A faint, almost lifeless chuckle dissipated into the air.
“Interesting,” came a voice, gritted with resolve, laced with an unmistakable tenacity.
“Click.”
Chae So-yoon paused the video again.
Damn it, her heart had just skipped a beat!
‘Was that jealousy? It’s jealousy, right?’
Oh, yes, it was true.
Si-hyuk Eun had been consumed by envy, watching those extras find solace in her presence.
Deep down, Si-hyuk longed to be the one cradled in her warm embrace.
‘I lost.’
So-yoon had no choice but to admit defeat.
Even with those dazzlingly childish lines, the raw emotion of jealousy cut through more vividly than the dialogue itself.
Humbled, she watched the rest of the video and, with a spark of inspiration, created a new SNS account.
[@nadomola234]
[Bio: I stan my fave. (Not a fan war, just saying.)]
Her profile picture was a meticulously captured and edited image of Kim Jae-ha’s face.
***
While Kim Jae-ha was swept up in the whirlwind of filming (Casting with My Own Hands!), Nameless man, too, diligently tackled the tasks assigned to him.
Hidden behind a mask, Nameless man fixed his gaze on the person before him.
“Is this how it’s supposed to be done?”
The question came from another participant in the revival project, the owner of a different channel Nameless man managed, just like Jae-ha.
Showing his video uploaded on IdeaTV, the boy had a tiny red bird perched on his shoulder.
This was Piscis from a dimension where people wielded supernatural powers through the strength of spirits.
At this point in time, Piscis had just unlocked the ability to charge spirit stones, concentrated with spiritual energy, sparking the dawn of a full-fledged industrial revolution.
It was only natural, then, that the participant in front of Nameless man still found the transcendental system and the revival project’s mechanics unfamiliar.
“The editor says this is how it’s done, but… I’m not sure,” the boy said hesitantly.
Unlike Jae-ha, whose patron deity personally assigned an editor, most participants relied on editors randomly assigned by the project organizers.
These were often novice souls, just beginning their journey to divinity, driven solely by the promise of fame as compensation.
Powerful patron deities typically handpicked their editors, but not for this boy.
He was at the mercy of an inexperienced editor, swayed by their whims.
Even his patron deity was a lower-tier heroic god—a mere placeholder, deliberately set up by the organizers to highlight the disparity in power and ability among the gods.
“Pathetic,” Nameless man muttered.
As a channel manager, Nameless man could freely intervene in the channels he oversaw.
The fame his channels earned would determine his own rewards, but he had no ambition to become a god or chase glory.
“For now, follow my lead and settle things with the editor,” he instructed.
And he had no intention of letting the organizers’ schemes unfold as they pleased.
***
The filming schedule was relentless, leaving no room to breathe.
There was a fleeting moment when I almost missed the days filled with team evaluation rehearsals.
This time, an assistant MC—now so familiar that I might absentmindedly greet him on the street—stepped forward.
Behind him loomed a massive screen covering the wall.
The second round of team evaluations was about to begin.
The works chosen for this round were professional dramas featuring predominantly male actors, selected for their compelling character dynamics.
“Ladies and gentlemen, participants! We’re on the cusp of the grand second team evaluation! Can you guess which works you’ll be performing?”
As the assistant MC’s words faded, four images flashed onto the screen: a scalpel, a gavel, a towering corporate building, and a basketball.
“Pretty big hints, right? Starting now, you’ll choose the image representing the genre you want! But, as you know, there’s a limited number of spots. If a team fills up, the lowest-ranked participant gets bumped! Once teams are formed, a drama from that genre will be randomly selected!”
Guessing the genres wasn’t hard.
The scalpel meant medical dramas, the gavel signaled legal dramas, the corporate building pointed to chaebol or political stories, and the basketball hinted at sports dramas.
The catch?
Even knowing the genre, no one could predict the exact work, which made hesitation inevitable.
‘A random selection wheel starting from the second round? Seriously?’
But I knew.
I knew exactly which works would be chosen for each genre.
‘Of course, that’s assuming everything unfolds exactly as it did before I died.’
The second evaluation had been a nagging concern, so I’d asked Nameless man the last time we met.
If I intervened and changed things, would everything else still follow the same path?
Like the randomly selected evaluation tasks, for instance.
It was an obvious question, but vague phrasing risked a vague answer.
Nameless man had paused, lost in thought, before confirming it would.
‘Then I’m going for the legal drama.’
The moment I made my decision, an ominous sound pierced my ears.
‘Pop!’
[Special Mission: Yesterday’s Enemy, Today’s Friend!]
