The unexpected words from my mother caught me off guard, a fleeting jolt of confusion that quickly gave way to a smoldering spark of anger.Â
Her words lingered in my mind, each syllable stoking a fire that flared hot and fierce within me.
“Why… why there, of all places?” I muttered, my voice barely concealing the tremor of frustration.
It was as if a switch had been flipped, and every word she spoke twisted into something bitter, something accusatory.
‘She probably thinks I’ll never even crack the top three, so what’s the point of trying?’
The thought gnawed at me, sharp and unrelenting.
“I joined because I thought I could do well. I ‘have’ to do well.”
Her soft chuckle pierced my heart, a quiet sound that carried more weight than I could bear.
“Always the same words. Don’t you ever get tired of them?” she said, her tone light but cutting.
I should’ve expected this reaction.
It wasn’t new—it was the same refrain I’d heard every time I brought up acting since I’d started again.
‘The same words, Mother. But this time, if I fail, I will die.’
That I’d died and come back, that I’d somehow clawed my way through time itself, that I was now entangled in a ridiculous game with my life as the stakes—if I told her all of this, would she believe me?
The rules of the Resurrection Project didn’t mention anything about secrecy.
Perhaps because no one would believe such a story anyway.
Or maybe, just maybe, if there was even one person out there who ‘did’ believe me, that would be a testament to my own ability.
But did I have someone like that?
Someone who’d believe this absurd tale?
Cold logic told me no.
And even if there was such a person, it wouldn’t be her.
It was a bitter truth, one I couldn’t deny.
The heat in my chest surged again.
‘Just once, couldn’t you say you believe in me, even if it’s a lie? Why, Mother… why…’
I squeezed my eyes shut, swallowing the useless words that would do nothing to change this moment.
Why did I always turn into a child in front of her?
Why did my emotions unravel, leaving me whining like some petulant kid?
My fist clenched tight, nails biting into my palm.
“I’m sorry for taking a leave of absence without telling you,” I said, forcing the words out.
“But I promise I’ll graduate, just like I said. The shoot involves a training camp, but it’s not a long schedule. It won’t take much time.”
“What’s the point of wasting time on something that’s bound to fail?” she replied, her voice flat, dismissive.
“Mother!” The word tore from my throat, louder than I intended.
I’d tried so hard to hold it in, but her words broke through my restraint.
She looked at me with those same impassive eyes, the ones that hadn’t changed in years, devoid of even the smallest flicker of expectation.
I hated that look—hated it so much it made my skin crawl.
‘This time is different. If I don’t succeed, I die. You don’t know that, do you?’
“You’d be better off spending that time at school, taking a minor role in another drama,” she added.
“Because it’s bound to fail, right?” I shot back, my voice sharp with defiance.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
For the first time, I asked her why.
I’d always avoided that question, terrified of hearing her confirm my shortcomings with her own words.
But now… now I couldn’t back down.
‘It’s laughable, isn’t it? Wanting her to acknowledge that this time will be different, somehow.’
Was it my cursed pride?
Or the lingering, desperate need for her approval?
“What… what do you mean?” she stammered, her voice unsteady.
Her eyes wavered, a rare crack in her composure.
Her lips trembled, and then, abruptly, she stood, her chair scraping against the floor.
“Just go,” she said, her voice cold and final.
“Mother?”
“When your parents say no, it’s no! Why do you need a reason? What do you want to hear?”
‘Why is she reacting like this?’
I’d never seen her so shaken, so raw.
It was as if my question had struck some deep, hidden wound.
I tried to say something, anything, to salvage the conversation, but she stormed into her room and slammed the door shut.
The closed door was just a barrier, one I could open if I chose to.
But I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
Part of it was shock at her reaction, but it wasn’t just that.
There had to be a reason for her opposition, and I’d always assumed it was because of me—because my acting was lacking, because I showed no promise.
‘But why couldn’t she just say it? Why this reaction?’
It wasn’t like her to hold back out of fear of hurting me.
And now that I thought about it, even before I died, she’d always said the same thing: ‘Don’t do it. You’ll never make it.’
But she’d never given me a reason.
Her stance had hardened after I left YM.
She’d never openly expressed it, but I knew she felt guilty for pushing me into the entertainment world as a child.
She hadn’t hated it, though.
“Is acting fun? Do you want to keep doing it?” she’d asked once, her voice gentle.
And when I said I wanted to switch to being an idol, she’d only asked, “Oh? Can you do that as passionately as you do acting?”
That was all she’d said.
‘It feels like I’m grasping at something, but it’s still too vague to be sure.’
I stared at the closed door, then left a quiet farewell and turned away.
Nothing had been resolved, and the weight of new questions made each step heavier than the last.
When I returned home, still grappling with unanswered questions, someone was waiting for me.
“Why are you here?” I asked, my voice flat.
There, sitting in my house as if he owned it, was Nameless man.
“How did you get the key?”
“Your mother gave it to me. Said she was worried about you.”
Oh, right.
My aunt had asked her to hold onto a spare key, just in case.
But ‘Mother’?
The word slipped out so casually, it grated on me.
“Let’s be clear,” I said, my tone sharp.
“At least when it’s just us, drop the cousin act. I get that we might need to play family for the cameras, but hearing ‘Mother’ from you is… unsettling.”
