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“Please, get on.”
Myungdo and Seoryeong stepped onto the small ferry. This was Hyeonunji, where the dark spirit lurked. The greater the fear grew, the more the darkness swallowed the village.
“Hey, stay still! Isn’t it sinking because of you?”
Clutching the hand Myungdo offered, Seoryeong climbed onto the tiny ferry, eyes wide with fear at the fragile boat. Myungdo let out a small laugh and steadied the wobbling Seoryeong.
“That cannot be.”
What Seoryeong chose was to make the village shine brightly even at night. Buying glowing lanterns and setting off fireworks consumed every last coin she owned.
Myungdo remembered Seoryeong once saying that when the time came to die, she would spend all her possessions and die with nothing left. The thought froze him. It made him realize how close death truly was.
Are you determined to keep the words you once said—to die, in the end?
“You have to do it properly. Do it properly!”
“Even without such urging, I can row a single oar just fine.”
“I said I don’t like falling into the water!”
“I, too, would rather not fall into the water, so you needn’t worry.”
Watching Myungdo’s expression then, Seoryeong shrugged. And she said that this much spending was fine—she could earn it back quickly later. She even snapped, asking what he thought she was.
It was the first promise Seoryeong had ever made in her life. The way she spoke as if there would be a next time made Myungdo’s face light up.
Like a lantern in the middle of the night.
“It’s as bright as daytime, even though it’s night.”
“Of course. Do you know how much I spent?”
Seoryeong and Myungdo gazed at the lanterns that filled the sky, embroidered across it, and fell into thought for a moment.
The end was approaching. Soon, they would have to meet Yeomga. At the final moment, Seoryeong made up her mind. Just as Myungdo had said many times, there were ways to punish Yeomga other than death.
To strip her of divine power and imprison her.
There existed an option—a narrow line—by which Seoryeong might barely keep her life.
“What do you want to do later?”
“...Pardon?”
“After everything is over. I’m asking what you want to do.”
“Well. For now, I simply hope the country becomes peaceful.”
Seoryeong turned her head, about to scold him for such an answer—what kind of answer was that?—when Myungdo’s gaze met hers, straight and unwavering.
As if from the very beginning, his eyes had been fixed on Seoryeong alone.
“How much do you think I spent for that peace? Don’t say such boring things—just look at the lanterns! An event like this will never be held again in such a backwater.”
Seoryeong turned her head away, grumbling for no reason. That was when it happened. A fierce gust of wind swept through, and the ferry creaked.
“Ahh...! Seriously, row properly!”
“A boat may sway for a moment.”
“Do you think I don’t know that? This is a very small boat! If it were a big one, I wouldn’t be this nervous!”
Myungdo laughed at Seoryeong, who trembled while still shouting. The wind rose again.
“Ah...! My string! My obok string!”
The string tied around Seoryeong’s wrist came loose and flew far away. Just as Seoryeong was about to cry at the sight of the obok string bobbing on the water—
Splash.
Something was thrown onto the calm surface.
Myungdo swam toward it. The sound of splashing rang out several times. Seoryeong watched Myungdo’s back as he cut through the darkness. He returned to the ferry, the fallen string clenched in his hand.
“It’s a bit wet, but... I’ll tie it again for you.”
Afraid that climbing back up would tip the boat, Myungdo stayed in the water, unable to board the ferry at all. Seoryeong looked down at him.
A night where moonlight fractured. Lanterns from which neither of them could write their wishes, sent off anyway, embroidered the sky beautifully. It was a moment that made one side of the heart glow.
“What is it?”
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“Ah, if you dislike touching it because it’s wet, I can hold onto it separately for a while and return it after it dries—”
“Your wounds haven’t healed yet.”
As Myungdo held out the string, water dripping from it, Seoryeong’s hand slowly reached forward. Their fingertips overlapped. It was unclear whether she was trying to retrieve the string—or to hold onto Myungdo.
“You said you shouldn’t go into the water.”
On the day Grand Prince Seonghwi’s soldiers searched the area, Myungdo had faced several well-trained men with nothing but a single sword to shake them off. The cuts from that blade had yet to heal. The wounds, touched by water, would surely worsen.
As a martial officer, Myungdo could not have been unaware of that. He was a ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) man who had lived closer to a sword than anyone.
“Yes. That much, I know as well.”
“Who asked you to fetch the obok string?”
Seoryeong spoke in a trembling voice. Myungdo’s fingers were still barely touching hers at the tips that held the string.
Myungdo looked at Seoryeong. Tenderness filled his gaze.
“Are you worried about me?”
