Free Web NovelCheol-joo blankly followed the afterimage of Ryu Shin.
Ryu Shin approached someone behind him.
“Ah, did you come to see the performance, brother? Thank you.”
“I’ve seen all the previous performances.”
“Huh, really? Was it an analysis of Changcheon’s performance as the president of Oedipus...?”
Cheol-joo’s ears perked up.
“No. I didn’t come to see Changcheon’s performance...”
“...?”
“I’m not interested in the performance, except for one ‘actor.’”
Cheol-joo’s face twisted as Ryu Shin handed the bouquet to Yoomyeong. He looked as if he were about to say something, but then stormed out of the theater.
“Thank you.”
“Your acting was good. But next time, I want to see your best performance.”
“Huh? What does that mean...?”
“I mean, it’s not that you didn’t do your best, but I want to see you act in an environment where your best becomes the greatest.”
Ryu Shin left after delivering those cryptic words.
His retreating figure crossed paths with a crowd of junior business students, and Yoomyeong busily posed for photos, clutching the bouquet.
The flowers he received from this one performance seemed to outnumber those he had received in his entire previous life.
Have you ever seen the stage after the lights go out?
<After the Play is Over> by Sharp, 1988.
Bang— Kwang—
Heave... Heave... Huff—
The stage was being torn down.
Tears filled the eyes of the troupe members as they dismantled the passion they had built over three months with their own hands.
As if to mock their sorrow, the sound team always played that song. The young troupe members cried out in genuine grief.
Amid it all, Yoomyeong silently swung his hammer, his eyes dry.
‘I feel surprisingly calm, and a bit bitter...’
Fifteen years before his regression, twenty-three-year-old Yoomyeong had cried more than anyone else as he tore down his first stage.
The novice actor had been moved simply by the fact that he had received his share of attention.
He cried all night after the performance ended—sorry for breaking the stage, reluctant to let go of his role, and finding the colleagues who had been with him so endearing.
But what was different now?
The reason Yoomyeong followed the same Changcheon minor-role path in his regressed life was...
‘At first, it was a test.’
Although Miho gave him presence, he couldn’t predict how much he had changed. He couldn’t tell whether his acting itself was good beyond that presence.
However, when he had the chance to play Freddie midway through, he became certain that he was no longer his former self. There had even been a faint thrill when Ryu Shin later proposed that he join Oedipus. It was obvious that the level of the actors he would perform with would be different.
But the reason he stayed at Changcheon was...
Kwang—
Yoomyeong struck the final bonded section of the wall, and it collapsed to the ground.
The crash echoed loudly.
Thus, the stage was completely dismantled. He began picking up the scattered fragments one by one.
‘Haa...’
...The reason he stayed at Changcheon was to offer a requiem to his former self.
A nameless actor without presence, overwhelmed by even the smallest attention.
On his own birthday, he had filled his empty stomach with water while waiting fourteen hours on an overnight shoot.
He endured meager pay, unable to protest for fear of not being called again.
And he had his role taken away by a newcomer who joyfully stepped into the vacancy.
It was a tribute to the first stage of an actor who had filled fifteen years of unpaid time with nothing but love and passion for acting.
‘With this, let’s put an end to the self-pity.’
In his previous life, he had taken pride in Changcheon. He believed it was a good theater troupe full of passionate and talented people. But Changcheon, as seen after his return, was very different.
Why did the view from above feel so different from the view from below?
It was the same scenery.
It wasn’t because of Cheol-joo, who constantly took jabs at Yoomyeong.
It was because, although they were enthusiastic, for most of them it was just a hobby. There was no sense of urgency, no life-or-death commitment.
They were, clearly, amateurs.
It wasn’t until he stood on the main stage that Yoomyeong realized this was no longer a place for him.
The words Ryu Shin had left earlier likely meant that—a stage where the best becomes the greatest, not this amateur stage.
Yoomyeong went to find Jun-han once the stage had been somewhat cleared.
“Hey, Yoomyeong, you did well.”
“Yes. Thank you. I’m thinking of skipping the after-party.”
“Eh? Why...”
“...”
“...You must’ve been disappointed. I’m sorry. I should have stopped him.”
“No. I’m seriously considering pursuing acting. I want to gain more diverse experience.”
“...I see. It’s probably hard to hear anything good at the after-party anyway. I’ll tell them you’re not feeling well.”
“Thank you.”
“...Changcheon is losing a good actor. It’s self-inflicted, though.”
At that bitter remark, Yoomyeong looked at Jun-han. He was a senior he was grateful to in both his past and present life. He was also a good actor.
“Won’t you go into acting?”
“Heh. It’s hard to make a living with ambiguous talent like mine. Acting is for people like you and Ryu Shin.”
“...”
“I plan to live as an ordinary person. I’ll be satisfied if I occasionally go to your performances and proudly say, ‘That actor is someone I know.’ I don’t want to make a fool of myself.”
Yoomyeong gave a self-mocking smile at those words.
In his past life, he had been exactly that—someone who made a fool of himself.
But even then, he had no regrets. He loved acting too much to believe he could be happy without it.
“When you ❀ Nоvеlігht ❀ (Don’t copy, read here) get a good job, buy me a drink.”
“Sure. When you become a pro, send me tickets from time to time. You know the first assistant director is always like the mother, right?”
“Of course.”
Yoomyeong extended a hand, and they shook firmly.
From then on, Shin Yoomyeong sent tickets for every premiere of his new work, and Jun-han spent his life boasting that he was ‘an acquaintance of Shin Yoomyeong.’
At that moment, neither of them knew.
After taking a short rest, Yoomyeong contacted Kim Sung-jin, the youngest lighting technician at Hyejeondang, just yesterday.
