and directors.

When Finance Manager Kim Young-il finished his financial support report, it was Seok Jin-man’s turn as Head of Production.

Seok Jin-man had refined his PowerPoint from the internal department-level meeting, and concisely reported this year’s projected revenue and last year’s operating profit margin.

“That concludes our production division’s overall revenue report.”

“Hmm, the operating profit’s completely in the gutter, isn’t it?”

At Jeon Min-jung’s sharp comment, Seok Jin-man flinched for a moment.

Actually, about -14% was the average industry downturn, but Jeon Min-jung never cared for the real industry climate or project direction—her eyes lit up only when she saw the red negative numbers.

“I apologize. We’ll recover with our anticipated releases this year.”

“Director, how many times have I said this? We need major IPs like Setflix or American dramas, that can run to season 5, 6, 7!”

This was Jeon Min-jung’s usual refrain.

Why couldn’t we secure long-running, massive IPs like ‘Game of Thrones’ or ‘Breaking Bad’?

Everyone in the field thought the same thing whenever they heard this complaint.

‘Because those giant-scale works simply aren’t made in Korea!’

Beyond the staggering production costs, such massive series just didn’t emerge culturally or systemically in Asia.

Even now, the most popular K-dramas airing on TV are mini-series; at most, the long-running ones are historical dramas everyone already knows inside-out.

Giant IPs require teams of dozens of writers—almost like a small company working together.

Even top star writers in Korea only work with half a dozen assistants at most. Having dozens of writers as equals working together is impossible in the Korean system.

Still, ignoring all these realities, Jeon Min-jung kept pushing with “broaden your perspective, have ambition, you lack vision”—forcing her people to work around the clock.

But no one could put a bell around the neck of Jeon Min-jung, the favored daughter of the owner family and recipient of the CEO’s full support.

‘Sigh, guess I’ll just listen to her tantrums and head home today.’

Finance Manager Kim Young-il cast a sympathetic look at Seok Jin-man, today’s main target.

But then—

‘Why’s he smiling while his team’s getting reamed?’

It was a subtle smile—one only noticeable to someone who’d worked with him for years—but Kim Young-il definitely saw the corners of Seok Jin-man’s mouth lift.

‘Could he have brought something to silence her?’

Seok Jin-man waited calmly until Jeon Min-jung finished her nagging, then replied in a completely unflustered tone.

“That’s why I came prepared.”

When he pressed the PPT remote in his hand, a new screen and table of contents appeared—something no one had seen before.

“In this year’s  contest, we’ve found a work with a high potential to become the kind of massive IP you requested, Director.”

The next page was filled with just one word, in bold typography.

The Hibiscus Blooms

Following pages detailed the story outline, concept images, and strengths of the genre.

Summing up all the explanations, Seok Jin-man’s main point was, “In the current market, death games sell.”

For the death game genre, successful examples included Hollywood’s ‘Maze Runner’ and Japan’s ‘Battle Royale’—both started with explosive openings and continued as series.

In particular, having a cast of diverse and captivating characters, many of whom are killed off in shocking ways, is a unique trait of the death game genre that nothing in current Korean content had ever attempted.

But—

Leaving theory aside, “dozens of characters” and “a special setting for the death game” meant astronomical production costs.

Naturally, Finance Manager Kim Young-il hurried to grab the mic, trying to rein in Seok Jin-man’s passionate pitch.

“Director Seok, while the genre and concept are certainly intriguing given your conviction, aren’t there a lot of practical issues to consider?”

“You mean production costs, right? If CL’s internal capital isn’t enough, we can get outside investment. We’ve already requested a meeting with Setflix to discuss production support.”

“Ahem, well, that’s fine if Setflix takes it, but I hear the writer selected in this contest is a rookie. Why would CL take the risk of investing in a rookie’s work for such a massive IP? It’s reckless.”

Despite Jeon Min-jung’s usual rashness, CL Media had only managed to contain their operating profit decline thanks to the finance team’s conservatism and practical oversight.

So Kim Young-il expected that if he pushed hard enough, Seok Jin-man would be forced to back down a step.

“If it’s a rookie, it’s impossible, of course.”

But Seok Jin-man’s response defied expectations.

“But if the director is the best, it’s entirely possible.”

“The best director?”

At Seok Jin-man’s sudden statement, all the executives began murmuring.

In Korea, only a handful of directors could be called “the best.”

Jang Byung-heon led the drama field, but he was already working on a historical series with rival Ten Entertainment, making him unreachable for CL.

Rising star director Kim Seung-pyo was promising, but at best, just “good for a young director.”

Besides, both were known to have close ties to Lee Jung-hyuk, meaning Jeon Min-jung wouldn’t approve.

