Chapter 75: The Master’s Charisma

The casting and broadcasting schedule for  was officially announced in the news.

Officially, it wasn’t the Blue House but the Ministry of Culture, Sports and Tourism that was providing investment support, and reports claimed that, unlike previous projects, the financial and logistical support would be tremendous, drawing immense public attention.

Once the star-studded cast, director, and writer were revealed, public opinion was ablaze.

-Is that barber really doing a historical epic?

-Isn’t God Junghyuk working with Park Eunsook on a Japanese drama right now?

-Trying desperately to shake off that traitor title, lololololol

-How could a traitor write about King Sejong

-Next up, the barber again

-Brainpower level, tsk tsk

At first, the public was sharply divided between “the barber” and “God Junghyuk.”

Since negative opinions always speak the loudest, the term “barber” inevitably stood out.

However, the situation soon reversed.

With fans of Lee Sungjae, Seo Ji-won, and especially Ahn Yooseok joining in, public opinion shifted completely to God Junghyuk’s side.

-God Junghyuk playing Sejong, my heart’s pounding and I haven’t even seen it yet

-As expected, I knew when people called God Junghyuk a traitor, the forums would go crazy

-My little brother works as a Blue House bodyguard, and he heard it’s Blue House backing, not the ministry—apparently, the quality’s going to be insane

-Stop spreading rumors

-When’s it coming out next year? There’s nothing to watch these days, I’m already craving “Flower on Dry Branches”

As always, Seo Sun-ae, CEO of , was monitoring various online communities from her office with her quad-monitor setup.

“Hm. Rumors about Blue House support aren’t necessarily a bad thing.”

Adjusting her gold-rimmed glasses, she believed that as long as the Internet existed, there would be no eternal secrets.

She was about to capture positive comments to send to the lead writer, Lee Junghyuk, when a photo of a plane ticket arrived from him first.

-CEO. No need to book me first class for business trips from now on. Japan’s close, anyway.

-Got it, writer-nim. Have a safe trip.

Seo Sun-ae often claimed she took the CEO job at  out of ambition, leaving  for it.

But in truth, she saw more potential in Lee Junghyuk’s future than anyone else.

She first recognized his true worth when they worked together on .

He wasn’t just a good writer; he was both humble and bold at the same time.

She believed he was capable of much more than just being a writer.

So if Lee Junghyuk hadn’t started  himself, Seo Sun-ae wouldn’t have come for even the “Grandfather of CEOs” position, let alone CEO.

“CEO.”

The head of planning, whom Seo Sun-ae had brought with her, opened the office door and entered.

The planning head was a man in his mid-thirties who always wore hoodies and jeans. He’d entered the industry as an assistant writer for dramas, but quickly realized his talent was in supplementing creativity rather than creating it, so he switched paths to become a planning PD.

He was a friend she’d met at a mid-sized production company before joining H Studio.

Every script he picked gained recognition both in the industry and among the public, proving his talent.

“Writer Lee Junghyuk just sent over scripts for episodes 1 to 10 of  from the airport. They’re fantastic.”

“Let’s send him positive feedback right away and not bother him while he’s in Japan. So he won’t be distracted.”

“Yes. I’ll keep in touch with Director Jang Byunghyun then.”

And so, things in Korea were unfolding just as Lee Junghyuk wished.

---

I returned to Tokyo to visit the set of , as writer Park Eunsook had mentioned before.

It was nearly a month later than originally planned.

Filming only started after the script had passed episode 12,

And since we were in the climax, rushing toward the ending, I had to constantly write and revise drafts.

Neither Park Eunsook nor I said it aloud, but we both instinctively felt we shouldn’t break the flow.

In the end, I only managed to come to Japan after finishing all 16 episodes of the script.

Personally, I also felt at ease since I’d completed a fifth of the script for .

“Wow. So this is Akihabara.”

In the story, the “Mitsui Hospital” where the female lead of  works is set in Akihabara.

This place, often known as the “Kingdom of Comics,” is not only about manga but is also full of computer goods, video games, figures, idols, and military gear—a sort of urbanized version of Yongsan Electronics Market in our country.

Riding a taxi with Kudo Kei’s assistant to the filming location, I admired the towering buildings and the array of comic characters plastered on them.

With my level of fandom limited to One Piece and Naruto, I could feel an overwhelming otaku energy far beyond my reach.

“We’re here, writer-nim. Was your journey comfortable?”

“Yes, thanks to you, it was.”

Kudo Kei’s assistant, speaking much less in translationese than before, guided me to the filming set.

Today’s scene involved the male lead, Seo Kang-woo, and Cheon Nayoung, who played the sub-female lead—Nanae, the youngest daughter of a Japanese conglomerate, a party girl, and a wild character—meeting for the first time.

In a back alley in Akihabara, Nanae nearly gets assaulted by a pervert, and Seo Kang-woo, a former killer, saves her. It’s a crucial moment where Nanae falls in love with him.

“But… is this really the filming location?”

I tried to hide my surprise as I looked at Kudo Kei’s assistant, who nodded.

Then I remembered what Park Eunsook told me after visiting the set and watching the rough cut of episode 1.

“She said, ‘Japanese filming sets are very different from Korean ones, so don’t be surprised.’”

It was only after seeing it for myself that I understood what she meant.

Compared to Korean sets, the Japanese set was so simple and shabby.

“Is there a problem…?”

“Ah…”

I tried to hide my confusion, but I guess it showed.

