Chapter 6 Part 6: Like A Donkey Crossing Cold Water

At last, the drama officially entered its crank-in phase.

The instruction given to Yejun was simple:

Until it was his turn to film, he was to train at the action school.

Though it was a one-sided role where he killed people indiscriminately, the character required genuine, Chinese-mafia-style axe action, which meant coordination with stunt performers was crucial.

On the bus heading to the action school in Paju right after finishing his amusement park part-time job, Yejun sat staring out the window.

He should have been reviewing the script and mentally rehearsing the scenes he needed to learn today, but instead, he watched the scenery slide past outside.

After all, he had already repeated Pierrot rehearsals enough times to fully memorize every movement.

However, one problem still remained.

‘Whenever I enter the script, Zhang Wei takes over my mind.’

This was different from Go Youngcheol’s empty soul.

Zhang Wei was a genuine demon.

Even by numbers alone, he had killed several times more people than Go Youngcheol, who was merely a serial killer.

For a man who did anything for money, something nauseatingly vile lived inside him.

At the script reading, Yejun hadn’t had the time to wear the mask and rehearse for concentration beforehand, so he’d managed to maintain his sanity.

But once actual filming began, it was obvious he would display strange behavior again—just like during the Go Youngcheol incident.

‘What am I supposed to do?’

Director Kim Minsu had told him to face it head-on.

But he couldn’t exactly bring alcohol onto a filming set.

For a single episode where he shot one scene and finished, maybe it would be manageable.

But if filming continued scene after scene, he would inevitably end up behaving like Zhang Wei until shooting wrapped.

That could lead to him being rude to senior actors or staff.

There were too many things to worry about.

‘At least it’s a relief that since I’m playing a criminal, I won’t be directly interacting with Chief Lee Sooncheol.’

If he happened to meet Lee Sooncheol while fully immersed as Zhang Wei, who knew what his inner demon might say.

As for Su-il hyung, aside from a scene after arrest in an office, they wouldn’t cross paths.

A precinct chief didn’t run around crime scenes, after all.

Jihoon, Jisoo, and the bit-part detectives he’d met at the wrap party, though—he’d be interacting with them quite a lot.

‘I appear briefly in Episode 1, then from Episode 2 onward, the Chinese mafia enters Korea in earnest and takes over the Joseonjok district in Guro.’

‘The brutal murder of the existing Joseonjok gang members becomes an issue, and perceptive detectives begin pursuing them starting Episode 3.’

‘That means up until Episode 2, I won’t directly face Jihoon.’

After rehearsals, whether he drank alcohol or slept, the abnormal symptoms disappeared.

So the calculation was this:
He needed to fully internalize Zhang Wei through extensive rehearsals, then eliminate the concentration process right before entering the actual set.

Only then could he function as a normal actor.

Of course, rehearsing for five minutes immediately before shooting would produce the best performance.

Because he would truly become Zhang Wei.

But that was far too dangerous.

If he were a veteran actor, maybe it would pass.

But if a rookie continued acting like a murderer even after the cut signal, people would definitely find it strange.

When he arrived at the action school, the martial arts director—someone he’d met several times before—greeted him warmly.

“Hey, Yejun.

You’re here again today?”

“Hello, Director.

I’m here to practice again today.”

“Haha, people as diligent as you are rare.

I hear you even have another job in the mornings.

Aren’t you exhausted, coming here every day like this?”

“I’m fine.”

“Really.

Guess it’s because you’re young?

Haha.

Then go change and come out.”

After changing into the workout clothes provided by the school and returning, Yejun spotted the prop axe.

But grabbing the axe before stretching would earn him a scolding from the director.

As he stretched his legs wide on the floor, the stunt performers began to gather around.

“Whoa, Yejun’s here again today?

You’re basically a professional stuntman at this point.

Perfect attendance, huh?

Feels like we’ve been seeing you every day for two weeks now.”

“Yejun, you’re here again?

Aren’t you overdoing it?”

Diligence really did disarm people in the industry.

Since he attended classes earnestly every day, the action school staff treated him kindly and even helped him stretch.

Soon, the martial arts director came out and explained the scene they would practice today, teaching them several sequences.

Action scenes were incredibly difficult.

Sometimes even harder than emotional acting.

If he made a mistake, not only could he get hurt, but his partner could as well, so he had to stay intensely focused.

Today’s scene involved charging alone like a beast into a group of knife-wielding Joseonjok gang members and hacking at them with an axe.

He was supposed to be stabbed twice.

The old-school style of emerging unscathed while mowing down enemies was outdated.

Modern dramas and films favored realistic action—getting injured but ultimately winning.

The director picked up the axe and spoke.

“Starting today, we’ll be practicing scenes that will actually be used in the drama.

We’ve only done basic drills so far, so things should get a bit more fun now.”

Demonstrating with the actors lined up, the director continued.

“First, you kick one guy, then strike between the neck and trapezius of the actor beside him.

Then kick to pull the blade out.

Dodge once here, dodge twice, cut the wrist, and then the knife from behind stabs into the shoulder blade area.”

“Got it?

When a knife goes into your back, the body instinctively arches.

It hurts, right?

But Zhang Wei acts like pain means nothing—he staggers once, then immediately swings the axe.

Like this.”

