Free Web Novel“Are you saying that the weak life energy you’re talking about affects my acting?”
The fox nodded.
“What does that mean?!”
“In simple terms, life energy manifests as presence. If your presence is strong, people’s attention gathers on you even when you’re standing still. If it’s weak, you won’t stand out no matter what you do. And if it’s exceptionally strong, people call it an ‘aura.’”
In other words, the “aura” people often spoke of in actors came from life energy.
“If we take 100 as the standard, the average human sits around 50. Actors are usually between 60 and 70. Top actors can reach 80 or even 90...”
“What about me?”
“You’re... below 30. I’ve lived for over a thousand years, and you’re the first human I’ve seen like this.” freёwebnovel.com
Yoomyeong’s jaw slackened.
He had always known his presence was weak, but not to this extent.
“Can’t I make up for it with good acting?”
“You can. Acting well can compensate for weak presence—and even raise it over time. But that only works if people can perceive you. No matter how well a spirit acts, you can’t see it, right? Your presence is that weak.”
“...”
“You’ve struggled with acting, haven’t you? Doesn’t it feel like other people’s energy restricts you, like your body won’t move the way you want? I loosened that for you earlier.”
“Earlier?”
“Yeah. At the drama set this morning.”
Shock flashed across Yoomyeong’s face.
The first time his acting had felt “right”—
had been because of this creature.
That explained why he couldn’t reproduce it during the audition.
“So... do normal actors always feel that comfortable?”
“I suppose so. As long as they’re above average, they rarely feel constrained by others’ energy.”
“So according to you... I never had any chance to begin with. I thought that if I kept working hard, I’d eventually break through at least once...”
“...”
“Right. I have cancer anyway. I’m finished.”
His already dim expression collapsed into despair as he opened another can of beer and drained it in one go.
The fox watched him with a hint of sympathy.
A human who had lived his entire life with such weak life energy—
and instead of regretting becoming an actor, he lamented that he could no longer continue.
“There is a way.”
“A way?”
“I can share my energy with you.”
“What? Really? Why?”
“I’m an acting spirit. I love acting. If you show me good acting, that’s enough.”
“...That’s the most tempting thing I’ve ever heard. If I didn’t have cancer, I might have accepted immediately.”
Yoomyeong gave a bitter smile.
“Should I send you back to when you were twenty?”
“What?”
“Should I return you to the age of twenty—and increase your life energy?”
“Is... that even possible?”
“Well... it would be a major investment for me.”
The fox drew out a golden tail hidden among its nine silver ones and stroked it.
It was not a nine-tailed fox—
but a ten-tailed one.
And it was about to use its tenth tail.
“What’s the catch? My soul?”
“Hey, hey—I don’t do that. You’ve already ‘accepted my life energy’ and ‘agreed to return to the past,’ haven’t you? If you show me great acting, that’s enough.”
“How can this benefit only me? What are you—an angel?”
The fox curled one corner of its mouth.
“No. It benefits me, too.”
“Thank you!”
“Then it’s settled. Ready to go back to being twenty?”
“W-wait!”
At the last moment, Yoomyeong raised his hand.
The fox suppressed its impatience and asked calmly,
“What is it?”
“I can’t go back to twenty! I was in the military then!!”
He had served at twenty-one and twenty-two.
“Take me to when I was twenty-three. And... can it be spring?”
“Sure. Take ✪ Nоvеlіgһt ✪ (Official version) my hand.”
The fox extended its front paw.
Soft silver fur.
The touch was almost gelatinous.
Completely harmless.
Yoomyeong grasped it firmly.
Turn—
The floor felt hard.
No mattress beneath him.
‘Did I fall off the bed...?’
He got up, searching for water. His throat was dry from drinking the night before.
He walked toward where the kitchen should be—
Thud—
He hit the door.
“Ah—my head...”
The kitchen should be here...
As he stood there, confused—
an unfamiliar voice spoke.
“How is it? Your younger body.”
Thud—
He fell backward again.
Inside the blanket, a tiny silver fox—only one paw sticking out—was licking its tail as it spoke.
“No. We made a contract. You’ve gone back fifteen years, kyung.”
The small fox spoke in a high, squeaky voice, as if still adjusting.
It looked like an arctic fox.
Nine small, fluffy tails bobbed behind it.
It was undeniably cute.
