Chapter 64: Authentic History

On the laptop screen, the video conference ZUM program was running.

In the four split squares, Im Sung-hee, Jung Tae-mi, myself, and the applicant interviewing for the assistant writer position each appeared.

The interviews, thirty minutes each, had narrowed the applicants down to four, after sifting through the resumes.

We’d selected mostly those who liked historical dramas or had a strong interest in them.

“Hello. First, let me introduce myself.”

After a brief introduction about myself, I explained what would be required for .

It wasn’t my first time conducting interviews for an assistant writer, but it felt distinctly different from before.

That was only natural—this time, I wasn’t simply hiring an assistant to help with a single project and then leave. Like Im Sung-hee and Jung Tae-mi, I wanted to find someone who would become a member of the studio and work with us for the long haul.

“If you have any questions, please feel free to ask.”

Even Jung Tae-mi and Im Sung-hee looked visibly more tense than usual.

I suppose it was because I’d asked them, before we started, to see the candidates not just as my assistants, but as future colleagues.

-Hmm. Writer, I think Pyeong Taek-soo seems like a good fit.

-Oh. I agree. He’s passionate and has a real interest in Korean history.

“If that’s how you both feel, I’m on board too.”

We reached an agreement quickly.

After a video meeting lasting over two and a half hours, you’d think everyone would be exhausted, but seeing their sparkling eyes, their passion was obvious.

“Well then, thank you for your hard work. See you tomorrow!”

Feeling as though a great weight had been lifted, I cheerfully closed the laptop.

But the two people in front of me, Seo Ji-won and Cheon Na-young, were looking at me with faces that were anything but cheerful.

“Are you done?”

“It’s been about three or four hours since we got to this cafe.”

“Right? The owner’s been watching us for a while now.”

Oh dear. Even after becoming this famous, they’re still considerate of others—what good character.

I really do have an eye for people.

“Heh heh. You’re right. That didn’t even occur to me. Can’t be an Ugly Korean after coming all the way to Japan. Let’s get out of here.”

For some reason, I felt sharp glances stabbing into my back as we left the cafe, but since we’d ordered plenty of bread and coffee, I told myself it was fine to stay that long and tried to ignore it.

Strangely, the feeling of being watched lasted all the way through lunch and until we boarded the plane.

“Would you care for a drink?”

A flight attendant with neatly tied hair asked politely.

Seated by the window in first class—a ticket arranged by Director Kudo Kei—I ordered a glass of champagne and gazed out the window again.

Returning to Seoul after wrapping up my schedule in Japan, I suddenly felt lost about how to adapt .

‘This is my first time with a remake.’

In the film and drama world, remakes are as common as original works.

Starting with original novels and animations, it’s also common to adapt films into dramas or foreign dramas into local ones.

Classic examples include American legal dramas like  and , or Japan’s medical drama .

Honestly, when I decided to adapt  for Godflix, those examples came to mind, making the decision easier.

But when I actually thought about turning a 16-episode series into a 50-episode one, the amount of research required was enormous, and I had no idea what aspects of the story to focus on.

‘In the original Godflix, the main story was about King Sejong inventing Hangul with the help of a genius court lady.’

And it wasn’t just about portraying Sejong as a saintly king—the drama’s charm was in showing his human side.

‘There needs to be a hook in the adaptation too.’

I figured I needed something more special to stretch the story.

Since the original had only 16 episodes, it didn’t cover Sejong’s childhood. I could start by shedding more light on his past.

And I thought it would be good to focus on the justification for why Sejong wanted to create Hangul.

‘No, it needs something even more unique.’

I didn’t want to just tweak the Godflix version in an ordinary way.

Admittedly, in my headcanon, Godflix only showcased works that had already proven themselves in parallel worlds.

If I was going to adapt that, it would have to be of even higher quality.

‘Parallel worlds, huh.’

Now that I thought about it, the writer Park Eun-sook’s  was also a parallel world story.

‘What if King Sejong hadn’t created Hangul in a parallel universe?’

I opened my phone’s memo app and began furiously jotting down ideas.

Once the floodgates opened, stories poured out.

Maybe because I’d gotten used to establishing male-female dynamics working with Park Eun-sook, I found I could add tension to Sejong and those around him just by switching their genders.

‘It’s true—writing improves the more you do it.’

Riding a wave of inspiration, I quickly scribbled down my ideas.

Unlike when I wrote scripts with Park Eun-sook and felt like I was learning something new, this time I was fired up to create something wholly my own.

I couldn’t wait to show Im Sung-hee and Jung Tae-mi and get to writing the script.

But that hope was crushed not long after.

“Hmmm. Writer, I don’t know if I should say this, but the story feels a bit complicated.”

“Yes, I also found it hard to follow how the story connects in a world where Sejong didn’t invent Hangul.”

For the first time, people who usually showered my writing with nothing but praise gave me negative feedback.

“Sigh. I see.”

Among writers, there’s one taboo.

Writing furiously while inspired by the moonlit dawn, a gentle buzz from drinking, or a flush of sentiment.

Trusting that inspiration and charging ahead.

Writing done at those times is, more often than not, utter garbage.

I admit it.

Sitting in first class with a glass of champagne, writing on the flight from Tokyo to Seoul, I did get carried away for a moment.

“I noticed some flaws when I reread it, but I wanted to hear your thoughts.”

I’d hoped there was a chance they’d like it, but as expected, they didn’t.

It wasn’t disappointing; in fact, it was reassuring that their standards had grown as high as any writer’s, and that they’d tell me honestly if something wasn’t good, even if I was their boss.

Frankly, there are plenty of assistants who’ll flatter the head writer by calling a bad script good.

