The extras' roles were straightforward. From their very designation as "extras," their characters were equally clear-cut.

“Servant 1, trampled and killed.”

Kim Hansu, an extra, recalled his assigned role and glanced sideways.

Shnk!

There lay his "wife," writhing in agony after having her arm severed. Though it was only a scripted relationship, seeing her convulsing filled him with a strange sense of shared pain.

"It’s just a prop," he reminded himself, but it still felt unnervingly real.

Kim Hansu was an experienced extra, having played a variety of roles on numerous sets. He knew well how harmless the prop swords typically were—sharp-looking toys designed for safety.

But why did this one feel like a real blade?

In Kim Donghu’s hands, the prop sword emanated a chilling edge. His gaze—sharp as if it belonged to someone who’d taken lives before—pressed down on Kim Hansu, suffocating him like a deep sea’s weight. For a fleeting moment, Kim Hansu truly believed that Donghu held the power to decide his life or death.

Then, all at once—

Clack.

The crushing tension lifted.

Like a drowning man abruptly released, Kim Hansu instinctively gasped for air, raising his head.

“Huuuh...!”

Before him stood Kim Donghu, his face spotless and composed, wearing an unsettling smile.

“Well, it seems only right that a parent should see their child off. Isn’t that what the heavens dictate?”

Donghu—no, Yi Taeseong—tilted his head in mock amusement, gesturing with his eyes. Following his gaze, Hansu’s character saw his "child," brutally mangled and drenched in blood.

“...!”

A gasp of horror escaped him as the camera panned over the gruesome scene. The air seemed to freeze.

“I’ll miss the firewood you used to bring me.”

Taeseong reached out, gently covering the servant’s eyes. From an angle perfectly crafted by the director, the blade traced a deliberate arc across the servant's neck.

“Cut! Excellent!”

The director, Yoon Sungbin, couldn’t hide his amazement as he called the scene to an end. Internally, he applauded.

"Is he really this good?"

Though he had heard of Kim Donghu’s talent through industry rumors and seen his performances in movies and dramas, this exceeded all expectations.

From the first script reading, Yoon Sungbin had sensed something extraordinary about him. But to command such presence, dominating even seasoned actors and extras on set? That was an entirely different level.

At just seventeen years old, Kim Donghu was far from his prime. He had so much room to grow.

"What is he, a little over 180 cm tall?"

Yet his appearance was nearly flawless, radiating a maturity that belied his age. No amount of praise could fully capture how striking he looked.

In his costume—a pristine white dopo with a single sword at his hip—he embodied the wayward young master. The loose knot of his hair added a touch of reckless abandon, amplifying the contrast between his aristocratic face and his character’s unhinged cruelty.

The result? An arresting imbalance that created an almost overwhelming allure.

"He’ll wreak havoc on theater audiences," Yoon Sungbin mused, already envisioning the impact of this performance on the big screen.

Despite the impeccable first take, the director requested reshoots, seeking even better shots. Remarkably, Kim Donghu didn’t produce a single NG, his performance consistent and precise each time.

The issue wasn’t with Donghu but with the extras. Though they were doing well, the disparity was stark. Kim Donghu seemed like someone who’d stepped straight out of the Joseon era, while the rest looked like modern time-travelers awkwardly transported back.

What was more astonishing, however, was that Donghu’s acting improved with every take. It felt as if Yi Taeseong was emerging more vividly with each scene.

“...That is a prop sword, right?” one crew member whispered.
“Yes, I’ve checked it multiple times—it’s definitely a prop,” replied another, sounding uncertain.

Yet Donghu’s movements were so precise, so intense, that it was easy to believe the blade was real.

By the time they finished multiple retakes, the sun had begun to set.

“The light’s fading fast.”
“Yeah, we won’t get the same effect without natural light.”
“Let’s call it a day after one last take.”

As the crew prepared for the final scene, the sky transformed. A rich, glowing sunset blanketed the set, painting everything in vivid hues of orange and red.

"Huh? Wait—what?"

The shift was so sudden it felt surreal. The director instinctively ordered a small fire to be lit near the filming location.

The fire’s embers, catching the golden light of the sunset, scattered like petals across the scene.

"Feeling peckish as the day wanes, I thought a piece of candy might lift my spirits."

The camera rolled. As if possessed by the moment, Kim Donghu launched into an improvised monologue. No longer Kim Donghu, Yi Taeseong fully took over.

The firelight and the sunset cast a crimson glow over Donghu’s white dopo, making it appear soaked in blood. His loosened topknot unraveled further as he dispatched the servants with chilling ease. Pausing, he ran a hand through his disheveled hair, exuding both exhaustion and disdain.

“...”

Director Yoon Sungbin bit back a gasp. His instinct was to cheer but he restrained himself, transfixed by the scene unfolding before him.

