Yi Taeseong, the character played by Kim Donghu, as previously described, is someone born with extraordinary martial talent.

However, his natural laziness and viciousness led him to waste his potential, avoiding public office and living a debauched life despite nearing adulthood.

To someone like him, whose worldview extended only as far as his immediate surroundings, the sight of a nobleman conversing with commoners was utterly unacceptable.

“When livestock resist, what butcher would attempt to reason with them?”

This was his worldview.

“The blade is the only proper law to govern livestock. Surely you, my lord, understand this.”

Yi Taeseong—no, Kim Donghu—fixed his eyes sharply on Jin Yoosung.

With a gaze suggesting he had already memorized the script long ago, Donghu leisurely surveyed the room, leaving everyone stunned.

‘What kind of guy is this?’
‘They said he was good, but… this good? And he’s only seventeen?’
‘I set this scene up on purpose, but to deliver it like this...’

What he showcased wasn’t just method acting; it was a perfect embodiment of the role.

Only Jin Yoosung managed to keep his composure, opening his mouth for the next line.

“Ah, you’ve arrived? I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Haha, your jest is excessive, my lord.”

Jin Yoosung’s character, Jo Seonghak, was born as the illegitimate child of a noble family. Despite being born into a high-status household, his origins kept him from achieving his full potential.

Out of resentment, humiliation, and discrimination, Jo Seonghak killed every other heir in the family, making himself the sole successor.

Perhaps it was because of this history that Jo Seonghak found Yi Taeseong’s noble and prestigious lineage deeply unsettling.

“A jest? How could I jest about such a matter?”
“Why would my lord await my arrival? Is it hesitation to kill them, perhaps?”
“...Do not be absurd.”

Yi Taeseong was a golden boy born into privilege, while Jo Seonghak was a noble born into shame. Though both carried similar statuses, their essences were entirely different.

“I was merely considering showing them a moment of mercy.”
“Not mercy, but because you’ve yet to find what you seek, isn’t that so?”
“Watch your tongue.”
“As I understand it, there’s still a child alive—the son of that youngest Jo family branch.”
“Mind your words, boy.”

Despite the lack of props in the reading room, Jin Yoosung delivered a glare sharp enough to cut as he stared at Kim Donghu.

Yi Taeseong’s insolent remarks had crossed a line.

“My blade despises ignorance.”

Jo Seonghak’s fury erupted seamlessly, embodying his character’s resentment.

Jo Seonghak, a genius who had passed the military examination at a young age, was renowned for his extraordinary talent. Had his lineage been legitimate, he could have risen to the position of Training Commander. His unmatched strength earned him the title of the strongest in Joseon.

Who wouldn’t fear such a man’s wrath?

“Ignorance, at times, can be the means to enlightenment.”

But Yi Taeseong, with his god-given talents, faced Jo Seonghak’s anger with calm indifference.

While Jo Seonghak’s rise was built on relentless effort and latent ability, Yi Taeseong, without any such struggle, effortlessly stood as his equal.

Without intense training, while indulging in alcohol and gambling, Yi Taeseong remained a peerless figure.

“Then why do you antagonize me, my lord?”

Yi Taeseong’s gaze narrowed, and he momentarily lowered his eyes as if a blade pressed against his throat.

Then, with a lingering smirk, he pointed across the table at the five rebels seated opposite them.

Looking at them, he spoke evenly.

“Aren’t those the ones you should be killing, my lord?”
“Okay! Cut! That’s it for now!”

The moment Yi Taeseong’s line ended, Director Yoon Seongbin seized the opportunity to call for a break.

“Good work, everyone! Excellent job!”

Kim Donghu, as if shedding his character entirely, immediately began bowing and smiling warmly.

“I should have introduced myself earlier. My apologies. I’m Kim Donghu, playing Yi Taeseong. Please take care of me!”

Everyone was at a loss.

‘Where did that terrifying actor go?’
‘How can someone shift emotions this fast?’
‘This is what it means to be a monster of the craft.’

At that moment, the cast finally understood why Kim Donghu was regarded as a guaranteed box-office success.

After a brief break:

“Great work, everyone!”
“Thank you for all your effort!”

The reading session concluded successfully. There was initially talk of holding a short interview, but:

“I’m sorry, something urgent came up, so I’ll have to leave early.”
“Apologies, I also have to go. Next time, perhaps.”

One by one, the actors left hurriedly, as if on cue. Only Kim Donghu and Jang Geonho stayed behind, chatting casually.

“You really know how to set a room on fire, don’t you?”
“Pardon?”
“Don’t act innocent. That performance makes everyone want to give their best.”

