Two Months Earlier

"Hmm..."

Kiryu Souta, a giant in the Japanese film industry,
was someone deeply passionate about pushing Japanese live-action films into the global market.

His thin frame looked as if a mere touch could topple him,
but his sharp, piercing eyes held a power that made people involuntarily shrink back.
There was a reason why people in the film industry called him "Eigao-ni,"
the "Film Goblin."

"Hmm."

Lately, Kiryu Souta found himself grappling with a dilemma:

"Japanese live-action films are crumbling."

At first, he thought it was simply the limitation of Asian cinema.
But after watching the relatively recent Snowpiercer, his perspective shifted.

"Ah, this is a problem within our industry."

Of course, from a broader perspective, it wasn’t entirely fair to say Japanese cinema was failing.
Japanese animation was hitting home run after home run, dazzling the world.
But to Kiryu Souta, cinema wasn’t that.

"How can animation be called cinema?"

Capturing life without photographing real people?
To him, cinema was about imbuing the screen with the soul of real people—
human energy captured and expressed through a rectangular lens.

That was cinema.

"It’s not just about movies."

The same applied to dramas.
While animation continued to grow,
there hadn’t been a drama that truly stood out.

Yes, there was a rare masterpiece that had achieved over 40% viewership ratings,
but overall, the field lacked universal appeal and global influence.

"To repay the world... double."

How could Japanese live-action cinema show the world the allure it had yet to reveal?

"The solution lies in fixing the fundamentals."

They needed to reform their overly conservative, decayed structures,
abandon their inward-focused mindset, and start investing bigger budgets into production.

But of course, that was easier said than done.
If it were simple, it would’ve been done already.

"Any mention of innovation brings thoughts of failure first. Tsk."

It wasn’t entirely wrong to be cautious,
but refusing to even attempt it?
That was cowardice.

"New wine must be put into new wineskins."

To take an entirely different path,
Kiryu Souta decided to first look at the films of Japan's closest neighbor: South Korea.

A country constantly striving for global expansion,
home to acclaimed director Kang Sanghun’s latest work, The Endless Frontline,
a film that had drawn tens of millions to theaters.

But:

"This is... surprisingly dull."

Contrary to expectations, the beginning dragged on with tedious scenes.
Predictable developments, clichéd content,
and an ending that was blatantly obvious.

"How did this reach tens of millions of viewers?"

Though the film was from several years ago,
it still failed to meet his expectations.

"This must have been made purely for the domestic audience."

But that didn’t explain why it had been submitted to overseas festivals.

Then:

"Sister, is there really rice and meat soup out there?"

The sudden appearance of a boy froze Kiryu Souta’s gaze on the screen.

His first thought? That face was unreal.

Not even the most iconic faces from Japan’s past could compare.
His beauty was so striking that it defied explanation.

And then, as the scene progressed,
Kiryu found himself unconsciously exclaiming at the acting.

"Huh."

It was shocking.

"Rice and meat soup really exists?"

A boy who had never experienced war
perfectly captured the essence of a child soldier.

What stunned Kiryu the most was the boy’s eyes and expressions.
He wasn’t merely delivering lines or acting out gestures—
it was as if he had truly lived through that era, embodying its emotions.

The scene left Kiryu speechless for a moment.
And from that moment, one question consumed him:

"Who is this actor?"

That marked the beginning of Kiryu Souta’s search for all works involving Kim Donghu.
He began pulling strings to create a connection with the actor.

"Where’s Kang Sanghun’s contact information?"

Thankfully, his years as a renowned figure in the industry paid off,
and connecting with Kim Donghu wasn’t a major obstacle.

But an unforeseen hurdle appeared:

"What do I say when I meet him? Does he even speak Japanese? And is it appropriate to tell him I just want to see him act?"

It dawned on Kiryu that rushing in blindly wouldn’t yield results.
While the connection from Director Kang Sanghun to Director Yoon Seongbin was seamless,

"I never thought meeting an actor through a director could be this difficult."

Jumping from Director Yoon Seongbin to Kim Donghu was unnatural unless it was for a project.
And though Kiryu had a future project in mind,
his immediate goal was to witness Donghu’s vivid performance.