[Join the same team as Seo Eun-jae in the second team evaluation!]
[Deadline: Until the second team evaluation lineup is finalized.]
[Reward: 9,000 coins, 1 Premium Calming pill.]
[Penalty: None.]
[Note: This quest is issued by your main patron deity, ‘Butterfly’s Wingbeat,’ and carries the same weight as a main quest.]
[Note: Even without a deity-assigned penalty, failure to complete this quest more than three times will result in penalties determined by the Channel Management Committee.]
“Hah… haha…” A bitter laugh escaped me.
‘This damned deity.’
‘Seo Eun-jae will choose the medical drama!’
The words I couldn’t voice swirled in my mind.
Before I died, Eun-jae had picked the medical drama for this evaluation.
The randomly selected work was (Doctor Allen), a masterpiece about a genius doctor who, unable to adapt to Korea’s hospital system, wandered abroad until his mentor called him back to join a university hospital as a specialist.
A brilliant drama, but ill-suited for a survival audition.
Why?
First, while other genres used dialogue you could grasp after a few listens, medical dramas were a beast of their own.
The jargon-heavy lines, filled with medical terms, were nearly impossible to master in a short time, no matter how many times you practiced.
Second, (Doctor Allen) was essentially a one-man show.
If the participant playing Allen couldn’t deliver, no other character was strong enough to carry the scene.
And playing a genius was hard enough, let alone a genius thoracic surgeon with social maladaptation tendencies.
Do that in a short timeframe?
Impossible.
Before I died, all four teams that tackled this work crashed and burned—except for Eun-jae’s team.
Ironically, this evaluation was where Eun-jae earned recognition as an actor.
Among countless participants, he delivered medical terms with uncanny ease and performed the most convincing CPR.
This was the starting point of his “genius through effort” title.
‘Should I just ignore it?’
Skipping one special mission wouldn’t be the end of the world, right?
There was no penalty, and it would only use up one of my three allowed failures.
But the rewards were too tempting.
‘Damn it.’
Nine thousand coins and a Premium Calming pill.
The rewards were unprecedented.
This was clearly a trap set by that damned deity, calculated to perfection.
And yet, the bait was too sweet to ignore.
‘No, I can’t.’
The trap might be sweet, but joining Eun-jae for (Doctor Allen) was too risky.
With her fanbase’s support, her team would likely rank in the top three, but bombing the performance would tank my future rankings.
More than that, this was Eun-jae’s stage.
The beginning of her growth arc, the seed of her defining title.
Knowing that, how could I join him and try to outshine him?
‘I can’t.’
It wasn’t just about avoiding competition with Eun-jae.
If I’d met him in another work, playing a rival role, I’d have given it my all to clash with him.
But this work belonged to him.
“Alright, I’ll count to three! Three, two, one!”
“Beep!”
The assistant MC blew the whistle, and participants, including me, sprinted forward.
It wasn’t first-come, first-served, but securing a spot early was advantageous.
I dashed to the panel with the gavel image, catching my breath as I glanced around.
As expected, Eun-jae stood by the scalpel panel.
“Well, well! The gavel and corporate panels are getting crowded!” the assistant MC remarked.
I had no reason to worry.
Most top-ranked participants had flocked to the medical drama, eager to solidify their rankings by tackling the toughest genre.
‘They’ll all fail, though.’
Except for Eun-jae.
As expected, I secured my spot.
Hang-yeol, who’d chosen the same genre, made it through too.
We high-fived, waiting for the team assignments to finalize.
“And that’s it for the genre assignments…”
“Wait, hold on!”
Someone interrupted the assistant MC, raising their hand.
“I’d like to use my first-round onsite evaluation MVP benefit.”
The benefit allowed the holder to trade works with someone of their choice.
“Wait, the works haven’t been announced yet. Are you sure you want to use it now?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” Eun-jae replied firmly, pointing at the gavel panel—where I stood.
“I’ll trade with the lowest-ranked participant who chose the gavel.”
***
Time blurred.
Before I knew it, I was sitting with Team A for (Strange and Beautiful Cooperation), surrounded by my new teammates.
‘This is the work I wanted, sure.’
As the Nameless man had said, the randomly selected works were exactly the same as before I died.
Thanks to that, I’d landed my target, (Strange and Beautiful Cooperation), for the second team evaluation.
But why the hell was ‘he’ here?
The confirmed members of Team A for (Strange and Beautiful Cooperation) were: Kim Jae-ha, Hang-yeol, Seo Eun-jae, and Lee Min-seok—four in total.
The (Casting with My Own Hands!) I’d seen before I died, only Hang-yeol had been on this work’s Team A.