In the eerie harmony of light, ash, and blood, Yi Taeseong—the debauched young master of noble lineage, and the epitome of corruption—stood vividly alive.

As the sun set and filming wrapped up for the day, Seokho-hyung wasted no time rushing over to me.

“Donghu, seriously, great job out there!”

He clapped me on the shoulder, his admiration practically overflowing.

“Man, how is it that you didn’t mess up even once after all those takes? Not a single NG!”
“Hyung, come on, not here. Everyone can hear you,” I replied, glancing around.
“Oh, right. Maybe I went overboard? Honestly, I wouldn’t mind letting them hear a little…”

Clearly unable to hold back his pride, Seokho-hyung lowered his voice as he handed me a water bottle.

“I heard lemon ginger tea is great for the winter, so I made some for you.”
“…Hyung, you know people are starting to think you’re my manager, right?”
“Aren’t I? I mean, didn’t we start out as a one-person agency?”

He seemed unfazed by my comment, almost as if he’d forgotten he was technically the head of the company. As he poured the tea into the thermos cap, he added nonchalantly:

“And really, if you think about it, you’re the boss here. Remember the shares?”

I let out a sigh.
“I told him we shouldn’t bring this up until I’m legally an adult.”

Even though we’d agreed to revisit the topic of ownership when I turned eighteen, Seokho-hyung had already resigned himself to being what he called a “salaried CEO.”

"He did say something about growing under me and how it only makes sense for me to take charge."

Recalling his roundabout logic, I took a sip of the lemon ginger tea.

“This is good.”
“Right? Let’s grab dinner nearby, too. Traffic’s going to be a nightmare anyway.”
“I’m fine with that. What’s Gyeongnam famous for?”
“Hmm… oysters? How about oyster soup? Can you eat oysters?”
“I eat everything, hyung.”

As we walked back to the van, chatting idly, a voice suddenly joined in.

“I can eat oyster soup too. Mind if I join you?”

Startled, we turned to see Jin Yuseong standing nearby.

“J-Jin Yuseong?!” Seokho-hyung stammered.

I glanced at Yuseong, who I had completely forgotten was still around.

Oh, right. He said he was here to visit.

His presence had been so unassuming during filming that I’d assumed he’d left.

“My manager left without me, so how about we grab some oyster soup together and head back to Seoul?”

His explanation sounded suspiciously like an excuse, yet he casually fell into step with us as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Are we seriously going to say no?”
“How could we? It’s Jin Yuseong!”

Exchanging glances, Seokho-hyung and I silently agreed. Before the atmosphere grew awkward, I nodded quickly.

“Of course, no problem at all.”

Still, I couldn’t help but wonder—why join us?

Flashback: The Start of a Trend

When the theater company Flame was at its peak, I’d had a conversation with Seo Jinwoo, a quirky senior who loved his role as a pilot so much that he wore aviator hats everywhere.

“I’m switching agencies.”
“Agency? What brought this on?”

Jinwoo’s sudden announcement caught me off guard. Though he was known for his eccentricities, this was out of the blue even for him.

“My contract’s almost up. I’m thinking of going to Veritas.”
“Veritas? Where’s that?”
“Where our youngest is.”
“Our youngest? You mean Kim Donghu?”
“Yeah.”

“You’re switching agencies just because he’s there?” I asked, incredulous.

That kind of move would have been reckless, especially for an actor of Jinwoo’s caliber. Contract renewals were meant to be strategic, considering factors like signing bonuses and favorable terms—not decided on a whim.

But Jinwoo simply shrugged.
“Something about being around him just feels right.”
“Feels right?”
“Roles come easier, things fall into place. It’s like everything just clicks when he’s around.”
“Are you serious? That animal instinct thing again? Hyung, come on, this is ridiculous.”
“Just watch him act. Work with him once. Then you’ll get it.”

That memory replayed vividly in Yuseong’s mind as he followed us.

Now, he finally understood why Jinwoo had been so adamant—why he couldn’t stop praising Kim Donghu.

“It’s not just his acting.”

Donghu didn’t just shine on screen. He treated every extra with respect, bowing deeply to thank them after every scene. He excelled at everything, from his craft to his character.

“How much time is left on my contract?” Yuseong wondered absently as he walked.

Back in the restaurant, as oyster soup arrived, an odd scene unfolded.

“Hyung, why isn’t Yuseong-sunbae eating his soup?”
“Beats me. Maybe he doesn’t like hot food?”

While Seokho-hyung and I carefully slurped our bowls, a middle-aged waitress came by, her face lighting up.

“My, you boys are so handsome! Wait… haven’t I seen this young man somewhere before?”

Her eyes lingered on Yuseong, who smiled faintly, leaving her clearly flustered by the unexpected visual feast.