Episode 2. Danjong
Danjong.
The most unfortunate boy-king in the history of the Joseon dynasty.
The grandson of King Sejong and the son of King Munjong, Danjong’s tragedy began when his father Munjong died only a few years after ascending the throne—leaving the young boy to inherit the crown at a tender age.
In the end, he was dethroned by his uncle, Grand Prince Suyang, and eventually purged, losing his life at a young age—an ill-fated monarch.
And this scene was one where Danjong, despite feeling the threat to his life, cannot bring himself to suspect his uncle Suyang, and instead weeps alone, longing for his late father Munjong.
It was a situation so emotionally heavy that even an adult actor would struggle to perform it convincingly. For a child actor? Impossible.
The rookie writer had naively demanded such a scene, and the PD deliberately left it as-is, almost out of spite.
“Let’s see you crash and burn,” was the feeling.
But then—
“…Father.”
Why on earth was something like this happening?
The small, trembling voice, almost as though whispering to himself, carried a grief so sharp it pierced the heart. The diction was clear, each word digging into the listener’s ears with unrelenting precision.
Choi PD’s eyes widened as a shiver ran down his spine.
‘What… is this?’
The child actor playing Danjong, Lee Ji-woo, was overwhelming the entire set.
With just a single word, and the emotion packed into it, he had seized the air with sheer stillness. Could a mere ten-year-old really perform something like this?
Until just moments ago, this same kid had been fumbling every line. Yet now—it was as though he had transformed into someone entirely different.
Ji-woo slowly raised the head he had bowed, and when the others saw his face, their eyes widened in shock.
That face carried both desperate sorrow and the fierce pride of a boy-king struggling to endure it.
He swallowed the words he could not bring himself to speak. Again and again he forced them down, until finally one burst forth.
“Father… how could you leave your son behind…?”
“Wow…”
The lighting director let out a low exclamation. The AD hugged their arms, goosebumps running across their skin.
The depth of emotion in that voice was beyond description.
Choi PD swallowed hard.
‘Am I dreaming right now? A ten-year-old boy—pulling the audience this deeply into Danjong with just a single scene? Thirty minutes ago, this kid was still stammering his lines!’
Just as everyone stood frozen in disbelief, Lee Ji-woo suddenly did something unexpected.
Originally, the scene had called for him to remain in place, quietly wiping his tears. But instead, he began staggering forward, walking somewhere as though driven by his emotions.
The PD couldn’t bring himself to shout “Cut!” The performance was too precious. Instead, he barked:
“Panning!”
The cameraman, stunned, quickly swung the camera to follow Lee Ji-woo’s movements.
With the dynamic tracking shot, the scene gained a flowing vitality, and even Danjong’s faltering steps seemed to take on deeper meaning.
The wavering, but determined steps—weak, and yet carrying the dignity of a boy-king born of royal blood.
He raised his head and cried out to the heavens with a voice full of grief.
“Father! Do you abandon your son?! Father!”
The pent-up sorrow and anger erupted like a storm. The sheer force of his projection shook the camera frame itself.
The staff froze in shock.
Meanwhile, Ji-woo was exhilarated.
‘This is exactly what the fallen crown prince of the Kingdom of Kaidrian had felt.’
They say an actor’s craft deepens with the range of experiences they’ve lived.
Then what if a being who had lived for thousands of years, observing countless lives, sometimes even sharing in them—what if such a being possessed talent for acting?
It would no longer be mere performance. He could recreate the very emotions people had truly felt, from his own memories.
In other words, he was nothing less than the ultimate actor.
The set, stunned by the boy’s presence, only returned to reality when Choi PD finally yelled “Cut!”
“W-what was that just now?”
“No, seriously, what the hell was that? He was totally different from earlier!”
“I think… it wasn’t exactly like the script…”
“But PD-nim didn’t cut it, right? That means he thought it was better too.”
“Honestly? The acting was just too good.”
The set erupted in chatter.
How could this even be possible? Just minutes ago, Ji-woo had been tripping over his lines, and now he was delivering a performance like this? It was as if he were an entirely different person.
That kind of sudden leap in acting ability just didn’t exist in reality.
Choi PD rushed over to Ji-woo, looking dead serious.
“Ji-woo, what… what the hell was that just now?”
“Ah, PD-nim…”
Still caught in the lingering emotions, Ji-woo gave a sheepish smile, mixed with embarrassment.
“Sorry, PD-nim. I went off-script without meaning to…”
“No, no, that’s fine. Forget that. What I want to know is—why did you suddenly perform so well? Why did you start walking and delivering your lines like that?”
Ji-woo hesitated, glancing around nervously.
“Did it… look weird?”
Weird? No.
Choi PD’s voice grew excited.
“Not at all! It made the scene come alive. Honestly, if you’d just stood still and delivered the lines, it would have emphasized the sadness and loneliness. But when you started moving, shouting toward the sky, suddenly there was this pathos—a heartbreaking contrast between your fragile actions and the anguished cries…”
Realizing he was rambling, the PD cut himself off with a cough.
