Chapter 95: The Scent of Nirvana

I calmly finished telling my story, which had lasted about twenty minutes.

The room was silent.

Someone sniffled.

I saw a few people dabbing the corners of their eyes with handkerchiefs.

In contrast to their sadness, I felt as if I had just taken a deep breath in a dawn-lit fir forest, filling my lungs with phytoncides and then exhaling it all away, leaving me completely refreshed.

It had been so long since I last felt so unburdened that I couldn’t even remember when it was.

“Well then, let’s end here for today.”

With the conclusion of my story, the tea gathering wrapped up, and the people who’d been with me approached one by one to offer light hugs, shake hands, or briefly thank me for my effort.

I bowed my head to each and every one of them.

It was a short moment, but I felt like I had climbed an invisible step in my life.

I could tell that something inside me was changing.

Only after exchanging phone numbers with the Three Bodhisattvas did the final schedule at the temple truly end.

“This is the script Writer Lee requested.”

“Thank you.”

Writer Oh Hee-kyung handed me the script I’d written all yesterday, freshly printed.

She’d already emailed it, but I wanted to read it again on the way back to Seoul, this time in hard copy.

“Well then, have a safe trip.”

“Thank you so much.”

“Writer Lee!”

My mom, who said she’d come for me after ten nights.

No—Hong Joo-hee was approaching from the distant Iljumun, waving.

Next to her was Seo Soon-ae.

When I introduced Writer Oh Hee-kyung to them, they seemed startled and quickly greeted her.

It must have been a similar kind of surprise as what I’d felt when I first met her.

“I’ll get going now.”

My farewell with Writer Oh was just as simple as with the other bodhisattvas.

It was a parting with no promise of a future meeting, not knowing when or how we might cross paths again, but I didn’t particularly feel sad or regretful.

There was a vague expectation that we’d meet again somehow, someday.

“Oh. Before I leave, may I use the restroom for a moment?”

“Ah. You can, but you might be better off just holding it?”

“Why?”

Instead of answering, I handed Hong Joo-hee a handkerchief I washed clean every day.

She tilted her head in confusion, took the handkerchief, and hurried off.

Tsk tsk tsk. A worldly person might be quite shocked by a sage’s outhouse.

“Writer, how was your life at the temple?”

“My heart feels much lighter.”

“That’s a relief. So then, about the script…”

Seo Soon-ae finally asked the question she’d been dying to ask.

Instead of replying, I handed her the script stack, and Seo Soon-ae gasped in delight.

As expected, she muttered things like, “Cho Min-sung is Cho Min-sung,” or, “Oh Hee-kyung is Oh Hee-kyung,” then, “No, that’s not right. Our Writer Lee Jung-hyuk is the best,” as she hugged the  Part 21 script to her chest.

Once Hong Joo-hee returned from the sage’s outhouse, we could finally descend the mountain together.

“Writer, by the way, why did you give me the handkerchief? I never thought you’d carry one, so I was caught off guard.”

“You needed it, didn’t you?”

“Huh? No? Why?”

“The restroom… didn’t you need it?”

“Oh. To wipe my hands? There was a dryer, though.”

“No, no. There’s no toilet paper in the restroom.”

“Huh? There was plenty though?”

“….”

“Honestly, since it was a temple, I thought it might be some old pit toilet or something. I guess I’m getting old; I have those kinds of prejudices now. But the restroom was state-of-the-art—there was even a bidet!”

“????”

A bidet? A bidet? A bidet in the sage’s outhouse?!

I hurriedly glanced back at the peak of Cloud Mountain, and I felt as if I could hear Writer Oh Hee-kyung laughing somewhere in the distance.

---

Seo Soon-ae sat in the front passenger seat on the drive back to Seoul with Hong Joo-hee and Lee Jung-hyuk, reading the script that Lee Jung-hyuk had handed her.

She felt a little guilty about letting her industry senior, Hong Joo-hee, drive, but thanks to Hong Joo-hee’s easygoing attitude, she could focus comfortably.

 ended its twenty-episode run with the child actors’ stories, and from there, the tale of King Sejong’s creation of Hangeul truly began.

The most crucial point in King Sejong’s creation of Hangeul is: ‘Why did Sejong want to create Hangeul?’

The usual plot had King Sejong pitying the people and deciding to make a national script for them—predictable.

That’s what most history books say, and that’s how it’s been portrayed in documentaries, dramas, and films about Sejong.

But this script was different.

It wasn’t the king’s perspective of worrying about his subjects, but the view of someone from the same country, the same people.

Writer Lee Jung-hyuk’s script captured the perspective of Sejong as a human being.

‘Wow. This is a masterpiece.’

Seo Soon-ae quickly flipped through the script, often stopping because she hated that the pages were flying by too fast.

There were no accidents, deaths, fights, or love, yet it had tremendous immersive power.

Every script Lee Jung-hyuk had written so far was always fun and stimulating.

The spectacular suspense that kept you impatient for the next scene or episode was his trademark.

He was able to pull off that kind of flair because he had the thorough, calculated situations, characters, and structures built like a machine.

A composition that fit together as precisely as if measured with a ruler brought perfect thrill to seasoned industry professionals and irresistible enjoyment to viewers.

But the script that Lee Jung-hyuk handed over this time had neither tight structure nor machine-like accuracy.

There was only the man Sejong.

What he thought about, what he ate, why he walked, with whom he talked.

It was as if I had traveled back to the 1400s and was breathing at his side.

The suffocatingly delicate emotional expressions were not something I ever expected from Lee Jung-hyuk’s scripts.

‘Whew. Am I just too caught up in this?’

