Chapter 66: The Game Changer

At the very heart of Seoul, right in front of City Hall, stood the Plaza Hotel.

Opened in 1976, this five-star hotel boasted a 50-year tradition, and long ago, during the reign of King Taejo, the site had been home to a temple that temporarily housed the Tripitaka Koreana.

Carrying on that history, it had also witnessed historic events like the March 1st Movement and the June Struggle at Seoul Plaza.

And today.

For me as well, an event as significant as any of those days was about to unfold.

The moment I stepped into the café on the lobby floor, I instantly recognized the person who had called me.

“Hello, Director. I’m Lee Junhyeok.”

“Meeting you in person after only seeing you in the media feels like meeting a celebrity. I’m Cha Intae.”

Cha Intae handed me his business card.

I glanced down at the card, which bore the grand Blue House logo alongside his name.

[Chief Public Relations Secretary, Blue House]

[Cha Intae]

He was the Blue House Chief Public Relations Secretary I often saw in the news or newspapers.

A former reporter at the national broadcaster, he sometimes faced criticism for being the administration’s mouthpiece, but personally, I’d always found his clear speech and crisp manner of speaking appealing.

“I must have startled you, calling out of the blue.”

“Yes, I was a little surprised.”

I answered honestly as I poured stick sugar into the black coffee the server had brought.

It was surprising enough that the Blue House had sought me out, but what he said next had truly shocked me.

“Actor Lee Sungjae praised your script as excellent and recommended it. I read the script right away, and it was far deeper than I had anticipated. Ah.”

Cha Intae straightened his tie and bowed his head lightly with a courteous air.

“I may have been out of line by reading it myself. Due to the nature of my work, I couldn’t inform you beforehand, and I apologize for that.”

“Not at all. Thank you for thinking so highly of my work.”

Even before we’d gotten into the real discussion, I found myself feeling a sense of trust from Cha Intae’s habit of maintaining proper etiquette and consideration, even over the smallest things.

“By the way, have you thought about the matter I mentioned in advance? If we work together, even the President will be pleased.”

It turned out the mysterious investor Lee Sungjae had hinted at during our fishing trip was none other than the Blue House.

The idea of “the President” still didn’t feel real, so I found myself absently fiddling with my coffee cup.

Watching me quietly, Cha Intae must have thought I was hesitating, and so he began to elaborate.

“The show will air on the public broadcaster UBS. You know how, with historical dramas, government agencies sometimes invest?”

“Yes. It’s my first time working on a historical, but I’d heard public institutions sometimes invest in such projects. I also heard that even for the grand historical drama produced two years ago, it was so hard to secure investors that they had to turn to the public for funding alongside banks.”

“Government departments have been struggling overall until recently. It must have been hard to raise the necessary funds. That also shows just how astronomical the costs for a grand historical drama can be.”

Rather than blaming the previous administration or shifting responsibility, Cha Intae calmly explained the current government’s stance.

In short, he said, they would offer unwavering support for Hallyu culture, and that this would be the first project to strengthen the stature of K-drama.

“I see.”

The more I listened, the more surreal it felt.

Before the current President was elected, I’d seen the campaign promises mentioning ‘the advancement of Korea’s cultural industry.’

Of course, as a writer, such promises were welcome, but I hadn’t seriously considered how much the support might expand or if that support would ever reach me.

It wasn’t that I expected much, having seen so many politicians break their pledges after being elected.

And yet, here it was, happening right before my eyes.

And bringing me immense benefits.

Of all the votes I’ve ever cast, this one was truly the most worthwhile.

“If you have any concerns, please feel free to mention them. If you’re worried about any political ties from working with the government, please don’t be—the investment will go through the Ministry of Culture, Sports, and Tourism, so there’s no need to feel burdened.”

Cha Intae seemed to think my hesitation was due to feeling overwhelmed.

In a way, it was fortunate—he’d begun to answer the questions I would have struggled to ask.

“Also, though this wasn’t originally planned, after reviewing your script, we’re considering seeking special cooperation from the Cultural Heritage Administration—oh, it’s now called the National Heritage Administration—so that you can film at heritage sites that are normally closed to the public. We’ll be asking the relevant departments for assistance.”