First, although the scene was supposed to be shot in an alley, there was no control over the pedestrians at all.

If there was any relief, it was that the Japanese didn’t linger at the filming site or take photos—they just glanced and walked by.

From what I could see, the crew seemed to be only about a third the size of a typical Korean set.

Which meant there simply weren’t enough people to control the crowd.

On top of that, cameras, lighting, microphones—all the equipment looked like stuff Korea stopped using five or even ten years ago.

No matter how committed to craftsmanship a country might be, I never imagined that kind of stubbornness would extend to an industry where new technology and gear come out practically every day.

“Oh. Korean and Japanese sets are really quite different. I was surprised when I went to Korea last time, too.”

“Is it… really okay to do it like this?”

I tried to restrain myself, but the question came out pretty much raw.

Kudo Kei’s assistant just shrugged, smiling as if to say it’d be fine.

‘Well. If Kudo Kei has been shooting masterpieces like this for decades, it must be fine.’

I forced myself to look past the slightly slapdash set.

“Writer-nim! You’re here?”

Cheon Nayoung, who’d been waiting on set, came out of her car when she heard I’d arrived.

Her hair was held up in pins, likely because she was mid-makeup, and as she came to greet me, it felt just like her.

“There’s no separate waiting room? No makeup shop?”

“Ah. I guess that’s not how they do it in Japan. They just do it in the car. Honestly, I think it’s nice—not too fussy.”

“You’re not getting treated differently for being Korean, are you?”

“Oh, come on, writer-nim. You worry too much. Sakura unni even did her makeup the other day at a café behind a hanger.”

Huh. I used to think Korean celebrity protection was a bit too intense.

But now it seemed Japan wasn’t attentive enough, either.

At that moment, a man in his thirties—apparently the assistant director—shouted in Japanese.

“Director’s coming! Everyone, standby!”

“Oh, I guess it’s time to shoot. I’ll do my best, writer-nim. Thanks for coming.”

“Don’t mention it. Break a leg.”

Cheon Nayoung pulled out the pins from her hair and dashed off.

I stood a bit away from the set, watching things unfold.

Maybe I should have brought an assistant writer; it felt a little awkward.

In Korea, I could chat with the crew, and they tried to look after me, so I never felt out of place. I realized that anew.

Jung Sung-woo, practicing fight choreography with the stunt director, appeared at the end of the alley.

He recognized me and gave a small bow, then faced Cheon Nayoung.

‘Maybe it’s just the different environment, but they look unfamiliar.’

Cheon Nayoung didn’t seem like the Korean actress I knew, but really like Nanae, the Japanese character.

“Alright, let’s go. Standby!”

Director Kudo Kei didn’t even notice my presence and headed straight for the monitor.

The strangest thing was him.

He looked much more exhausted than in meetings, but there was an intense aura radiating from him.

It didn’t take long for me to realize it was charisma.

I didn’t understand the Japanese, but with just a few words—or maybe just his presence—he overwhelmed the set.

“Wait. Kang-woo, turn your body a bit more to the left. Nanae, step forward one more pace.”

Kudo Kei directed every detail—gestures, expressions, even the way of speaking.

No one challenged his direction.

With just a touch from him, the scene on the monitor felt completely different.

‘Wow. This is fascinating.’

I peeked at the monitor over someone’s shoulder.

Kudo Kei’s assistant noticed and moved aside so I could see better.

“Let’s go a little more understated on the action. Don’t make the arm movements too big. Again, standby!”

Seo Kang-woo dispatched the perverts with just a few clean, efficient moves.

With only a handful of simple moves, the scene revealed the character’s usual clumsiness but underlying sharpness.

‘A master is a master, after all.’

What I had thought of as a shabby set quickly turned into a compact, streamlined space with only the necessary people and equipment.

I suddenly understood what Park Eunsook meant when she told me, “You’ll learn a lot in Tokyo.”

Kudo Kei, known for not shooting more than five takes per scene, finished a complicated action sequence in just three clean cuts.

“That’s a wrap!”

A shoot I thought would take half a day ended in just two hours.

“Great job, everyone. Oh, you were here, writer-nim?”

Kudo Kei finally recognized me and came over to greet me.

Looking a bit sheepish, he scratched his head and offered a handshake.

“I hope the way we do things here in Japan wasn’t too uncomfortable for you.”

“No, not at all. It was efficient and great. You worked hard.”

“I have to get to the next storyboard. Ah, are you going to watch the rough cut?”

“I saw the one Park writer sent. I’m fine. I just stopped by to support the actors, so you should focus on your work.”

“Alright, then I’ll see you officially when we shoot in Korea.”

Kudo Kei hurried off, assistant director and script supervisor in tow.

Watching the great director eat a sandwich as he walked, I thought to myself how hard the director’s job must be.

After the shoot, a cheerful Cheon Nayoung strode over to me.

“Writer-nim, do you have dinner plans? Should we eat with Jung Sung-woo sunbae?”

“Ah, I already have a prior engagement.”

“Oh, so you have friends in Japan too, writer-nim?”

“Well, I suppose so. See you in Korea.”

“Okay!”

And right on cue, my Japanese friend called.

-Is the shoot over, sensei?

“Yes, yes. It ended earlier than I thought.”

-Hehe. I figured it’d be about now. Shall we eat? I sent you the address.

“I’ll head there, Sakura.”

-Sensei.

“Yes?”

My friend—no, my woman—spoke in a languid voice.

-I can’t wait to see you.