“Anyway—you were completely different from before. What happened in just thirty minutes?”
“I just… decided to try harder.”
“…Decided to try harder?”
If effort alone could produce this kind of performance, then every actor struggling with skill would simply need to try harder and all their problems would vanish. Ridiculous.
The PD pressed further.
“…So what about before?”
“Before, I honestly just… wasn’t used to things yet. I get shy around strangers, hehe.”
The flimsy excuse left everyone dumbfounded. But Ji-woo wore it with utter shamelessness.
When Choi PD gave a disbelieving laugh, Lee Ji-woo’s face stiffened.
“Ah, was it weird? The walking part… shouting to the ceiling… maybe the ad-lib went too far?”
“No, it was good. Really good. But still, you added some ad-libs that weren’t in the script. Why?”
“If you didn’t like it, I’m really sorry. I should have asked before improvising…”
“No, no! I’m not scolding you. It was impressive—so much so that I want to know how you came up with it.”
Ji-woo thought a moment before answering.
“I just realized… Danjong was still a kid.”
“A kid?”
“Yes. In the story, he’s always portrayed as this helplessly sad boy—powerless, toyed with by fate. But before being a king, Danjong was still just a child.
In front of his ministers, sure, he’d try to hide his feelings, acting mature and composed. But when he was alone? Of course he would cry, get angry, lash out like any other child.
And in this situation… of course he would resent his father.”
“….”
“Once I imagined myself in that position, the resentment just spilled out naturally.
As for walking forward—it was because I couldn’t contain such huge emotions just standing still. Honestly, I wanted to stomp my feet, or throw something. But as someone raised in the palace, bound by decorum, he couldn’t do that.
So walking forward, crying to the sky… that was Danjong’s greatest act of rebellion. His scream was both accusation and longing for the father who had left him alone.”
“……”
The staff exchanged bewildered looks.
‘This is… a ten-year-old’s interpretation of the role?’
‘Insane…’
‘If this goes wrong, this could turn into a huge problem…’
Because in essence, this meant a child actor had just dismissed the writer’s script and the PD’s storyboard as unrealistic.
Ji-woo might not have realized the implications of what he said, but the adults did. And they waited tensely for the PD’s reaction.
After a long three-second silence, Choi PD suddenly burst out laughing.
“Pfft.”
“Pfft?”
Before Ji-woo could tilt his head in confusion, the PD broke into wild laughter.
“Puhahahahaha! Unbelievable! This is insane!”
He slapped himself on the head with the script, roaring with laughter to the ceiling. For a full minute he laughed while the others stared in shock. Finally, he calmed himself and said:
“You’re right. Kids can resent their fathers, throw tantrums, and still be bound by royal decorum. You nailed it.”
“Right?”
“Originally, the script had Danjong run forward, fling open a window, and shout his grief to the heavens. But I convinced the writer to change it.”
“Why?”
“Because I thought you’d never be able to handle such a heavy emotional scene.”
But now Choi PD’s eyes gleamed.
“And yet—you not only carried the scene, you resurrected it. Not by following someone’s directions, but by interpreting and constructing the character yourself. Isn’t that right?”
“…I don’t know what you mean. But yes, no one gave me advice.”
The PD was convinced.
‘This is it—the Stella Adler Character Sheet method.’
Unlike method acting, which draws from personal experience, this technique focuses on analyzing the role in depth and applying it.
But this wasn’t something a mere ten-year-old could possibly do.
‘If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I’d never have believed this talent exists.’
Choi PD turned to Ji-woo’s mother.
“Mrs. Han, has Ji-woo ever taken acting lessons before?”
“Oh, no. This drama offer came so suddenly. We only just enrolled him in a class, but… his first session is next week.”
Even his mother stared at him as though she couldn’t believe what she’d seen.
“…I see.”
Clutching the crumpled script, Choi PD sighed.
“…We’re stopping today’s shoot. I need to make some script changes.”
“What?”
The cinematographer frowned.
“PD-nim, are you sure? The writer won’t like that. She’s Kim Ari’s protégé, remember? And this is her debut script. Debut writers don’t take kindly to meddling.”
Debut writers, depending on the type, were either excessively proud of their work and inflexible—or insecure and deferential to the PD. The latter type was rare, though, since most had trained for years under veteran writers and knew just how much power star writers held.
Some even acted as if they were already star writers themselves.
And the writer of this drama, Hyun So-jeong, was exactly that type—Kim Ari’s disciple.
But Choi PD was confident.
“Actually, that’s exactly why it’ll work. Debut writers still want their scripts to be seen as art, not just a show. If I show her this footage, she’ll have no choice but to agree.”
The PD’s eyes blazed as he looked at Ji-woo, now flipping through his script.
“Danjong can’t just exit like that. He needs to cling, desperately—dragging down Grand Prince Suyang with him.”