"I’ll think about the project later."

Just as he was agonizing over his next move,
Director Yoon Seongbin suggested, "Why not disguise yourself and watch him in secret?"
To which Kiryu replied he’d gladly do so if it meant seeing Donghu act.

 

Back to the Present

Disguised thoroughly, Kiryu Souta hid among the crew,
his sharp eyes fixed on Kim Donghu.

"He’s even more handsome in person."

His extraordinary looks weren’t a trick of the camera.
If anything, the camera failed to do him justice.

"In that white dopo and with that gleaming blade, he looks like a noble crane."

Kiryu’s eyes sparkled.
Even before the acting began,
Donghu’s appearance alone painted a vivid picture in Kiryu’s mind.

"A samurai born in a foreign land."

"Ready... action!"

While Kiryu was lost in admiration,
the filming began.

And as if waiting for this moment, snow began to fall.

Since no one called for a pause,
the shoot continued as the snow fell gently around Kim Donghu—or rather, Lee Taeseong.

"Hoo...."

With his first breath, visible in the cold air,
he seemed to announce the scene’s tone.

"Sword dancing requires incredible skill."

Kiryu felt a flicker of concern.

This wasn’t an action scene with a partner.
Donghu had to perform the sword dance solo, carrying the scene entirely on his own.
Done poorly, it could easily look clownish.

But as if mocking Kiryu’s worries:

Swish!

Lee Taeseong’s first stroke of the blade captivated everyone’s eyes.

It wasn’t merely "competent swordplay."
It was something far beyond.

As the saying goes, "When someone makes it look easy, it’s because they’re a master."
Lee Taeseong wielded the sword as if it were an extension of his own body.

The white dopo fluttered like wings, blending with the snow,
cutting through the stark white world with precision.

Swish!

Every stroke was flawless.
And to finish:

Clink.

The sword was sheathed.

Shing!

Then drawn again,
the blade slicing cleanly through the falling snow,
its brilliance reflecting in the steel.

Watching this, Kiryu Souta murmured to himself:

"Ito... Ittosai...."

No, it was too early for such thoughts.
He had only seen Donghu wield a single blade.

But if—just if—
Kim Donghu could perfectly master dual-wielding...

"Could he embody a young Musashi?"

If approached with a touch of fantasy,
what kind of story could be crafted?

"No, no, that’s ridiculous."

It was absurd to think he could’ve mastered dual-wielding on top of everything else.
Even what he had shown so far must’ve required incredible effort.

"But... even this is extraordinary."

Kiryu felt a shiver of excitement at the boundless potential before him.

"I want to write a script right now."

Though he didn’t yet know where this "new wineskin" would be,
Kiryu knew exactly what kind of "new wine" he wanted to create.

 

From Donghu’s Perspective

I hadn’t been acting for long,
but I’d already learned one thing:

"People called masters have a different look in their eyes."

Director Kang Sanghun, known for his Guan Yu-like beard,
and Kiryu Souta, who was hiding in plain sight with a disguise, were no exception.

There was something undeniable in their gaze,
as if experience itself had etched it into their eyes.

"Being secretly observed is intense enough; I can’t imagine facing him head-on."

The sheer intensity of their eyes was enough to make anyone falter,
unless they had nerves of steel.

"Wow, filming in the snow really adds something! It’s perfect!"

Fortunately, I received praise for my performance,
but if I hadn’t been prepared,
those piercing eyes might’ve caused me to slip up.

"Once the snow piles up more, could we reshoot the same scene?"
"Of course, no problem."
"By the way, can you do other types of swordplay?"
"Other types?"
"Like dual-wielding, perhaps...."

Director Yoon Seongbin asked with a look that said, This is probably too much to ask.

Still, I replied casually:
"Yes, I can. Dual-wielding."

It wasn’t a problem for me at all.

After a short break, I performed a dual-wielding scene with slightly different choreography.

"Cut! Perfect!"

Just as the crew erupted in applause,
I heard a stunned, almost pained cry from among them:

"H-huhhh!"

It was Kiryu Souta, overwhelmed by the performance.