Chapter 104: The Mirror of Criticism

"I... I'll find a way to make a hundred million people watch it, no matter what...!!"

After receiving the script for  from CEO Seo Soon-ae, Kim Seung-pyo was deeply moved and decided he absolutely had to return to drama production.

He thought perhaps his experience filming independent movies in LA was simply laying the groundwork for shooting .

With a more matured self, he promised to create an amazing drama, spitting with passion as he spoke.

"I'm not Director Bong Chan-ho, of course."

He admitted he might fall short compared to Director Bong Chan-ho, but having already worked with Lee Jun-hyuk once, he insisted that no one else could bring out the strengths of Lee's script like he could.

Thus, the long-awaited gathering of the  team became a session filled with Kim Seung-pyo's regret and earnest pleading.

"Author. Have you given it some thought?"

A few days later, CEO Seo Soon-ae cautiously brought up a visit with writer Lee Jun-hyuk.

"Director Kim Seung-pyo? I'm fine with him."

"Yes, I watched Director Kim's film too. It was surprisingly polished.  is a blockbuster, and most Korean directors would struggle with it, but the CG and on-site operation were quite impressive."

"I see."

"It would've been nice if Director Bong Chan-ho took it, but I believe it'll be an even better piece. The script is excellent, after all. This is just between us, but just because someone shoots great movies doesn't mean they can necessarily do series well."

"Yes, that's true."

Despite Seo Soon-ae's encouragement, Lee Jun-hyuk just nodded absently, lost in thought.

"Author, is something worrying you?"

"No, not at all."

The only thing on Lee Jun-hyuk's mind was, How do I make a hundred million people watch my drama?

"For this , I hope we produce it as an OTT original."

That way, people all around the world could watch  as quickly and widely as possible.

If you miss the timing with a drama, it can drift forever like a raft on the open sea.

When it premieres, it needs to catch the current and sail into the vast Atlantic.

With its sails fully unfurled.

"Ah, I agree with that. Honestly, our company or any other studio can hardly manage the overseas locations and production level required for . If we want to make it with high quality, without worrying about budget, we absolutely need OTT support. We're already in contact with Setflix."

"But do you think it's possible with the  script?"

"What do you mean, Author?"

"It's just... is this really the best I can do? I keep thinking about it."

"Of course, all your scripts have been outstanding, but this  script is so perfect, it surpasses all your previous works."

"Is that so?"

Lee Jun-hyuk thought Seo Soon-ae could only say that because she hadn't seen Park Ra-el, the genius rookie author's .

If, by chance, both aired simultaneously on Setflix OTT, he needed to be certain that the world would choose  over .

Seo Soon-ae observed the deeply troubled writer Lee Jun-hyuk.

‘Hmm. He doesn’t seem like Trump. So what on earth is he worried about?’

It was a different sight from when he’d met writer Oh Hee-kyung, unable to write or eat, completely lost.

He didn’t seem lost in the darkness this time.

But in truth, Lee Jun-hyuk was stuck, endlessly rereading the  script up to episode 4, unable to move forward.

Four episodes was more than enough to secure a director and begin casting,

But given how quickly Lee Jun-hyuk usually wrote, Seo Soon-ae couldn’t help but worry.

She almost wanted to crack open his skull and see what was inside that head of his.

But Lee Jun-hyuk felt even more frustrated than Seo Soon-ae.

 was undoubtedly a good script.

But was it overwhelming enough for a hundred million viewers to watch?

‘I don’t know. I really don’t.’

Once again, Lee Jun-hyuk sank deep into thought.

---

Park Ra-el's studio, near Gyeonghuigung.

The studio, arranged by the production company One Star Dragon, was an officetel called 'Morning at Gyeonghuigung,’

Among drama writers, it was renowned for its best view and most desirable work space.

Park Ra-el was seated by the tenth-floor window overlooking Gyeonghuigung, furiously typing away at his laptop.

He was typing so fast that his fingers were practically invisible.

Kim, the assistant writer assigned to Park Ra-el, and Lee, another assistant, could only stare at Park Ra-el’s back in awe.

“He’s already working on episode 8, right?”

“Yes, when I delivered the script earlier, I saw ‘Episode 8’ written at the top.”

“Wow. How does he write so fast? I thought he’d only finished up to episode 4 when we had our interview.”

“It’s like he’s looking at something while writing—his speed is insane.”

Despite not watching Godflix for reference, Park Ra-el was writing at an incredible pace.

That was because, in his head, every character, situation, and episode from A to Z was already mapped out.

From the moment he decided to write , he’d constantly imagined every detail—characters’ pasts, personalities, traumas, everything.

Of course, since no one could see inside his mind, those around him could only see him as a madman.

A genius writer, spouting lines and scenes out loud as he typed away.

An unapproachable, overwhelming aura emanated from him.

“Should we ask if there’s anything we can help with?”

“Let’s do it. We’ve been coming to work for a week, just sitting here every day.”