Without thinking, he stroked its back.
The fur flattened, then fluffed back up.
“Why are you so small?”
“Small? As I said, this required a great deal of energy. I can barely maintain this form.”
“Right... thank you. I really did come back. I’ll make sure your investment wasn’t wasted.”
“Good. Ah—ow...”
At that moment—
something appeared in Yoomyeong’s vision.
Your contract with the spirit fox has been established.
According to the contract, you must accept the presence of the spirit fox.
〈 Presence 〉
29/100
“Are you seeing this? It says I have to accept your presence.”
“Yeah. That’s part of the contract. What’s your current value?”
“Twenty-nine.”
The fox widened its eyes, then clicked its tongue.
“Not even thirty... you really had it rough.”
“...Is that so?”
“I’m going to give you some. How much do you want—between twenty and fifty?”
“I can choose? Then fifty—no, wait.”
Yoomyeong hesitated.
‘Is higher always better?’
He remembered a senior’s advice.
— If you’re not the lead, standing out too much can be a problem. A good supporting role doesn’t overshadow the lead.
That senior had once been scolded just for standing out.
‘I won’t always be the lead. Too much presence could become a problem.’
If he took fifty, his total would be seventy-nine.
High.
Very high.
Tempting.
But—
‘Slowly. Within my limits.’
“I’ll take twenty-five.”
“What? Why?! If you can take fifty, why not?!”
“Too much presence might get in the way right now. Even twenty-one would make me average—but I’m human. I want to be just a little above that.”
He smiled—without greed.
The fox grumbled, then sighed.
“...Fine. That might be more interesting anyway.”
Yoomyeong gently stroked its ears.
“It tickles—hey, stop—!”
The fox wriggled, flipping onto its back and exposing its soft pink belly.
Unable to resist, Yoomyeong rubbed it.
Warm.
“You’re a spirit. Why are you warm?”
“I’ve materialized. Others can see me now.”
“Then be my pet.”
“No. Then I couldn’t follow you when you act.”
“...Fair.”
“Still, that name doesn’t suit you. Since you’re a gumiho... how about Miho?”
“Call me whatever you want. Just accept the presence.”
A red glow spread through its silver fur—
then flowed into him.
Warmth flooded his body.
You have received the spirit fox’s presence.
〈 Presence 〉
54 (29+25)/100
“Thank you, Miho!”
He hugged the fox tightly.
“I’m lazy. Acting is all I care about. Outside the blanket is dangerous.”
“...Alright.”
He tucked Miho in and left.
After a shower, he stared at the mirror.
About a month since discharge.
Short hair.
Youthful skin.
Firm body.
‘I didn’t look so bad in my twenties.’
His expression—
felt sharper.
Was it the life energy?
Or just steam on the mirror?
He got dressed.
Boot-cut jeans.
Outdated now—but normal then.
“Yoomyeong, you look good today.”
“Do I? I’m heading out!”
After eating quickly, he left.
The bus ride took an hour.
A beige-and-yellow Gyeonggi Passenger bus.
Music playing.
‘It really is that time.’
He smiled.
Reached for his phone—
A flip phone.
Right.
He folded it and put it away.
‘I just got discharged. First day back. And... that class.’
He cracked his knuckles.
Energy surged through his body.
‘I’ll make use of this second chance.’
As he pressed the stop button, the driver spoke.
“You must be a student. You look like you’re having a good day. It’s nice just seeing you.”
Yoomyeong looked around.
No one else.
‘Someone... spoke to me?’
It was trivial.
But for him—
it wasn’t.
“Thank you. Have a good day too.”
A three-credit course.
Yoomyeong sat quietly in the corner.
A business major—
among Theater and Film students.
Thirty seats.
Small class.
He remembered shrinking under pressure before.
‘This time will be different.’
People were already noticing him.
‘Who is that?’
‘Not a loner...’
‘Non-major?’
Then—
the professor entered.
“Lee Jae Pil.”
Straight to the point.
“For the midterm, a fifteen-minute one-act play. Until then, group practice. Afterward, analysis.”
Students nodded.
The class was infamous.
Demanding.
Brutal.
But valuable.
“As you know, Method Acting is not exaggeration. It is synchronization with the character to create a natural and truthful performance.”
He paused.
“This semester’s theme: acting as something fundamentally different from yourself.”
