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After Myeong Jeha left, Ji Haebeom pulled the cat into his arms and fell into thought. The texture was soft and plush under his hands, but his mind was anything but.
‘The loss would be big.’
He wasn’t in a position where he desperately needed money within the year. He had already completed his military service, and Ji Haebeom was practically synonymous with hitmaker.
It would be nice to add 〈The Great Garland〉 to his filmography, but even if it collapsed, he wouldn’t suffer serious damage. He was already at the top.
‘The best option is still to wait.’
It would be easy. Just stay on standby until the situation calmed down. Eventually, it would become clear whether 〈The Great Garland〉 would continue or fold.
Even if he didn’t step in, projects that were meant to succeed would succeed. Those that weren’t wouldn’t.
But in the quiet of the night, there was someone making noise inside his head.
Han Yeoreum.
That young actress’s voice echoed faintly in his ears.
‘...At the script reading.’
He recalled the script reading before crank-in. He had immediately caught Huijae’s subtle shift.
At first, Huijae had spoken gently, almost hesitantly, as if reciting textbook diction. But gradually she changed.
‘There was an intonation.’
That’s how language works. You end up resembling the person you speak with most.
Huijae, who had still been awkward in Korean when she promised to go see fireflies together, had begun to resemble Taeseok’s speech patterns.
As if she had thought of Taeseok again and again while they were apart.
“Ah... guess there’s no helping it....”
Ji Haebeom buried his nose in the cat’s head and rubbed it lightly. He wouldn’t regret the project. But if he let Han Yeoreum slip away like this, he would regret that.
In a year or two, she wouldn’t yet ❀ Nоvеlігht ❀ (Don’t copy, read here) be at a level to stand shoulder to shoulder with him. Which meant that if they were to meet again, he would have to lower himself.
So he decided he would step in—make even a failing project succeed.
He watched the cat melt out of his arms and pad away across the wide house. With a reluctant sigh, he searched for his phone and finally made a call.
“Hello, Director.”
—Haebeom? What’s with the call at this hour? Something happen?
“No. Nothing happened. I just wanted to say something.”
—Why are you talking like that? You’re scaring me. Just say it. You didn’t cause trouble, right?
“I’ll fill in the missing investment for 〈The Great Garland〉.”
Three seconds of silence followed.
Then a near-scream burst through the line. Ji Haebeom had already moved the phone away from his ear the moment the silence stretched.
—Are you crazy? You need to lie low right now!
“Yeah. Maybe I am crazy....”
He answered calmly, without a trace of laughter, while his agency director panted on the other end.
“Ha... whatever changed your mind, don’t put in too much. Got it? Just enough for publicity. Keep it pretty. Pretty!”
“Of course. I know.”
Ji Haebeom reassured him several times as the agency director demanded repeated promises in his agitated state.
After the call ended, he stared at the blank screen and muttered quietly,
“Maybe I should’ve asked for her number after all....”
Within hours, news that Ji Haebeom had invested in 〈The Great Garland〉 spread quickly to Taiwan.
* * *
On the table lay neatly arranged still cuts and materials from 〈The Great Garland〉. On the laptop screen, a recently uploaded article about the drama was open.
“...The situation’s better than I expected.”
A middle-aged man crossed his arms as he studied the screen. Another man in a gray suit nodded.
“If we miss this timing, it’ll be awkward. Especially since it’s confirmed Ji Haebeom personally invested.”
The conference room buzzed.
Just mentioning the name changed the air.
Ji Haebeom.
One of Korea’s top actors.
The fact that he had personally invested under his own name signaled more than profit—it signaled confidence in both the work and the star power. More than anything, it suggested this could become the definitive masterpiece to steady the chaotic Korean drama market.
Unclear guarantee payments. Actor withdrawals. Indefinitely delayed schedules. Replacement dramas rushed in. Storylines collapsing in the latter half...
“And the female lead is Eun Baekhap. Both are top-tier in Korea and have strong recognition in our country as well.”
Just the casting of Ji Haebeom and Eun Baekhap was enough to appeal not only domestically but also to overseas K-drama fandoms.
The withdrawn Chinese investment was enormous, far beyond expectations. But still—it was doable.
The solemn-looking man folded his arms and recalled something.
It was because 〈Faster Than the Law〉 had recently left theaters. It had already been proven since 〈Strange Tales〉 that Korean works could gain popularity in Taiwan.
‘Two consecutive hits. The next one will carry even greater anticipation.’
When the Korean Wave ban was announced, the Asian market stirred.
Taiwanese investors saw opportunity in the chaos.