I’ve done the same before, so I can’t say anything.

“We’ll need to discuss this with the new assistant writer as well.”

Just then, the doorbell rang.

Jung Tae-mi sprang up to answer.

Since the interviews had been online, I hadn’t realized—a tall, well-built man in his late twenties strode in.

“Hello. I’m Pyeong Taek-soo.”

For some reason, he looked very disciplined, bowing at a full ninety degrees and setting down the coffee carrier in his hand.

“I heard there were two other writers here, so I brought coffee for everyone. I figured someone might not drink caffeine, so I bought two chamomile teas as well. I’m fine with anything, so please choose. And I thought it’d be nice to have something to eat together, so I brought donuts.”

“Oh my.”

“You’re incredibly thoughtful!”

Im Sung-hee and Jung Tae-mi, already surprised by the unexpected appearance, seemed completely charmed by the thoughtfulness of the team’s soon-to-be youngest member.

“Heh heh. Thank you. I’ll enjoy it. But you don’t need to buy anything next time. You’ll be using the project card for expenses, so you don’t need to spend your own money.”

“Understood! I just wanted to make a good first impression.”

He spoke briskly and honestly, which immediately won me over as well.

A buzz cut, neatly trimmed beard, and black horn-rimmed glasses.

There was some celebrity his sturdy build reminded me of, but I couldn’t recall the name, so I dropped it.

“By the way, Taek-soo, this might be weird to say on our first meeting, but don’t people tell you that you look like the singer Kim Tae-moo?”

“Oh, right! GOP Kim Tae-moo!”

“Ahaha. I get that a lot.”

Im Sung-hee beamed with pride at having guessed correctly.

With one more person, the studio atmosphere instantly became lively.

No matter how nice people are, a first meeting can be awkward, but seeing how quickly he fit in, he clearly had a great personality.

“Do you have any hobbies, Taek-soo?”

It was just a typical question to break the ice, but suddenly Pyeong Taek-soo’s eyes lit up.

“Ah, actually, there’s a hobby I didn’t mention in the interview because I thought it might seem odd.”

Looking a little embarrassed at being found out, he scratched his neck and continued.

Turns out, his hobby was Korean history itself.

He wasn’t just someone who browsed history entries on sites like Namu Wiki—he actually read the Annals of the Joseon Dynasty to correct historical inaccuracies on those sites.

He would even find translated books and search for academic papers on DBpia to fact-check and weave together the truth—that was his hobby.

“That’s... your hobby?”

The words I couldn’t quite bring myself to say came spilling out of Jung Tae-mi instead.

“Heh heh. Yes. I’m a history geek, basically. Not something I usually talk about.”

“Why not? Being a Korean history buff is not just wholesome, it’s downright academic!”

“That’s true for us, but think about it, unni. If you went on a blind date and the other person said their hobby was Korean history, wouldn’t that feel a little off-putting?”

But I felt differently.

“Why? I think it’d be interesting to hear about.”

“Really?”

“The drama we’ll be writing is about King Sejong. Do you know a lot about him too?”

Pyeong Taek-soo’s eyes sparkled again as he opened his mouth.

“Of course! But if we get started, it’ll be a long story—are you sure you want to hear it?”

“It’s fine. Please, go ahead.”

I worried it might be too much to talk shop at a first meeting.

But seeing that look in his eyes, it was clear he was enjoying this more than anything, so I decided to listen.

“The really interesting thing about Sejong is his early life. You know the basics, right? Prince Yangnyeong was the eldest, and Sejong was the second son, so he almost didn’t become king. His father, King Taejong, was a strict advocate for eldest-son succession. But this Prince Yangnyeong...”

And so began the full story of Sejong.

I’d known a little Korean history, but the story of the transition from King Taejong to Sejong, their relationship with Prince Yangnyeong, and Sejong’s accomplishments and meeting with Jang Yeong-sil—it all flowed on and on.

The meeting that began at 3 p.m. continued through dinner and deep into the night.

Jung Tae-mi, already exhausted by dinnertime, had long since left.

Even Im Sung-hee, who stuck it out until almost 10 p.m., threw up her hands and left when Jang Yeong-sil appeared as a new character just when she thought the story was ending.

“There are theories that Jang Yeong-sil was a woman, but that’s just speculation—historical distortion, really. The key is that Sejong and Jang Yeong-sil weren’t connected romantically, but through a friendship that transcended social status. That’s what should be emphasized.”

“Men and women can be friends, can’t they?”

“Well, in the Joseon Dynasty, men and women weren’t even allowed to sit together after the age of seven. In Confucian society, patriarchy was absolute—so it would have been almost impossible.”

As a true history buff, Pyeong Taek-soo didn’t just list events in chronological order—he delved into the characters’ choices and emotions.

As a writer, I kept thinking, What if this had happened? Or that? So many perspectives sprang up.

Debating like that, before I knew it, it was past 3 a.m.

“Wow, writer. You’re the first person to ever listen to my whole history story. Even my girlfriend of five years broke up with me over this.”

“Taek-soo, thank you so much.”

“Oh, I should be thanking you! For letting me join a project about Sejong.”

I could see the sparkle in Pyeong Taek-soo’s eyes.

Even without looking in a mirror, I knew my own eyes were burning with just as much passion.

“I don’t know why I ever thought of quitting. Our history is so fascinating all on its own.”

And I made a decision.

I wouldn’t resort to any strange tricks.

The story of Sejong that I would write—no embellishments, no unnecessary frills—would be as authentic as possible, true to the history itself.

I would write a historical drama so accurate, it would be almost like a documentary.