Chapter 96: The Red Scent of the Green Jeogori

A new routine had entered my life, one I’d never had before since I wasn’t religious.

Every morning, I woke up and sincerely did 108 prostrations with the right frame of mind.

It wasn’t that I’d converted to Buddhism, but I never skipped my morning 108 bows.

It wasn’t about Buddhist faith.

Faith, after all, is a psychological dependence on a transcendent being that can’t be physically seen, a way for the weak will of an individual to lean on something beyond themselves.

I was just doing the 108 bows for exercise.

You can do 108 bows indoors, so regardless of season or weather, you can get a workout as effective as the burpee test even in a small space, and the best part was, it didn’t look like I was making a big deal out of exercising.

It wasn’t intentional, but as luck would have it, the main character of , Sejong, also took up Buddhism in his later years—the very script I was writing at the time.

Despite the Confucian officials’ cries of anti-Buddhism, he built a Buddhist temple inside Gyeongbok Palace and devoted himself to Buddhist practice; perhaps that’s why the internal conflicts of Sejong as a human felt even more vivid to me.

Thanks to how clearly I could feel the character, the script sailed smoothly past episode 40.

That meant the script for ‘Magakot’ was now racing toward its end.

A few months ago, I’d been sunk in a slump—unable to write a word, battling depression, social anxiety, even severe script-avoidance. But now, I finished episode 40 with a much lighter face and stepped out of my workroom feeling refreshed.

In the living room, assistant writers including Pyeong Taek-soo were relentlessly revising scripts and working on teaching materials.

“Taek-soo, take it easy, will you?”

“……Yes.”

But Pyeong Taek-soo kept his eyes glued to the monitor, fingers busy on the keyboard.

Shaking my head, I looked around at these poor souls drowning in worldly suffering.

The endless deadlines had left everyone’s faces drawn and skin dull, like people unable to afford any peace of mind, only running straight ahead.

As the lead writer and senior at GodMedia, I sensed it was time to think up some morale-boosting event for the team.

“Alright everyone, working hard is good, but we should take care of our health too, don’t you think?”

“We’ve got… at least six more scripts to revise, writer.”

“We’ll take care of our health once we’re done.”

To be fair, I’d been churning out scripts at such a rapid pace that the assistants’ work was never-ending, like pouring water into a bottomless jar.

Maybe that’s why, instead of agreeing that my suggestion was a good idea, everyone just sighed deeply.

“Come on, instead of this, let’s all get out and get some fresh air. Let’s visit the Magakot set. While we’re at it, how about a team dinner for a change?”

For overworked assistant writers, the best entertainment is ‘checking out the set and mingling with the stars.’

At least, the writers I trusted most—Im Seong-hee and Jeong Tae-mi—always thought so.

So I thought that if I proactively arranged a meet-and-greet with the actors and a dinner, everyone would love it. Or so I thought.

A junior writer with a broccoli perm, Park Something, raised her hand hesitantly.

“Yes, Park, uh…”

“Park Eun-jin, writer.”

“Right, Park Eun-jin. Eun-jin, do you have a question?”

“Uh… Do we all have to go to the set today?”

“It’s not… strictly mandatory. Are you really behind on work?”

“No… I’m almost done… I just want to go home.”

Well, sure. If you’re tired, you’d feel that way.

I was about to let it go, when another writer with short hair and reading glasses raised her hand to support Park Eun-jin’s point.

“Yes, you are…?”

“Sung Shin-hye, writer. I already have prior plans, so if it’s not mandatory, I won’t be going.”

“Right, if you already have plans, I suppose there’s no helping it… hmm.”

This was odd. Im and Jeong always liked this kind of thing.

‘Is this that MZ Generation boldness I’ve heard about?’

These days, MZ Generation assistant writers had names that didn’t stick in my mouth, and I could never figure out what they liked.

Flustered by the awkward situation and unsure what to do for them, I stood there at a loss.

Thankfully, Pyeong Taek-soo, who was just at the tail end of the MZ line, spoke up.

“Everyone else seems busy, so I’ll go with you, writer.”

With tired eyes, Pyeong Taek-soo got up and started packing his things.

“Actually, I should probably check if the art team’s doing the research right, and maybe revise some of the script backgrounds to match the set.”

Of course, it sounded like just an extension of script work, but whatever; if he came with me, I was sure Taek-soo would enjoy it, too.

“Alright. The set’ll still be cold, so dress warmly.”

And so, it ended up just us ‘oldies’ heading out to the Magakot set.

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The set of Flower Blooming on a Withered Branch, or Magakot, was unlike any set I’d ever seen.

Modern dramas were usually filmed on sound stages or in city locations, but historical dramas often used special period sets to maintain historical accuracy.

However, because Magakot was supported by the Korean Ministry of Culture, filming was being done at Byeongsan Seowon, a key cultural heritage site in Andong, with special permission.

After more than two hours of driving from Seoul, Taek-soo and I got out of the car, breathed in the cold air, and looked around.

True to its name, ‘Byeongsan’ was surrounded by mountains, with the scenery harmonizing beautifully with the hanok buildings—a picturesque view wherever you looked.

Taek-soo, who’d always been a history buff and loved traditional houses and palaces, lit up as he gazed at the seowon before him.

“I was really surprised when I heard we’d be filming at Byeongsan Seowon. How did you even get permission to film here?”

“Hmm, seems like the city of Andong thought highly of our script. It’s all thanks to your hard work and everyone else’s.”