Jang Geonho chuckled as he looked at Donghu.

‘When this kid acts, it makes everyone question themselves. Am I lacking in my craft?’

That’s why the others had left in such a rush—to dive back into the script, desperate to improve.

‘If this were a film set rather than a reading session…’

Everyone would have been consumed by Donghu’s performance.

Lead roles, supporting roles—none of it mattered.

The moment Kim Donghu began acting, everyone else became part of the backdrop. To survive, they would need to struggle fiercely.

‘Thankfully, I don’t have many direct confrontations with him this time.’

But for those who did—like Joo Seonghwan and Jin Yoosung—the challenge was monumental.

‘They’ve already been shown what they’re up against.’

To avoid being overshadowed, they had no choice but to level up their craft.

“So, were you holding back during this reading?”
“Pardon? Oh… to some extent, yes.”
“Hah, so you’re saving the real performance for the shoot?”
“…Yes.”

Despite his shy reply, Kim Donghu nodded.

“Well, then, I’d better step up my game too.”

With that, Jang Geonho stood.

‘If I let my guard down, I might get eaten alive too.’

Working alongside Donghu had clear pros and cons.

The upside? The project’s success was almost guaranteed.
The downside?

‘As an actor, you have to fight tooth and nail to survive.’

It was exhausting.

++++

After the script reading, my schedule became surprisingly relaxed.

There was about a month left before the first shoot, and I didn’t have much to do until then.

I spent the time immersing myself in the script to bring life to my character, maintaining my boxing routine to keep my physicality sharp, and lastly:

"Donghu, everything else is great, really great... but please don’t give up on the piano."

Occasionally practicing piano, as per the heartfelt advice from Chairman Edward Park, rounded out my light responsibilities.

Other than that, things were truly laid-back.

“Come to think of it, my scenes are scheduled for later.”

I didn’t appear in the first act at all, and my first appearance would only come in Act 2.

Of course, movies aren’t filmed in chronological order, but judging by the schedule, it seemed unlikely that I’d start shooting immediately.

Time flew by, and October arrived. As I approached my 18th birthday, I received a message.

"Hey, Donghu, how’ve you been?"

It was from Kangshik, someone I hadn’t heard from in ages.

<Sup.

"Still as cool as ever. By the way, the demo version of my game is ready. Wanna try it?"

“What?!”

I immediately called Kangshik.

Ring, ring… click.

“Uh, hello?”
“You finished the game?! I’m coming over right now! Where can I play it?”
“Uh, just come to my house.”
“Okay! Be there in a flash!”

What kind of game did he make?

“He said it was a party game, right?”

I was curious about the mechanics and sprinted over to Kangshik’s house. Having been there once before, it was easy to find.

“Oh my, you got here so quickly, Donghu.”
“Hello!”
“Thank you for coming.”
“No, thank you for inviting me!”

After exchanging pleasantries with his mother, I headed straight to Kangshik’s room.

And what I saw left me speechless.

“…Whoa. How many computers are in here?”
“It’s because you invested. I could set it all up.”

The room was like a cutting-edge 21st-century game development studio. True to his reputation as a genius developer, Kangshik had completely transformed his room into a development workshop.

“Well, that’s not the important part.”

The development had taken about two years—a relatively short time, but thanks to the funding, the demo was ready.

“I drew the art myself for now, but I plan to hire someone later.”

The first thing that appeared on the screen was an adorable character. Inspired by a chick, it had a bright yellow design that was irresistibly cute.

“What’s its name?”
“Ah, Ari.”
“Oh… Ari. Controls are keyboard and mouse?”
“Yeah, like a standard FPS.”
“Alright.”

Let’s see what this is all about.

“What kind of game did you make?”

Since it was a party game, I assumed it would be like a board game. But could something like that be played solo?

“Maybe he added AI to play alongside you?”

With those questions in mind, I launched the game.

The first thing to appear on the screen was—

Boom!

Boom!

Boom!

A massive, brutish giant.

“…?”

This wasn’t a board game.

“What is this?”

Confused, I began controlling Ari.

Slash!

Before I could even make a move, the giant stomped on Ari.

A message appeared on the screen:

『 YOU DIE 』

“…Kangshik?”

I turned to him, demanding an explanation, and he responded with a sheepish grin.

“It’s… uh, multiplayer… and, um, it’s easier if you play together… yeah, something like that.”

So, you’re telling me you made a Dark Souls-style game? A game that’s easier with multiplayer?

“And the character… is a chick?”

What in the world did you make, Kangshik?