Episode 8. Academy Registration
“Eh?”
At such an abrupt question, Lee Jiwoo tilted his head in confusion. Choi Dongwon asked:
“lee Jiwoo, you said you’ve never studied acting, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then that performance just now… was it improvised?”
“No. I just recalled a situation I’d imagined before.”
Hearing Lee Jiwoo’s answer, Choi Dongwon’s puzzled expression eased a little.
“So you had already created a kind of ‘character sheet’? Then… I suppose it isn’t impossible to accept that.”
“Character sheet? What do you mean?”
“Ah, well, Lee Jiwoo’s mother—let me explain.”
Choi Dongwon briefly explained to Han Jisoo about Adler’s SACS method of acting.
“…So, to summarize, your son’s remarkable talent comes from imagining a character or situation ahead of time, immersing himself in it, and then summoning that imagined persona as though he’s been possessed by it.”
“…Isn’t that incredible?”
“It’s astounding. Especially considering Lee Jiwoo’s age—this is nothing short of a miracle.”
Choi Dongwon continued:
“Watching Lee Jiwoo’s performance, it’s clear—it’s not the style of acting conscious of cameras, like in dramas or films. If I had to compare… it’s closer to stage acting.”
At his sharp insight, Lee Jiwoo flinched inwardly.
“But it’s also lacking if we call it true theater acting. Stage acting is much more exaggerated—gestures, movements, expressions. They have to project to the farthest seats. If Lee Jiwoo had truly studied stage acting, he wouldn’t have missed those basics. So then… he really is a beginner, but in that case, how do we explain that expressive ability? Good grief…”
“Um… so what happens to our Lee Jiwoo now? About the academy…?”
“The academy? Oh, of course he’s accepted. And we’ll waive the tuition as well. In return, however, we ask for your consent to use Lee Jiwoo’s image or photos for the academy’s promotional purposes.”
“What? That’s…”
Han Jisoo looked at Lee Jiwoo anxiously. Even if he was just a child, was it right for his face to be plastered all over ads? At his mother’s worried gaze, Lee Jiwoo just grinned.
“> I’m fine with it. I mean, I’ve already appeared in a drama—my face has gone nationwide anyway.”
“Haha, you really don’t act like a kid. But Jiwoo…”
Choi Dongwon’s expression grew serious.
“That emotion you showed earlier—how did you produce it?”
“Uh… well…”
Lee Jiwoo thought quickly. But there was no decent excuse to replace the truth—
‘I’m actually a demon who has spent centuries observing countless humans, living by acting their roles.’
So instead, he used a cheat code.
“Uh… YouTube.”
“…? That works?”
“It does for me.”
“….”
Lee Jiwoo. Actual age: unknown. Current age: 10.
He had become a fraud of the century.
A few days later, the revised script from writer Hyun Sojeong arrived.
She hadn’t had enough time to overhaul the entire story, but she managed to patch up the next sequence of filming.
This scene involved Prince Suyang meeting with Queen Jeonghui.
Queen Jeonghui, uneasy about Suyang’s ambition, worried for him, wished he would remain a loyal subject, while also embodying the supportive, virtuous wife archetype.
The so-called “devoted and gentle” type. Overused to the point of exhaustion, but useful for actresses with pure, innocent public images.
Originally, she and Kim Jehoon were supposed to share light-hearted moments, easing the tension in the story.
And Suyang—plotting to dethrone Danjong and orchestrate the Gyeyujeongnan coup—would find solace by her side in the midst of hardship.
But…
“Doesn’t this heroine feel off with the current Suyang character?”
“Yeah… it doesn’t really fit.”
Originally, the drama was meant to be Suyang’s one-man show, with his overwhelming charisma shining against the soft counterbalance of Jeonghui.
But the current Suyang was neither overwhelming nor dominant.
Even though the audience knew he’d eventually crush Danjong politically and succeed in the coup, he now stood in direct, heated conflict with a legitimate king whose bloodline carried the succession—Sejong to Munjong to Danjong.
A king with eyes burning like a sunset, radiating authority that seemed to say:
“Do not climb. The king is me.”
The flow of the story naturally shifted. No longer was it about Suyang’s swordplay and a healing wife. Instead, Queen Jeonghui now needed to be his comrade-in-arms.
“Exactly. Not just love, but a bond forged in political struggle—a partnership! Like, ‘You take the Six Martyred Ministers, I’ll handle Danjong.’ That kind of equal footing.”
“Ha, PD-Choi, you really get it. Ambitious man and ambitious woman, tied by fate and growing love—oh, that’s good stuff.”
So with the director and writer adjusting directions cheerfully, the script had changed drastically.
Which meant Choi Subin, playing Queen Jeonghui, was left struggling to memorize her newly rewritten lines even on set.
“…Why are you doing this to me….”
She buried her nose in the script with teary eyes.