Honestly, he didn’t even need the explanation.

He’d rehearsed this hundreds of times.

But if it looked like he wasn’t listening, he’d be chewed out.

No matter how friendly he seemed, the martial arts director was deadly serious about his work.

The moment someone treated action lightly, he turned into a tiger.

After demonstrating with the stunt performers, the director flipped the axe handle and handed it over.

“Alright.

Let’s start slow.

Think of it like slow-motion video.”

“Yes, Director.”

“You won’t get it perfect right away, so watch out for injuries.

Let’s go.”

At the director’s signal, the stunt performers began acting.

From the outside, they looked like real gangsters, and as they slowly prepared, the director called out.

“Zhang Wei, enter!”

Facial acting wasn’t necessary.

Right now, synchronizing movements mattered most.

Yejun charged in and kicked the stuntman in front of him.

It wasn’t a hard kick—more of a push with the sole.

But the stuntman flew back as if he’d been truly struck.

‘Whoa… that looks real.’

As expected, professionals really were different.

The actors reacted instantly.

Before the person next to him could move, Yejun struck between the neck and trapezius with the axe, then kicked his chest to pull the blade free.

A man beside him slowly swung a knife toward his head.

Yejun ducked, and immediately another man appeared from behind, stabbing toward his abdomen.

Twisting his body to evade the blade, Yejun smashed the man’s wrist with the axe, sending him collapsing while clutching his arm as if it had been severed.

Then someone grabbed the back of Yejun’s neck from behind and stabbed into his shoulder blade.

Just as the director had said, Yejun arched and staggered once, then spun around and buried the axe into the attacker’s head.

“Cut!

Ohhh—Yejun, you’ve got real talent!”

The fallen actors got up, dusting themselves off.

When Yejun helped them to their feet, the director, watching with satisfaction, said,

“Alright, let’s increase the speed a little.”

The same sequence.

Just slightly faster.

Not full speed yet—doing that this early would definitely get someone hurt.

His learning speed couldn’t help but be fast.

He’d seen this scene hundreds of times in Pierrot rehearsals.

He’d lived it.

The director watched Yejun closely, tilting his head.

“What is this—do you have stunt experience?

Why is your progress so fast?”

After only three practice runs with zero mistakes, the director—now convinced Yejun was naturally gifted—asked,

“Yejun.

You’re progressing almost too fast.

How about doing it properly once?”

That meant full speed.

“Yes, Director.”

“Don’t push yourself.

It’s a prop axe, so that part’s fine—but at higher speeds, you might actually hit someone.

Be careful.

We can’t afford injuries.

And you guys too—understood?

You getting hurt is bad, but Yejun absolutely cannot get injured.”

“Yes, Director!”

That was… strangely touching.

Basically saying, if someone has to get hurt, let it be you guys instead.

Did viewers ever realize how much effort stunt performers put in behind the scenes?

Probably not.

They didn’t need to know, either.

The scene began again.

As Zhang Wei’s axe flew through the flock like a beast unleashed, the martial arts director’s eyes grew wider and wider.

‘W-what is this?’

Was this even possible?

Only three times.

Three slow-motion runs, then one for fun at real speed—yet that absurd level of perfection?

The stunt performers had practiced this countless times before Yejun arrived, so it made sense for them.

But Yejun hadn’t.

Three tries—and that level of movement?

‘No—no!’

A stunt performer, fully immersed, moved past the practiced section and launched into the next action.

This was a sequence the stuntmen knew—but Yejun didn’t.

‘Shit!

That idiot lost focus—huh…?’

The axe buried in the opponent’s head as Yejun crushed the man who stabbed his back.

Of course, a prop axe couldn’t actually embed itself, so the move should end with releasing the handle.

The next scene involved a Joseonjok charging from behind at an unarmed Zhang Wei.

Zhang Wei spins, knocks him down with a spinning kick, runs up the wall, yanks the axe free from the skull, and throws it at the fallen enemy.

Bang!

Pa—papap!!

Crash!

Thud!

In the blink of an eye, the unplanned sequence unfolded.

While the other actors froze in shock, Yejun executed the exact ideal action the director had envisioned—without a single deviation.

The soft prop axe spun through the air and landed squarely on the chest of the fallen actor.

The martial arts director stared in disbelief, stammering,

“W-what… what just happened?”

The other actors rushed over to the fallen stuntman.

“Hey!

You okay?”

“You idiot!

That wasn’t even a scene Yejun knows!

What were you thinking?”

The stuntman blinked, then scratched his head with a sheepish grin.

“Oh… was it?”

“You looked like you got hit for real!”

Are you okay?”

“Me?

Didn’t get hit.

He twisted his kick angle before hitting my face.

I just sold it and fell.”

“…..”

The actors slowly turned to stare at Yejun.

Still frozen in his axe-throwing pose, Yejun gradually relaxed his body.

Seeing him casually dust off his palms, the actors began whispering.

“What the hell?

We didn’t even practice that part—how did he know how to move?”

“Did he memorize the entire script?

The action storyboard is roughly in there.”

“Are you insane?

Who can match real action choreography just from storyboards?

Even we can’t do that.”

The director, more shocked than anyone, stood with his mouth agape, staring only at Yejun.

‘What… is that guy?’