“...Worried, my foot. It’s just that it would be troublesome if you fell ill.”
“Is that so.”
Myungdo smiled brightly. It was a smile as if he understood Seoryeong’s heart completely. Lantern light settled over his face, as though gently caressing it.
“I acted without thinking, so please forgive me this once.”
“....”
“I knew it was something you cherished.”
Myungdo slowly took Seoryeong’s hand, which rested at his fingertips. His large hand enveloped her small one, drawing it in as if that alone were enough.
“....”
Silence fell over the set. The director—Jang laid—held a megaphone but could not call for a cut.
“It’s too... beautiful a story....”
He was crying. The staff, too, covered their mouths with both hands.
[Name: Kwon Junhyeok]
Level: 890,000 followers
Delivery: C
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Kwon Junhyeok’s status window, flickering, shone beneath the lanterns.
At this moment, he was not Kwon Junhyeok but Myungdo—a man who, for the sake of the woman he held in his heart, would throw himself into cold water without hesitation, even if his wounds festered and he burned with fever.
A beautiful moment was captured like eternity within Dok Gomin’s frame. And the office worker who took it all in thought once again—
It was good that he came.
* * *
“This is insane. Completely.”
This was Daily Media, located in Jongno District, Seoul. All the reporters stared at their laptop screens, shaking their heads.
“They really have all lost their minds....”
Every reporter was stunned.
[TVM, will the final episode of <Strange Tales> be in theaters? A horror that will strike this summer]
[<Faster Than the Law> on the brink of ten million... ‘Fastest to 7 million’]
Films invested in by JC ENM and dramas they produced devoured the year. Every other day, pledge videos were released.
“That was ticketing yesterday, right?”
“Don’t even start. My friends keep begging me to sell them invitations, offering extra money—begging me.”
“But still, seeing it in a theater would be insane. Right?”
Ticketing for the final episode of <Strange Tales> was ferocious—more so than stage greetings with most top-tier actors.
Reporter Wi Jaehwi, known as Deduck.B, who needed to film a reaction video while watching the final episode live, stared at the screen with dead-fish eyes.
‘Fuck.... I should have gone....’
Aetami succeeded in the end. The result of hiring twelve mercenaries. Wi Jaehwi swallowed back tears for a moment.
“Han Yeoreum is really killing it. Feels like just yesterday she came for interview photos last year. Damn—.”
“She’s on the shortlist for <The Great Garland>, right?”
“If Jegal Rok backs her, she might play Eun Baekhap’s younger self. I mean, really—who’s rising like her these days?”
Someone cut in at that.
“Eh, not so fast. If Gi Juye comes in with China money, that’s dangerous.”
“Ah, right.... She’s got a pretty solid Chinese fandom, doesn’t she? I heard <Top Class> also had strong Chinese investment. Overseas rights issues and all.”
The conversation circled back to Do Gyeoul. ƒreewebηoveℓ.com
“But still, at the end of the day, it’s Do Gyeoul. NetHolix Japan—you know? <Beyond the Closed Door> has been number one there nonstop.”
“If that’s the case, NetHolix will probably contact Do Gyeoul first when she comes back to Korea, right?”
“Probably. And I heard she’s looking at various scripts, saying she wants to do a historical drama. Striking while the iron’s hot.”
With hit after hit exploding, entertainment reporters were ecstatic. No matter what they wrote, public attention followed by default.
“So, what do we do with this?”
They were deciding the ‘Stars to Watch in the Second Half of the Year’ rankings. After discussing female celebrities, the Daily Media reporters finally settled on the list.
Joint first place. Do Gyeoul, Han Yeoreum.
Han Yeoreum, whose name had been lingering near the bottom, surged upward. It was a terrifying pace.
* * *
And then, the final day of filming for <Strange Tales> dawned.
Yeoreum felt as though she were dreaming, as if all the moments she had lived through were running backward. One moment she had to cry, the next she had to smile; one moment she had to keep her distance, the next she had to want to stay close.
“Wow! We really worked so hard! Right!”
Director Jang laid, too, shouted loudly, torn between relief and regret. He couldn’t hide the bright smile on his face. <Strange Tales> was a drama like none before it, rewriting every record in cable drama history.
“Let’s shoot quickly! And today, everyone drinks like crazy!”
The staff laughed loudly. The generous atmosphere unique to a successful set filled the air. Just before sunset—the magic hour. They had to capture the scene then.
“Since it’s the last one, I’ll make it extra damn good for you.”
The lighting director had approached me and offered his fist. I politely bumped it with mine. He was a director I had also worked with during <ParCheHi>.