He said he would “seek cooperation,” but in truth, it was closer to a directive.

The hardest part of shooting a historical drama was securing locations.

And now, the Blue House itself was stepping in to arrange those locations...

Especially if they included cultural sites not normally open to the public, it would let us show audiences something truly unprecedented.

I opened my mouth to speak, then closed it again.

“……”

It wasn’t intentional, but a long silence fell.

Cha Intae, perhaps growing more anxious, hurried to speak.

“That said, the government will not interfere in your work. We’ve thoroughly reviewed the first part of your script internally, and your abilities have already been well proven through your ongoing projects. For production, we planned to proceed with Actor Lee Sungjae’s company, Art Company, but if there’s anything you need, please let us know. We don’t know much about drama production ourselves.”

“Hmm…”

I confided my concerns to Cha Intae.

“Of course, if Art Company puts its efforts into production, it would be a great help to the project. However, since they’ve focused mainly on film, I worry they might face difficulties with a grand historical drama rather than a regular miniseries.”

“I agree with you on that point.”

“Would it be possible to make it a co-production?”

This might feel a bit awkward for Lee Sungjae.

After all, the Blue House had intended to entrust production solely to Art Company.

But investing and producing are entirely different matters.

Art Company had begun as an actor agency, later expanding from investments in movies and dramas to production itself.

I’d seen so many production companies pop up overnight, only to vanish just as quickly when they’d relied solely on capital.

Of course, I knew they wouldn’t be that sloppy.

But there’s no harm in being cautious.

No one wants to make a foolish mistake and squander such a golden opportunity, so I believed they’d understand.

It would even help them to begin with a seasoned production company as co-producers.

“There’s a major production company, Ten Entertainment, that’s been in the drama business the longest and is very capable.”

“Ah, of course I know Ten Entertainment.”

They had produced the last grand historical drama for UBS as well.

“Since you mention it, we’ll consider it positively.”

“Yes. I’ll let Actor Lee Sungjae know that I brought up the idea of co-production first.”

Cha Intae paused for a moment at my words, then, before he knew it, burst out laughing.

Seeing him in the media or even a moment ago, with his upright, formal manner, he’d always seemed like the coldest of professionals—yet seeing him laugh like this, he was just like a warm, friendly neighborhood hyung.

“Ah, my apologies. I had no idea, just from your profile, that you were such a bold person. I thought your silence earlier meant you were nervous.”

No need to explain myself further.

“I’ll wait for your reply then.”

“One moment, Writer.”

As I hurried to wrap up the meeting, fearing that lingering would make it obvious I had only barely gotten my points across, Cha Intae stopped me.

The words that followed explained why he was so eager to propose all these options and entrust me with the project.

“This might be presumptuous, but the truth is, I came here not just for the project, but because I had a separate favor to ask.”

“A favor?”

“The First Lady is a huge fan of your work.”

“The First Lady? I’m flattered.”

“Yes, she’s a big fan—so much so that she always makes time, even after her busy schedule, to catch your dramas.”

It was unexpected, but perfectly plausible.

Before being the First Lady of the Republic of Korea, she was a Korean woman in her middle age—the core demographic that enjoys dramas most.

“So, if this project goes ahead, she has specifically asked to invite you to dinner to encourage you, and would very much like to meet you.”

“Ah. If I’m invited, I’ll be there anytime.”

“She will be delighted.”

“It’s a true honor.”

“I’ll contact you directly regarding co-production. It shouldn’t take long. From then on, the PR office will have someone contact you about the progress.”

“Yes.”

The hour-long meeting was concluded quickly and concisely.

On the way back to my studio by taxi from the hotel, I kept thinking.

‘Is this really happening?’

Producing a grand historical drama with the Blue House.

I remembered the day I first saw my drama on TV.

It felt so unreal then that I pinched my thigh several times.

Back then, and even now.

...It hurts like hell.

***

A week later, at the headquarters of Ten Entertainment in Sangam.

On the very top floor, the president’s office was abuzz from an early morning call.

“Where’s Director Cho?”