[‘Hyejeondang’ Shuttle Bus 20m→]
He got off at Hyejeondang Station and transferred to a shuttle. After a brief drive through the city, the shuttle quickly entered a lush forest that didn’t resemble Seoul. After traveling for quite a while through a vast green area, buildings scattered here and there came into view.
The theater complex included the large 3,500-seat theater ‘Su (秀)’, the symbol of Hyejeondang; two large 2,000-seat theaters; three mid-sized theaters with 500 to 1,500 seats; three small theaters with fewer than 500 seats; and a large outdoor stage.
There were exhibition halls, restaurants, and office buildings for performance-related companies.
‘I’ve been here countless times, but it’s a place that stirs an actor’s spirit every time.’
Even though there were many performance venues, performing at Hyejeondang was a dream that was difficult to attain.
This was due to the strict policy of not leaving the theater idle by staging substandard productions, despite its capacity to host opera, concerts, musicals, and classical recitals.
However, that dream was now coming within reach.
[The Dream of Theatricals, 19th National Theater Festival! 2003.06.03~06.12]
‘Huh? It looks like the National Theater Festival is in progress!’
{Wow. That sounds fun!}
‘If there are tickets left, should we watch a performance after the tour?’
{Really?}
When Yoomyeong mentioned visiting Hyejeondang, Miho followed along. The bluish cluster of light visible only to Yoomyeong trembled with excitement.
The shuttle eventually dropped off its passengers at the final stop.
As soon as he got off, Yoomyeong picked up a theater festival pamphlet displayed at the bus stop.
The National Theater Festival. It was a competition featuring theater troupes from across the country that had passed regional preliminaries. It was said that nine troupes in total—two from Seoul and one from each region—performed each day.
———————————
[6/7 (Friday) Day 4 <Perfume>]
[Representative of Gyeongsang Province <Haeundae> Theater Troupe]
[15:00, 19:30. 95-minute performance]
———————————
‘It looks like this is today’s piece. Could it be based on that original novel?’
{The one that was made into a movie? That should be fun!}
‘I wonder. I’m curious how they portrayed Grenouille.’
As he imagined Grenouille, the mad murderer incapable of understanding human emotions, Yoomyeong wondered how he himself would have played the role.
Just thinking about it was challenging. But... it was also somewhat exciting.
“Please give me one ticket for Perfume.”
He bought a ticket at the entrance.
The 3 PM performance was currently underway, and there were plenty of tickets left for the 7:30 PM showing.
‘Not sold out even though it’s a festival performance?’
Tilting his head, Yoomyeong headed toward his appointment.
“That’s right. The theater was so small it was hard to find.”
At Yoomyeong’s joke, Sung-jin chuckled.
“What’s that?”
“I bought a ticket to see a festival performance after the tour.”
“Oh really? You should’ve told me. I could’ve gotten you one.” fɾeeweɓnѳveɭ.com
“No, I’m grateful enough just for the tour!”
Sung-jin glanced at the ticket in Yoomyeong’s hand.
“Theater troupe <Haeundae>... That’s a bit unfortunate. I heard that many theater companies in Gyeongsang Province are boycotting the festival this year due to issues with the theater association, so the quality of the selected teams has dropped. It would’ve been better if it were the Gangwon team <Hwarang>.”
“Is that so? But this is based on a famous novel, isn’t it? I wonder how they got the author’s permission.”
“That caused quite a controversy, but I heard the script ended up being a mess.”
“So that’s why it wasn’t sold out...”
“Let’s go. Luckily, Sujeondang is still empty.”
The Su (秀) was the signature grand theater of Hyejeondang.
Following Sung-jin, Yoomyeong entered backstage.
“You’re lucky. When they’re preparing for musicals or opera, you often can’t enter due to security. You can see the other theaters, but it feels different from seeing Sujeondang, right?”
“There’s no performance there today?”
“Have you heard of Shin Juyeon, who came in second in the Liszt Piano Competition? She has a homecoming concert all week. Since the setup finished on the first day, the staff won’t arrive until around 5 PM today.”
“I see.”
A top laureate of the world-renowned Liszt International Piano Competition—she had stirred the media for a while by bringing honor to the country.
Indeed, only someone at that level could stand on the Sujeondang stage. Yoomyeong began to feel a slight excitement.
The backstage was immense.
There were conference rooms, a lounge with temporary beds, and personal lockers. Several private rooms for VIPs were equipped with separate dressing rooms and bathrooms.
And that wasn’t all.
There were luxurious facilities difficult to find even in most theaters fifteen years later: a revolving stage, adjustable stage systems, lifts, side mechanisms, and a scaled model of the theater installed in the center of a conference room.
“Wow... it’s... I don’t even know what to say.”
“It’s impressive, right?”
Sung-jin looked pleased at Yoomyeong’s reaction. He proudly introduced Korea’s finest theater, which he had come to appreciate while studying lighting abroad and visiting world-renowned venues.
“Let’s go to the stage.”
Thump—
Yoomyeong’s heart began to pound as it was finally time to see the actual venue.
His earlier statement about becoming a lead actor at Sujeondang had been half a joke to cover Sung-jin’s misunderstanding.
However, after returning and rediscovering his passion for acting over the past three months, he found himself reflecting on those words. And now, after seeing Sujeondang up close, that feeling deepened.
The theater was dazzling.
The grandeur of the largest audience hall in the country, with 3,500 seats encircling the stage, was overwhelming.
The golden dome-shaped ceiling and the beautiful red velvet seats carried a dignity reminiscent of a Viennese court music hall. A single Steinway piano resting to one side of the stage added to the atmosphere.
“Wow... it’s... it’s incredible.”
Sung-jin grinned playfully at Yoomyeong’s reaction. ƒree𝑤ebnσvel.com
“Go up and take a look.”