“Hearing it put that way makes me feel proud. I’ll keep working hard, writer.”

“Heh heh.”

As Taek-soo said, getting permission to film at this UNESCO World Heritage site was almost impossible.

But the mayor of Andong—always a city of Confucianism and noble families—granted the request for filming at the seowon within days, thanks to a ‘higher-up’ requesting it for ‘state business.’

Truth be told, we’d been granted permission before the script for the seowon scenes was even ready, but seeing how bright Taek-soo’s face was, I decided not to mention it.

Still, since we were filming at a UNESCO heritage site, security was tighter than usual.

An on-site staffer in a thick long padded jacket blew a sharp whistle and hurried toward us.

“From here, only authorized personnel are allowed. May I ask where you’re from?”

“Ah, we’re from Seoul. I’m…”

I gave my name and reason for visiting, but the staffer, who looked quite strict, asked for my ID as well.

“Writer Lee Jeong-hyuk, born in ‘88, hmm, one moment.”

Taek-soo leaned in and whispered quietly in my ear.

“Writer, don’t tell me you didn’t let the site know in advance?”

“Oh, right! I was supposed to, but I forgot. Haha. My bad.”

Only after the assistant directors on Director Jang Byung-heon’s team double-checked by phone were we finally allowed onto the set.

Even then, the assistant director warned us several times about the rules.

“Please do not touch any of the items or structures here, and of course, do not deface or damage the exterior walls or any property—though I’m sure you wouldn’t.”

Taek-soo nodded solemnly, agreeing without hesitation.

“Of course. As expected from Director Jang’s team, your on-site management is reassuring.”

At that moment, a junior assistant director who was going to guide us around came rushing over.

He wore the black padded jacket that looked like part of a uniform, and his young face broke into a bright smile as he greeted us.

“Sorry I didn’t recognize you, writer. The filming location’s so sensitive, the protocol has to be strict.”

“No worries, it’s our fault for not letting you know we were coming.”

Inside the seowon, the scene was familiar.

Staff handling various cameras and lighting, assistant directors, and supporting actors in historical costumes were all busy at work.

Taek-soo naturally drifted toward the staff and immediately started asking questions.

He asked about the details of the palace maid belts, the hair ornaments, and more.

To the staff, it must have seemed like some weirdo had shown up out of nowhere to nitpick, but as soon as they heard he was my assistant and was there for art research, their attitude softened and they listened to his comments.

‘Taek-soo’s meticulousness will definitely help the project.’

Leaving Taek-soo in deep discussion with the art team, I started wandering through the interior of the seowon, a UNESCO heritage and film set.

After passing through the bustling courtyard, I emerged at the edge of the grounds, where a small garden with a pond caught my eye.

There were no flashy decorations, and it wasn’t flower season, just a low pine tree and a wall, but the clean water in the square stone pond had a calming effect on my mind.

Lost in the beauty of the garden, I suddenly felt something gently tap my shoulder.

“Writer.”

I turned, and a light green jeogori hung perfectly from shoulder to shoulder came into view.

Moving silently, she’d carefully lifted the hem of her skirt with her hand.

Seo Ji-won, looking every bit the Joseon-era court lady, gave me a sly grin.

Her hair was neatly pulled up without a strand out of place.

Her eyes traced clear lines, her lips were red and full.

Her skin was so clear it almost seemed translucent.

Without thinking, I nearly let out a wow of admiration.

“A person should say something when they see someone. Why are you so quiet?”

“Uh… hi? Long time no see.”

Seo Ji-won narrowed her eyes, examining my face.

“What’s with this awkward, unfamiliar reaction?”

“It’s not awkward or unfamiliar at all.”

“If you say so.”

She made a cryptic face, then stepped back with a confident stride.

Spreading her arms so her hanbok would show to its best effect, she spun around once.

“How do I look?”

I’d seen Seo Ji-won in all kinds of roles before.

From her idol days, to a successful career woman, to first love schoolgirl, even drunkenly staggering around.

But of all her appearances, this one—as a court lady—felt the most shocking.

Seo Ji-won was beautiful.

That was an objective fact most people in Korea would agree with.

So up to now, I’d never found it remarkable or dwelled on it.

At least, that’s what I thought.

“This is my first historical drama, you know.”

“W-what? First? So what, what am I supposed to do about that?”

For some reason, all the clear ‘signals’ of interest Seo Ji-won had ever shown me started replaying in my mind.

She’d always shared her daily life first, asked about mine, showed interest.

Whenever something good happened, I was the first she’d tell.

She’d laugh and cry over the smallest things, reacting so intensely.

Those memories floated up, one by one, and slowly overlaid her face in the present.

“Do I look good in hanbok?”

“Um…”

“What, why aren’t you saying anything? That’s not like you at all, writer.”

“Uhp…”

“What?”

“Uhprrrr…”

I just couldn’t bring myself to answer Seo Ji-won, who was sending those unmistakable signals today.

‘This is so embarrassing!’

Unable to reply, I looked away, but Seo Ji-won kept chasing my gaze, stubbornly pressing for an answer.

“Geez, seriously, what are you mumbling? Say it properly.”

Finally, Seo Ji-won grabbed my cheek with a thump, stared me straight in the eye, and demanded in a threatening tone,

“No jokes. Seriously—what do you think of me?”

In the end, I could only answer in a shy voice.

“You’re beautiful. Really. Damn, you’re just way too beautiful!”