“We talked among ourselves, you know.”
“Yes? About what?”
“About which agency Yeoreum would go to back then.”
Ah, right. I didn’t have an agency at the time. Only a year had passed, but maybe because I’d lived so frantically, my memory felt hazy.
“So where did you bet, Director? Bon Actors? Jeongdam? LM?”
“None of those three.”
“Then where?”
The lighting director smiled, watching the rails being set.
“Just... somewhere really good. I didn’t expect JC to even create a label just to take you, though.”
The bustling set. Thinking that I now had to part with this place made me feel strangely bittersweet. I remembered the final shoot of <ParCheHi>.
Running up mountain paths under the blazing sun, layered in hanbok. Groggily rereading lines. Waiting for the meal truck. Getting bitten by mosquitoes and bugs. Living as Seoryeong.
Now, it was all over.
“But you know—no one argued with me. We all kind of knew it, subconsciously. That Yeoreum would make it.”
“Is it fair to make me cry right before filming? If you do this, I’ll really cry.”
“I’m not saying it to make you cry. Just... that’s how we felt.”
The lighting director nodded plainly. By now, the staff moving busily were making final checks.
“Director—!”
“Oh! Coming!”
Someone called for the lighting director. He patted my shoulder lightly and headed toward the bright lights.
“Thank you for being Seoryeong. It’s been a long time since I met a project that felt this worth the struggle. Yeah—thanks to you. Your next project will succeed too.”
It was obvious he’d debated for a long time over whether to say that. Letters were smudged across the palm of his hand as he walked toward the lights.
“Your cheat sheet is showing way too much.”
This just makes the goodbye harder....
“Yeoreum! Let’s do the blocking rehearsal once!”
“Yes! Coming!”
Still, it was time to end things with Seoryeong. Let’s go meet Huijae.
* * *
It was beautiful. No other words came to mind. Because it was the final shoot, Geum Bitgang willingly came out.
‘The making camera is rolling, and I even have to attend the annoying wrap party.’
The riverside was dyed in sweet orange light. It was the scene where Seoryeong and Myungdo embraced. Perhaps because it was the last day, everyone was fired up. Rails were laid and relaid; even drones were brought in to shoot downward shots. They spared no effort.
Geum Bitgang had been on sets like this countless times. Enough that she should have been sick of it—yet—
“Cut!”
The sound of the slate.
“Great work, everyone!”
At the director’s words, people embraced, exchanged formal thanks for their hard work, and shouted in joy at the end of the relentless schedule.
“Yeoreum! Oh—are you crying the moment they call cut?”
“Sniff.... What do I do.... I don’t want it to end....”
The lead actors hugged bouquets, faces soaked with tears, struggling desperately not to part with their characters. All moments Geum Bitgang had lived through before. Nothing extraordinary.
Kwon Junhyeok and Han Yeoreum bawled. Geum Bitgang briefly recalled the past—herself, unable to accept parting, caressing the script alone even after filming ended.
“Professooor—!”
Han Yeoreum, spotting Geum Bitgang mid-cry, ran over. Without realizing it, Geum Bitgang received her in an awkward stance—neither pushing her away nor fully embracing her.
Through the tight hug, she felt a heartbeat.
“Let’s meet again next time. Then.... hngh.... from the script reading onward, you won’t have any choice but to say I was good, sob....”
“What do you mean, next?”
“There are still so many projects I want to make with you.”
August. Discomfort index: 100 percent. A day when the temperature soared past 30 degrees, and sweat poured even if you stood still.
The impudent student, hugging her with a warm body temperature of 36.5 degrees, cried and kept insisting on a next time. With Han Yeoreum holding her, back to the river, Geum Bitgang’s view was filled with the wide riverside.
“Alright. Let go.”
“Really?”
Sunlight melted and sparkled. An unbearable glare approached Geum Bitgang’s eyes.
“I said, let go.”
Perhaps she had wanted someone to hold onto her like this. Geum Bitgang smiled gently, feigning annoyance.
“Still, I’ll hug you just a little longer.... Honestly, you don’t want to part with me either, Professor.... sniff.... I know everything....”
Would Han Yeoreum be like this in her next project too—after getting used to being a lead, after securing a decent level of success?
Out of curiosity over how her sobbing student would change, Geum Bitgang decided to postpone retirement for a while. She found herself anticipating the day Han Yeoreum would devour her.
It was a feeling she hadn’t experienced in a very long time.
Amid the hot, humid air, with cicadas crying and Seoryeong crying, on the riverside glittering in gold, on one of Han Yeoreum’s days, <Strange Tales> finally finished filming.