But Seok Jin-man dropped a completely unexpected name.

“Director Bong Chan-ho.”

The room stirred at the bombshell.

“Director Bong Chan-ho?”

“You mean the one who just won the Academy Award for Best Picture?”

“But isn’t he a movie director?”

Questions burst out from all sides, but Seok Jin-man calmly spoke into the mic and nodded.

“Yes, the very same Director Bong Chan-ho you all know has expressed great interest after reading the script for .”

At this, Jeon Min-jung, finally feeling someone was speaking her language, flashed a satisfied smile and leaned toward her mic.

“A rookie writer paired with a world-class director—this is it. This is the innovative IP I’ve been talking about.”

With Jeon Min-jung openly backing Seok Jin-man’s opinion, the mood among the executives quickly shifted.

“If it’s Director Bong, we can trust him.”

“About time death games became the trend. Director Seok has a sharp eye.”

“My favorite series back in the day was .”

Everyone sided with Seok Jin-man, except for Finance Manager Kim Young-il, who looked pained thinking about the astronomical budget this project would need.

Having observed the entire exchange, Seok Jin-man spoke to Jeon Min-jung with a clear tone.

“If you’ll leave it to us, Director, I promise we at OneStarDragon will create the major IP you desire.”

“Good. I’ll personally urge the CEO to support this project. Take full responsibility and see it through, Director Seok.”

“Thank you for the opportunity, Director!”

And with that, the largest project in CL Media’s history for this year—no, ever—was set in motion, and the executive meeting concluded.

---

Meanwhile. In front of a small, old samgyeopsal joint on the outskirts of Yeouido.

No sign, a shabby old building—it was a BBQ place barely known, but among those in the film and drama industry, it was a quietly famous spot.

They served fresh pork from Gwangyang, Jeolla-do, caught that very day, and thanks to the shop’s unique, tangy, deep-flavored aged kimchi, getting a seat without a reservation was usually impossible.

On a normal day, the place would have been packed with customers, but tonight, it was unusually quiet.

Director Jang Byung-heon, a regular, had personally asked the owner to reserve the place for the evening.

All of this was to bring Director Bong Chan-ho and Writer Lee Jung-hyuk together in one spot.

‘Especially since Director Bong is crazy about this place’s aged kimchi.’

Director Bong Chan-ho, who usually worked overseas, never missed a chance to visit here whenever he was in Korea.

The bell on the old glass door rang as a burly middle-aged man entered the shop.

“I’m here, Director. Weren’t you here way too early? Did you wait long?”

“Not at all, I just got here myself.”

The man was none other than Director Bong Chan-ho.

He joined Director Jang at the silver round table and sat down opposite him.

“Man, it’s tough to get into this place. Thanks to you, I get to enjoy it today. Ha ha.”

“You love this place’s aged kimchi. When I heard you were back in Korea, I called the owner right away.”

“Thank you. Ma’am, can we get a platter of samgyeopsal, and a bottle each of soju and beer?”

The friendly middle-aged woman came over to confirm the order.

“What kind of soju and beer would you like?”

“Anything, just bring the coldest ones you’ve got. Ha ha.”

Watching Director Bong’s hearty laughter, Jang Byung-heon smiled contentedly.

Though considered a world-class master, Bong Chan-ho was the kind of man who loved nothing more than grilled pork belly with aged kimchi, mixing soju and beer with a down-to-earth attitude.

“Here you go. Let me pour you a drink—it’s an honor, Director Jang.”

“Haha, to get a drink from an Academy Award winner. It’s my honor.”

Thanks to the pre-grilled pork, the thick samgyeopsal cooked quickly on the grill.

Rolling up a slice of perfectly cooked pork with aged kimchi and popping it into his mouth, then downing a glass of pre-mixed so-maek, Director Bong looked as if he had not a care in the world.

“Actually, Director Bong, there’s a favor I wanted to ask.”

“Oh, anything, just say the word. If it’s your request, I can’t refuse.”

“Thanks for saying so. There’s a writer I’d like to introduce you to.”

“A writer recommended by you? I’m looking forward to it.”

“You’ve probably heard of him—Lee Jung-hyuk.”

At the mention of Lee Jung-hyuk’s name, Director Bong’s eyebrows shot up and he brightened.

“Of course! He’s the hottest name in Korean dramas right now, isn’t he?”

“That’s true. How about it? If you don’t mind, I thought I’d invite him here. His office is also in Yeouido.”

“That’d be great. I’ve been curious about the writer behind those works.”

A short while later.

The bell on the old glass door rang again as Lee Jung-hyuk entered the shop.

“Hello, Director.”