Honestly, how much did she really know about acting? How much passion could she truly have?
She was an idol. Acting was something her agency shoved her into.
Yet if she did it half-heartedly, she’d be branded a “bad acting idol,” her failures immortalized online, mocked forever.
So she had poured everything into preparing for the gentle, innocent queen role… only to be told now she had to play a sharp, politically savvy femme fatale?
That’s when—
“Hello, sunbaenim! I didn’t get to greet you at the script reading. I’m Lee Jiwoo, playing Danjong. Please take care of me!”
“Uh—huh?”
At some point, a pretty-faced boy had walked up, smiling brightly, bowing 90 degrees.
When Lee Jiwoo looked up, their eyes met—and the words slipped out of her mouth before she could stop them:
“C-cute.”
“…Sorry?”
“No, nothing! Ahem! Nice to meet you. I’m Choi Subin, main vocalist of Rosemarie. ‘Sunbaenim’ isn’t really right—I’m not a proper actress.”
She accepted Lee Jiwoo’s greeting with a timid air.
“I can’t even memorize one script properly. I’m hopeless.”
“It must be hard since the script suddenly changed because of me, right?”
Lee Jiwoo lowered his gaze, lashes fluttering, apologetic eyes brimming with sadness.
“I’m sorry… I never intended this to happen.”
Honestly, when Subin had heard her role had been altered because of some child actor she hadn’t even met yet, she’d been annoyed, resentful even.
But standing before her now was such a polite, adorable kid—apologizing sincerely. She couldn’t bring herself to hold a grudge.
“No, no. It’s okay. It’s for the sake of a better drama. The problem is… me.”
With a sigh, Subin admitted:
“I can memorize songs and dance moves fine. But drama lines? I just can’t. What if I keep making NGs later?”
Normally, she would never show such weakness. But perhaps because her conversation partner was such a young child, it slipped out.
Lee Jiwoo’s violet eyes began to glimmer faintly—so faint no one else noticed.
‘So she really is the weak link here, huh….’
Outwardly, he kept up his cute, smiling child-actor act. But inwardly, he wasn’t pleased.
‘I can’t allow poor acting to ruin my stage.’
Fortunately, he had a solution.
“Knowing something is nothing compared to experiencing it.”
There’s a phrase: life acting.
Even the worst actors can pull off one thing flawlessly—acting out their own real-life experiences.
A former part-time worker playing a part-time worker role. A poor kid playing a poor character. That kind of thing.
‘It’ll cost me some mana, but better that than letting my scene get ruined.’
Lee Jiwoo’s eyes darkened to a deep violet.
[Sunbaenim. You look a little tired.]
“Hm? …Oh…”
Subin, mid-script, absentmindedly turned her head at his voice. Her eyes went hazy.
Even with his mana nearly depleted from skipping through time, he could still do this much.
[Sleep.]
“…Mm.”
She slumped over, falling asleep in her chair.
Lee Jiwoo confirmed she was fully unconscious, then reached for her script.
The letters glowed violet, rose into the air, and drifted gently into her ears.
“Even without a contract… this much is possible.”
Making someone dream was child’s play for him. It was the specialty of incubi, and as a mid-rank demon, Luser’s power far surpassed theirs.
As she slept, she would re-enact the scene dozens of times in her dreams.
When she woke, the lines would be second nature, and her acting would improve automatically.
“No need to thank me. It’s all for the sake of good acting.”
Lee Jiwoo closed the door carefully, smiling to himself.
Later, commotion arose when Subin didn’t show for standby. She ended up apologizing profusely before PD Choi.
Already considered a “problem child” for her poor acting, the tension for her was unbearable.
“Subin, you okay? Want some calming medicine?”
“Huh? Oh—I’m fine.”
“…You look different. Like, your face looks relaxed?”
“Maybe I just feel refreshed. I did sleep really well.”
“…It’s not just a nap, though. You seem… confident?”
Even Subin herself looked surprised by how good she felt.
“I think I dreamed something… kind of like a historical drama? Weird, right?”
“Probably stress from the script changes.”
“Yeah… maybe. But strangely, I don’t feel nervous at all now. I feel like I can do this.”
She smiled, her face brighter than before, turning toward the camera.
“Alright, let’s go! Ready, annnd action!”
The slate clapped.
And Subin’s performance stunned everyone.
Her lines flowed out naturally, smoother and more graceful than even before the rewrites.
“Subin, what the heck? Did you practice in your dreams or something?”
The PD joked, and Subin laughed brightly.
“Of course not! I just slept well, that’s all!”
“Haha! Then from now on, just sleep on set before your scenes. I’ll even bring you a cot!”
“Really? Thank you, PD-nim~!”
With one of the most worrisome cast members suddenly performing flawlessly, the atmosphere on set lifted at once.
As Subin passed by, Lee Jiwoo smirked quietly.
The 12-episode drama was only just beginning.