Summoning their courage after a week, Kim and Lee finally approached the genius.

“Um, Author, is there anything you need?”

“Ha. F***. So damn annoying.”

“…Excuse me?”

“Just get lost. I don’t even want to see you.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

No matter what, cursing and hurling insults at assistants easily ten years older than himself…

Because Park Ra-el was so young, One Star Dragon struggled to find suitable assistant writers.

Usually, assistants were hired younger than the main writer, to avoid discomfort for both parties.

But since it was hard to find anyone younger than the twenty-two-year-old author with any real experience, they figured veteran assistants would better support a rookie writing their first drama.

But after just a week in the studio, the assistants ended up quitting—having done nothing but get insulted.

“It’s a line from episode 8, okay?”

Director Seok Jin-man, who’d come in person to handle this little incident at Park Ra-el’s studio, let out a small sigh at the sight of this young author—brilliant at writing, but with absolutely zero social skills.

“You could’ve explained that.”

“Why should I? They’re not doing anything anyway. If they misunderstand and leave on their own, all the better.”

“I’ve said this many times, but assistant writers don’t just help with scripts—they’re essential for smooth communication with the production company.”

“That’s your problem, not mine.”

She wasn’t wrong.

Being annoyingly right was a skill in itself, Seok Jin-man thought as he took the episode 8 script from Park Ra-el.

Park Ra-el immediately returned to his laptop and began writing episode 9.

‘Sigh. This really feels like trying to coax a little kid into running a race at the kindergarten sports day.’

But what choice did he have? The one who needs something is the one who must bend.

Seok Jin-man, unable to say anything more, started reading the episode 8 script he’d just received.

And again, he couldn’t help but swallow his thoughts.

This time, they were overwhelmingly positive.

‘How does one person, working alone, produce this kind of insane, team-level quality?’

He couldn’t blame Park Ra-el for driving away his assistants—this script made it clear.

There was no need for anyone else’s input.

It was wildly entertaining, all on its own.

Without stopping, Seok Jin-man finished reading the episode 8 script in a single sitting.

‘There’s really nothing to be done.’

There’s a common “balance game” in the industry.

Would you rather work with a writer who’s utterly impossible, rude, and a lone wolf—but produces genius work,

Or a writer who’s kind, easygoing, never causes trouble, but whose writing is just mediocre.

If you had to choose one, who would you pick?

Seok Jin-man always chose the former.

In this business, he’d always believed that as long as a writer was good at writing, that was all that mattered.

But these days, younger producers were said to prefer the latter.

People just want to get by, after all—they don’t want to end up in therapy over a writer.

That was understandable, too.

But watching Park Ra-el, already halfway through episode 9, Seok Jin-man thought again,

‘Fine. I’ll just be your assistant myself! Just keep churning out scripts like this!’

If he could, he’d have given those frenzied, brilliant hands a big, grateful kiss.

---

“Hmmm.”

Meanwhile, at the  studio in Hapjeong-dong,

A month had passed since the script for episode 4 was finished, but Lee Jun-hyuk still couldn’t write the next episode.

Because of this, his assistant writers were racking their brains over how to encourage him to keep writing.

“But seriously, isn’t  just so much fun?”

“Right? I can’t wait to see it on screen. Who should play the male lead?”

“How about Lee Sung-jae?”

“Gasp! That’d be amazing!”

“Honestly, he looks young enough that it doesn’t really matter, but I think Yoo Seok would be great too.”

“Wow. If Ahn Yoo-seok played the lead, it’d be a sensation. Just imagining Ahn Yoo-seok trying to save the world from destruction is so cool!”

Just then, Lee Jun-hyuk, coming out of his room, overheard their conversation and chimed in.

“Are you talking about ?”

“Yes, Author. Were we too loud?”

“No, I just wanted to hear more. What parts did you find lacking?”

“Lacking? No, Author. We were just saying how much we enjoy it.”

“I think the male lead is especially captivating.”

“Yeah, he’s cynical but so caring. It’s not even a romance, but I feel like I’d totally fall for him.”

Usually indifferent unless it was a historical drama, Pyeong Taek-soo pushed up his glasses and added,

“I especially love the part where he time-warps to Joseon and advises Jang Young-sil. I think our fans from  will like the connection.”

“Oh, you history buff.”

“Thank you for the compliment.”

Hearing the enthusiastic praise from his assistants, Lee Jun-hyuk fell into thought.

Seeing this, the assistants exchanged worried glances, wondering if they’d said something wrong.

Not that Lee Jun-hyuk was the type to snap over a simple mistake.

But they didn’t want their comments to distract him from creating this masterpiece.

“Thank you for the great feedback. But that’s not quite what I’m looking for.”

Lee Jun-hyuk continued, looking at the assistants, all gazing up at him expectantly.

“From now on, I only want you to point out the bad parts. Even the tiniest thing is fine. Please give sharp, critical feedback about what’s boring or confusing in .”