“He was on a business trip to Daegu, but he should be almost here by now.”

Soon enough, accompanied by an urgent knock, Cho Minseong entered.

He was still out of breath from rushing up, not having recovered even in the elevator.

“Is it true? The Blue House... contacted us?”

“Shh. Only the people here can know—this is top secret.”

President Yeon Kyungtae of Ten Entertainment glanced around and whispered in a lowered voice.

The secretary, planning team leader, and Director Cho, who had just rushed in, all held their breath as well.

Understandably so—while it wasn’t uncommon for the Ministry of Culture, Sports, and Tourism to support drama productions, there had never been a case where a directive came from the Blue House itself.

And under such extraordinary terms, too.

“UBS has already set aside a slot for the first half of next year. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday at 9 p.m.—the golden time slot. Four episodes of the script are due next month, and the lead, King Sejong, has already been confirmed as Actor Lee Sungjae.”

“Wow. Lee Sungjae as the lead? That’s insane!”

The planning team leader, summoned up in a hurry, blurted out in disbelief, forgetting even whose office he was in.

President Yeon Kyungtae was no less flustered, too stunned to bother with such details.

“So who is the writer? Which writer managed to bring such a once-in-a-lifetime project to our company?”

“Director Cho knows this person very well.”

“?”

“Writer Lee Junhyeok.”

“What? Writer Lee Junhyeok is writing the Sejong grand historical drama? Wait, isn’t he co-writing a Japanese drama with Writer Park right now?”

“He’s working on both at the same time, apparently.”

“Wow.”

Cho Minseong let out a short sigh.

At the moment, Ten Entertainment was already working with Writer Jeong Taemi’s , on which Lee Junhyeok was participating as a creator.

And he was also working as a creator on a project at H Studio with Hong Juhee.

‘Just how many bodies does he have?’

Cho Minseong clicked his tongue in disbelief, but more important was the giant golden opportunity that had just landed before him.

“The Blue House will run things, but to avoid political controversy, support will come through the Ministry of Culture, Sports, and Tourism. But remember, the ultimate approver is ‘that person.’”

President Yeon Kyungtae, raising his glasses with his middle finger, spoke gravely, as if transported back to the days of the Fifth Republic.

“Should we arrange a meeting with Writer Lee Junhyeok first?”

“Yes. You know him well, right? This time, I’ll join you. Let’s give him a proper welcome—a truly first-class treatment. Does he play golf?”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Hmm. Then what would be the best way?”

“He’s not one for formalities, so he’d actually be uncomfortable with that. I’ll just reserve a good restaurant and set things up.”

“Alright, alright. You’re good at handling protocol. But don’t forget: it’s not just about making him comfortable. We must clearly express our gratitude for this incredible opportunity.”

“Yes, sir.”

Exiting the president’s office, Cho Minseong turned on his phone.

He wanted to call Writer Lee Junhyeok immediately to find out what on earth was happening, but decided, as the president instructed, to pause and gather his thoughts first.

‘The Blue House partners with us to produce a grand historical drama for public broadcast. After preparing the entire stage, they’re simply handing Ten Entertainment the chance to join in.’

A drama pushed this hard by the government cannot fail.

With proven talent and a script written by today’s most talked-about writer, this project’s success seemed almost guaranteed.

The real question was just how great that success would be.

As of today, Cho Minseong’s expectations for Lee Junhyeok had reached a whole new level.

‘Lee Junhyeok may well become the game-changer who completely shifts the landscape.’

Geniuses who change the flow always appear without warning.

It was so with Park Eunsook, who coined the term ‘Hallyu’ in her youth.

And with Director Jang Byunghun, the first to be offered the post of Minister of Culture, Sports, and Tourism.

Cho Minseong sensed that Lee Junhyeok, too, might be one of those rare geniuses, or perhaps something even more.

Which meant that even protocol should not be considered merely as a matter of personal gain.

‘Expectations for Lee Junhyeok must now be set above that of just a star writer.’

With his mind racing, Cho Minseong made his way to his office.

All the while, pondering just what kind of gratitude would satisfy Lee Junhyeok most.