Seo Soon-ae shook her head from side to side.

Maybe she’d been hit by the strange energy of Cloud Mountain and couldn’t judge the script objectively.

After reading it to the end, Seo Soon-ae started from the beginning, dissecting every word and phrase.

But after reading it two or three times, her conclusion was unchanged.

No, in fact, it was even better.

As she savored every single word, she could feel exactly what the writer was trying to depict and describe.

At first, she thought the script lacked structure, but it had been woven so delicately that the careful design was simply hard to perceive.

Throughout her reading, she felt Sejong’s anguish and his warmth as a human being—a true masterpiece.

“Was Writer Lee very tired? He’s sleeping back there.”

CEO Hong Joo-hee glanced at Lee Jung-hyuk in the back seat through the rearview mirror.

“How’s the script?”

“Sunbae, remember when you recommended me for the CEO position at ? I told you then—thank you for such a great opportunity.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve read countless scripts while working in drama up to now. But today, I’m certain.”

“Certain of what?”

“That maybe I’ve been doing dramas all this time just to read a script like this.”

“What? Is it really that good?”

“Writer Lee Jung-hyuk was always a great writer, but this is just… a true masterpiece, a classic in every sense.”

“Wow. For CEO Seo, who’s so picky about scripts, to praise it like that—it must be something special? Now I’m curious.”

“I hate to say this after all that, but… If I were still at H Studio, I would have done anything to get my hands on this script. So I really can’t show it to you.”

“Oh, now you’re just making me more curious.”

“Sunbae, thank you so much. I want to serve this writer for the rest of my life. No, even after he dies, I’ll be buried with him.”

“Hey, hey. You’re going too far now.”

“No, I’m serious. If there were a Nobel Drama Prize, this would win it, hands down!”

“Hmm. Then maybe you don’t need therapy after all?”

“Therapy, my foot. My slump is completely over. Writer Lee is going to soar higher than ever!”

Even after that, Seo Soon-ae excitedly chattered about how incredible the script was.

Lee Jung-hyuk, who sat quietly with his eyes closed in the back, wasn’t actually sleeping, but somehow felt like he had to pretend to be asleep as he headed to his studio.

“I’ll be heading up to work now.”

“Yes, Writer! If you need anything to eat or anything else, let me know anytime. I’ll go see the director and head out quickly!”

Receiving Seo Soon-ae’s enthusiastic farewell, Lee Jung-hyuk went up to his studio in Hapjeong-dong.

Since Godflix took off, this was the first time he’d been away from the studio for so long.

“Writer! You’re back!”

“We just checked the script you sent us. We’ll send feedback soon.”

“Have you eaten?”

“Yes, I ate on the way up with CEO Seo and CEO Hong. I’ll get started on the next episode now.”

“Okay!”

Im Sung-hee, Jung Tae-mi, and Pyeong Taek-soo all greeted Lee Jung-hyuk warmly.

After briefly sharing his thoughts, Lee Jung-hyuk headed to his workspace.

The others each printed out a copy of the script Seo Soon-ae had sent and started reading at their desks.

Seven or so writers sat in a circle, their breathing audible as they immersed themselves in the script—a spectacle in itself.

Strangely, they paused at the same places, and admired at the same points.

Since they had eaten, worked, laughed, and cried together for anywhere from several months to two or three years, perhaps it was only natural.

When they’d finished reading to the last page, everyone agreed.

“It seems like Writer Lee Jung-hyuk has experienced enlightenment.”

“Transcendence, perhaps?”

“No, he was already a finished product before this, but now… it’s like he’s reached nirvana.”

“Yes! Nirvana. What if, like, relics start appearing later…?”

“Was it Cloud Mountain? I want to go there too. I feel like I could absorb some crazy energy.”

“Everyone.”

As each person voiced their opinion after reading the script, Pyeong Taek-soo, who had been quietly listening, raised his hand.

“For me, it’s not just because I’m a history buff. Of course, Writer Lee’s scripts were always fun and good, but there was always something missing. I thought it was because he put too much drama and dramatic elements in for entertainment. But after reading this script, I realized it’s not something you can explain that simply.”

As the group’s history buff, Pyeong Taek-soo tried to suppress his excitement and speak like a normal person.

“We’ll never really know if King Sejong had this kind of human anguish. It’s not like some web novel where you wake up as ‘King Sejong in Another World.’ But for the first time, I’m not at all curious about what King Sejong was really thinking back then. This script is enough. All the agony, the loneliness, the struggle to create Hangeul—they’re all right here.”

“Whoa, whoa. Calm down, Taek-soo.”

“Today, I made up my mind. From now on, I won’t argue with a single syllable of Writer Lee Jung-hyuk’s scripts. Our writer is simply light. Simply Sejong. Simply a historical genius. Simply the great writer who touches the heartstrings of us history buffs!”

He raised his hands like a zealot, praising Lee Jung-hyuk.

“Rise up, history buffs of Korea! Go wild! Lee Jung-hyuk! He is coming!”

Meanwhile, Lee Jung-hyuk, holed up in his room to begin writing Episode 22 of Withered Flowers, felt uncomfortable, perhaps because the place had changed.

He soon figured out the cause of his discomfort.

Lee Jung-hyuk immediately played ‘Buddhist Chants for Five Hours and Thirty Minutes by Monk Young-gwan—Relax Body and Mind’ on YouTube and started 108 prostrations on his cushion.

That’s right.

He’d been uncomfortable because he hadn’t bowed.

Finishing the 108 bows lightly, he sat cross-legged in his computer chair and began to write.

Perhaps because of the monitor’s glow, his noble face seemed to shine with a radiant light.