Chapter 17: When Effort Begins to Show

“Cut! That was great!”

The shoot wrapped up smoothly.

At the director’s suggestion, they hadn’t told Oh Eunseo—who played the female lead, Woo Hayun—about the ad-lib beforehand and had simply gone ahead with the first take. As a result, her reaction came out vividly real.

According to the script, Yeonun was supposed to hand over the arrow without resistance. But Sim Eunchan didn’t think Yeonun would do that. Yeonun was quiet, but he wasn’t an emotionless character. Anyone who had made it into the Hwarang wouldn’t lack competitiveness.

Eunchan saw this scene as the moment Yeonun first revealed his feelings—after watching Lee Muhun and Woo Hayun slowly grow closer right beside him.

That was why, while delivering his lines, he fixed his gaze on Woo Hayun and deliberately didn’t let go of the arrow right away. He tightened his grip just enough to force her to look at him.

Since there was no direction written in the script, Oh Eunseo seemed momentarily flustered and tugged once more. When Eunchan still didn’t release the arrow, she instinctively looked at him—and her expression at that moment was so genuine that they decided to use the shot.

The line “Now you’re finally looking at me” hadn’t existed originally. It was spoken on impulse—born from a sense of quiet hurt at standing near her all this time while she never once looked his way.

The line “I’ll head on first” wasn’t in the script either. There was no special action direction, either.

Originally, the scene was supposed to end with “I remembered something I forgot” before Yeonun simply left. But Eunchan added an ad-lib there. He extended his hand as if to pat Muhun’s shoulder—then hesitated. Though he supported his friend, Yeonun wasn’t comfortable encouraging Muhun to spend time with Woo Hayun while harboring feelings of his own. Eunchan wanted to show that reluctance.

He thought through various ways to convey Yeonun’s emotions—even those not written in the script. If you don’t express it, it won’t be conveyed. Just because it wasn’t written didn’t mean he should stop there. Even if it ended up cut in editing, he wanted to do everything he could.

And for the most part, it earned praise from both the director and the cast.

“Good work!”

“Eunchan, great job! That ad-lib was fantastic. You’re really built for acting—I’m glad I cast you. From now on, I’ll trust you with ad-libs, so try whatever you want.”

It was praise beyond anything he could have hoped for. Holding back the emotions swelling inside him, Eunchan replied,

“Thank you. Good work.”

After his part wrapped up smoothly, they exchanged greetings while moving on to the next scene.

“Eunchan.”

Oh Eunseo, who played Woo Hayun, called out to him. Thanks to Kim Hyuin, they’d exchanged greetings before, but this was their first proper conversation.

“Oh—yes, senior. I’m sorry if I startled you earlier with the ad-lib without discussing it first.”

“No, it’s fine. The director told me to go along with it, right? I think it actually made the scene better. Yeonun’s emotions came through more clearly. And honestly, I’m fine with whatever ad-lib you throw at me.”

She might have been saying it deliberately to ease his tension—but even hearing it meant more than she could know. Kindness was never a given.

“I’m still sorry. It must’ve caught you off guard.”

“Nothing to apologize for. You clearly put a lot of thought into it, and thanks to that we got a great scene.”

Oh Eunseo smiled brightly.

“Oh—here. Take this. It’s still warm.”

Eunchan handed her a hot pack he’d been carrying in his padded coat pocket. She thanked him and accepted it without hesitation.

From that shoot onward, he grew closer to Oh Eunseo as well. Within just three days of filming, the main cast had gathered together and exchanged phone numbers. His idol instincts waged an intense internal debate over whether it was okay to save a woman’s contact—but in the end, he did.

They were co-stars on the same drama, exchanging numbers together. He couldn’t exactly say, “I’m an idol, so…” and refuse. It wasn’t romantic interest—just goodwill. Refusing would’ve been nothing but excessive self-consciousness. Before being an idol, he was a person, and this was basic courtesy.

As they grew closer, they occasionally shared deeper conversations. Everyone was around the same age, struggling with similar worries.

Perhaps because none of the main cast was especially famous yet, and their positions were similar, they bonded faster and more deeply than expected. The set atmosphere became so good that they sometimes filmed more than planned—or finished early and wrapped for the day.

Only Lee Saerim’s attitude remained unchanged. He’d disliked Eunchan since the script reading, and though it never escalated beyond petty jabs and sulking, it lingered. Still, it was nothing Eunchan couldn’t brush off.

Part of that was his high mental resilience—but another reason was the countless incidents he’d endured while touring rural events with B the 1. Compared to being cursed at or having stones thrown, this was nothing. Unless someone got physically threatening, there was no reason to be afraid.

What was far more unbearable than Lee Saerim was the cold.

Eunchan was especially sensitive to it, and filming hanbok offered almost no insulation. When he could wear a padded coat while waiting, it was manageable—but during actual shooting, the cold became unbearable, his hands stiffening.

He still had it better than most. The leads with heavy dialogue would sometimes hold ice in their mouths before shooting so their breath wouldn’t show. Some seriously debated wearing thermal underwear beneath their costumes.

Around the time they’d filmed roughly half of the sixteen episodes, news finally came through that the drama had secured a broadcast contract. The timing was earlier than in his previous life, but the cable network was the same—NVN.

A drama originally slated for airing had been abruptly canceled after its lead actor became embroiled in a personal scandal and lawsuit. Searching for a replacement, the network’s attention landed on Crescent Moon, Blood-Blooming Summer Night Sky Flower. The schedule became tight after the rushed programming decision, but it was slotted into NVN’s prime Friday–Saturday evening time slot—too good an opportunity to pass up.

To meet the broadcast date, the schedule grew brutally intense. It was exhausting—but far better than not even knowing where the drama would air. On top of that, it was set to follow a hugely popular show, raising hopes for strong ratings. The mood on set lifted even more.

Despite enjoying the filming and getting along well with the cast, the sheer amount of time consumed by shooting left him surviving on barely an hour of sleep a day. Resting during wait times wasn’t the same as proper sleep. Even with the physical conditioning he’d built up as an idol trainee, there were limits.

Sometimes he barely knew how he was delivering lines or performing action scenes. At least he wasn’t making many NGs—that was the silver lining.

Because filming took up so much time, he couldn’t physically practice choreography. With Lee Haemin gone and a new member joining, the group needed time to sync—but he felt guilty for being tied up with solo activities.

Dozing off whenever he found a moment, he sometimes thought that instead of mental resilience, he should’ve gotten infinite stamina as a bonus trait.

Thankfully, he was the youngest on set, so people naturally treated him gently. Not in any conspicuous way—but when he wobbled from lack of sleep, they didn’t brush it off. They worried, at least a little. That alone made a noticeable difference.

Grateful for the warm atmosphere created by the staff and fellow actors, Eunchan pushed himself to work even harder.

Then, one day, as he barely kept up with the demanding schedule, the director called for him.

“You called for me, sir?”

“Oh, Eunchan—you’re here. How’s filming been lately?”

The director gestured for a staff member to step aside.

The sudden question felt deliberate. In the middle of such a busy schedule, this wasn’t small talk.

“Thanks to the seniors helping me so much, I’ve actually been managing fairly comfortably.”

“Hm. That’s good. And maybe because of that—you’ve been doing even better than I expected.”

“Thank you.”

Sim Eunchan bowed deeply.