“Haha,” Nameless man laughed, his eyes crinkling.
The way he smiled was eerily similar to my aunt’s, and for a moment, I almost booked an eye exam.
“Are you sure about that? Yoon Jiwon’s going to be your manager someday,” he said, still grinning.
“What?”
What kind of nonsense was this?
I glared at him, but he just laughed again.
“Fine, fine, I’ll stick to the usual,” he said, his face settling into its default blank expression.
“You’re used to that, right?”
“Living by your ‘settings’ must make you blend into whoever you’re mimicking,” I said, half-joking, half-accusing.
“You sound like you’ve done this a hundred times.”
His irritating smile finally faded.
Guess I hit the mark.
“Anyway, forget the manager thing for now,” he said, brushing it off.
[God: ‘”The Flutter of a Butterfly’s Wings” is one of the original purposes of a surprise gift!’]
And now the Sponsor God chimes in.
“So, no veto power, huh?” I muttered.
[^^]
That smug emoticon was enough to make my stomach churn.
“You catch on quick,” the Nameless man said, his tone a bizarre mix of himself and Yoon Jiwon.
It was so much like my aunt’s that it threw me off.
“Please, do something about that attitude.”
Yoon Jiwon’s settings: kind, gentle, occasionally mischievous.
Probably something like that.
And apparently, my future manager.
Which meant I’d have to keep up this act in public, too.
Fine, I could handle the acting.
It was this weird hybrid attitude that got under my skin.
‘Honestly, I’d rather he choked me out like the first time we met.’
But as I’d just confirmed, I didn’t have a say in the matter.
With a heavy sigh, I sat across from him.
He stood, grabbed two coffees from who-knows-where, and set them on the low table between us.
The gesture was so unlike Nameless man that it gave me chills.
“God, this is driving me crazy,” I muttered.
It’d take time to get used to this.
What was he, a chameleon?
How could his personality shift so drastically because of some “settings”?
“So, you live with these new settings?” I asked, my voice edged with curiosity.
“Doesn’t that mean you’ll eventually forget who you are? You’re supposed to be a god’s agent, so why do something so bizarre?”
His eyes lifted to meet mine, and for a moment, the softened features of his face contrasted sharply with the cold, dark intensity in his gaze.
There was something vivid and stubborn in those eyes—something bordering on obsession.
Maybe that was what anchored his identity.
The thought flickered through my mind.
“Anyway… good timing,” I said, shifting gears.
“I was about to contact you.”
Nameless man wasn’t just some cryptic figure; he was also my video editor and channel manager.
We needed to discuss the analytics for the videos uploaded to IdeaTV and plan our next steps.
“I haven’t checked the reactions to the IdeaTV videos since I’ve been focused on the (Casting with My Own Hands!) shoot,” I said.
“Since you’re here, let’s go over the feedback and figure out what’s next.”
Avoiding his gaze, I pulled up the channel page.
The channel name, which I’d tweaked before uploading the first video, stared back at me: ‘Resurrection Project: Top Actor.’
Catchy enough to draw some attention, I’d hoped.
The channel name would show up alongside the video titles.
‘The channel management page popping up every time I open the channel is kind of a hassle.’
I navigated to the home screen and clicked the Resurrection Project tab.
Since the project was a competition, IdeaTV had added some unique features.
A dedicated tab displayed the real-time rankings at the top, followed by a weekly best list.
Given the weekly upload schedule, the weekly rankings took center stage.
I squinted at the screen, then slowly let my eyes drift to the rankings.
My channel was sitting at 7th in real-time and 3rd in the weekly best.
“…Huh?”
What the hell?
Why was I ranked so high?
I hadn’t expected to be buried, but I didn’t think I’d be ‘this’ high up, either.
Nameless man spoke up.
“Two reasons: First, people speculated your Sponsor God is high-tier because you used a skill right from the start, so viewers flocked in.”
“Second, you’re more familiar with the IdeaTV system than other participants, so your video felt more natural and engaging.”
I couldn’t help but let out a small, “Wow.”
“That’s the analysis,” he said, matter-of-fact.
“Didn’t expect you to come with a full breakdown,” I admitted, genuinely impressed.
“Thanks for the effort.”
His analysis made sense.
The weekly best number one was someone who’d cleverly hinted at their Sponsor God’s identity with metaphors and was being put through the wringer with a special mission called “Trials.”
The title alone reminded me of Hercules Twelve Labors.
‘This guy… his Sponsor God is probably Zeus, isn’t it?’
“Are the gods of Greek and Roman mythology considered high-tier in the transcendent realm?” I asked.
“I mean, are those myths real? Do those gods actually exist?”
Growing up in Korea, Greek and Roman mythology was as familiar as the Dangun myth.
I’d always thought they were just stories, but the idea that they might be real sent a thrill through me.
Nameless man’s response was lukewarm.
“Whether they existed or not isn’t really important. All beings are just imitations of the Transcendent Realm’s gods, anyway.”
Transcendent Realm?
Imitations?
The words were hard to parse, slipping through my grasp.
“Oh, right,” I said, remembering.
“You mentioned my Sponsor God is from the Transcendent Realm, didn’t you?”