“Summarize the story again.”
“It centers on an ambitious man who seeks to climb the class ladder between Japan’s defeat and the Korean War—and his first love. It portrays the postwar era with realism.”
They could leverage the premium image Korean dramas held across Asia. More importantly, it touched on postwar East Asian history—something with immense value.
“It could resonate culturally with a shared Asian emotional sensibility.”
The solemn man nodded. The atmosphere had already solidified in one direction.
“And Eun Baekhap’s younger counterpart—Han Yeoreum—is, as you know, currently extremely popular in Taiwan. She ranks in every teen-targeted survey.”
He knew that well. Han Yeoreum’s Ruel interview was known even among Taiwanese audiences who didn’t regularly watch K-dramas. The public had poured boundless affection onto a foreign star who openly loved their country.
“I’ve really wanted to visit Taiwan at least once. I think Taiwan could become my second home.”
‘Han Yeoreum....’
“〈Secret〉 is considered a masterpiece even in Korea. It’s the first film people think of when they talk about Taiwanese sensibility.”
‘Han Yeoreum....’
“When you think of youth, isn’t it Taiwan? Those uniquely still long takes feel like life’s most beautiful moments slipping by before we even realize it... centered around the inner emotional flow...”
‘Han Yeoreum....’
The investors seated there had felt the same way reading her “I love you, Taiwan” interview in Ruel.
Their judgment of value was precise. Their emotional reading clear. There was no need to hesitate further.
“Proceed.”
Taiwan decided to invest in 〈The Great Garland〉, including broadcasting rights.
Everything moved quickly.
Upon hearing the news, Korean investors reopened their wallets. Frozen funds began to flow again.
And so, 〈The Great Garland〉 became the first production to resume filming in the unprecedented chaos of the Korean Wave ban.
“Ahhh! What is this! Seriously!”
“It’s done now, don’t cry, don’t cry....”
“...What are you talking about? The director’s the one crying.”
“I was talking to myself....”
Writer An and Director Ja jumped around wildly after reviewing the revised shooting schedule. After a long frenzy, they collapsed into chairs, gasping.
“What kind of divine luck is this? Ji Haebeom really did something huge....”
“Right? Damn it, I need to write Gi Taeseok insanely well. Make it the strongest mark on Ji Haebeom’s filmography!” ƒrēewebnoѵёl.cσm
They clinked beer bottles and gulped them down. The alcohol tasted especially sweet tonight.
“But seriously, thank goodness. Imagine if we’d cast that idol-turned-actor kid. We probably would’ve had even more Chinese investment.”
“And the blow would’ve been even worse... And it’s not just that. Taiwan probably pushed in more money after seeing Ji Haebeom—but Han Yeoreum too.”
“Really? She’s still such a rookie.”
“She’s huge in Taiwan right now. Even the K-pop fans love her because she’s MC-ing that music show.”
They exchanged knowing grins.
“Twenty-three.”
“Too low. Go higher.”
“Then twenty-four.”
“Come on. It’s Ahn Junmyeong and Ja Sokhwan.”
Writer An slammed her empty beer bottle onto the table confidently.
“Twenty-seven.”
Her highest-rated drama had peaked at nineteen percent.
Nearly ten percent higher—her eyes gleamed with certainty.
* * *
The teaser for 〈The Fuse〉 was released.
“Oh, Do Gyeoul’s new project is out.”
A new recruit murmured in admiration at the screen. The teaser looked almost like a palace-themed pictorial collection.
An elegant gayageum melody flowed.
Under a wall thick with trumpet creeper blossoms, a girl in a scarlet jeogori appeared. Okjeong smiled brightly at the camera. freёwebnoѵel.com
Then an incongruously cold voice followed.
—Are nobility and lowliness truly decided at birth?
A foggy sky filled the frame. The camera glided into the palace.
Sukjong sat on the throne. The man dominating the gold-glittering space delivered an arrogant line, as if proving his noble status.
—I alone am the sky. I am your sky.
The camera shifted beside him. Before an ink-painted folding screen, a graceful woman set down her teacup.
—....
Queen Inhyeon said nothing.
Instead, she met the camera with an emotionless gaze.
With pounding percussion, the scenes cut rapidly.
Ministers’ feet moving chaotically. Court ladies bowing their heads. Trumpet creeper blossoms dropping one by one.
Under that same wall, Okjeong and Sukjong embraced, their love just beginning.
Yet at the same time, ominous music played against the warmth of the scene. The mournful sound of the geomungo seemed to foreshadow their fate.
〈The Fuse〉
Premieres May 1.
