A B-grade, huh?
What a curious twist of fate.
[Name: Kim Jae-ha]
[Level: 12]
[Status: Debuff (???)]
-Debuff temporarily lifted by the effects of Woohwang Cheongsimhwan. Remaining time: 5 minutes, 31 seconds
[Appearance: A]
[Diction: B]
[Action: ∈ (B)]
[Reaction: e (B)]
[Expression: C (B)]
[Appeal: D (A)]
It matched the average of my stats perfectly, didn’t it?
***
The rating evaluation continued for what felt like an eternity.
“Kara Entertainment’s Hang-yeol: B-grade, ranked 15th.”
“Thank you!”
By the midway point, the once-rigid postures of the contestants began to slump.
Everyone was fighting a losing battle against drowsiness, myself included.
Waiting endlessly during these marathon filming sessions was something I’d grown accustomed to, but familiarity didn’t make it any less exhausting.
‘If anything, I’ve just gotten better at hiding it.’
My back ached fiercely, though there was a silver lining.
As everyone wrestled with their own fatigue, the sneaky glances that had been darting my way finally stopped.
The effects of the Woohwang Cheongsimhwan had worn off, and one wrong move could’ve left me looking pathetic on camera.
‘Should I take another one?’
If I slipped one out of my inventory and popped it, it might look like I was sneaking a piece of chocolate.
But as I recalled the details of the pill, I shook my head.
[(Crude) Woohwang Cheongsimhwan ]
[A poorly crafted version of Woohwang Cheongsimhwan, halving its duration. Temporarily relieves mental debuffs by easing the user’s tension. ]
[Duration: 30 minutes]
[Overuse or prolonged use may cause side effects.]
Who knew what kind of side effects might hit if I took another so soon?
It was better saved for a real emergency.
‘Besides, I’m low on materials and stock anyway.’
This Woohwang Cheongsimhwan was the same one I’d seen in the special shop, priced at a staggering 50,000 coins each.
At first, I’d brushed it off, assuming it was just like the tension-relieving pills from our world.
My focus had been on the Memory Eraser skill anyway.
But one day, while grinding through special missions to prepare for the audition, a message popped up:
[Woohwang Cheongsimhwan can now be crafted!]
Just like the first special mission, the rewards included mysterious materials I couldn’t make sense of, so I’d tossed them into my inventory.
Turns out, they were the ingredients for this very pill.
Only then did I check the true effects of the shop’s Woohwang Cheongsimhwan.
‘Thanks to that, I aced the first round of evaluations.’
But what was this now?
The guy next to me kept stealing glances.
It was Hang-yeol, the one who’d just been graded.
I knew of him—a bit player in web dramas, the kind who added spice to a scene.
Before my regression, he’d placed fourth in (My Son-in-Law) and later gained popularity for his vivid acting.
But we’d never met personally.
‘Not a child actor, not an idol either…’
Did he just dislike me?
Plenty of people did, so it wouldn’t be a surprise.
My right hand, trembling slightly, was covered by my left.
Those blatant stares, though—they were rare these days.
Then, Hang-yeol leaned in and whispered so softly I barely caught it.
“Um, excuse me… I’m a fan, senior!”
…What?
I double-checked, but no, we definitely didn’t know each other.
Tightening my grip on my right hand, I asked, “Do you know me?”
“Of course!”
Hang-yeol’s voice burst out, too loud, before he clamped a hand over his mouth and glanced around nervously.
Then, in a hushed tone, he continued, “How could I not? Dalkong!”
Ah, of course.
Most actors who showed me any goodwill were usually the ones who’d dreamed of acting since childhood.
To them, Dalkong—the famous child actor I’d been—was an object of admiration.
But let’s be real: they were more interested in Dalkong than in Kim Jae-ha, the actor I’d become.
People like that usually lost interest quickly.
Adult Kim Jae-ha was no longer the cute little Dalkong.
This guy would probably get bored soon enough.
I gave a polite smile, ready to turn away.
“You debuted as Dalkong in (The Tomboys), then starred in (It Was Summer), (Say Goodbye), (School Returns), and joined the project idol group (Project Y) for about two years before returning to acting. Starting with (You’re Great, You’re Not)…”
“Okay, okay, I get it.”
His recitation of my entire filmography caught me off guard, and I cut him off, flustered.
Sure, plenty of people claimed to be Dalkong fans, but none of them knew adult Kim Jae-ha’s résumé by heart.
And why would they?
Most of my post-childhood roles were in flops or minor parts in mediocre dramas.
‘What is this guy?’
A fan of ‘Kim Jae-ha’?
The word felt foreign as I rolled it around in my mind.
I’d had a fan café once, called “Jae-haWorld.”
Back before I switched to being an idol, it was pretty active with a decent number of members.
When word got out that I was training to become an idol, the café went into chaos.
Only those who supported my idol career stayed.
But child actors tend to have older fans, and those fans couldn’t keep up with idol culture.
Slowly, the membership dwindled, and the café was abandoned.
I kept posting, but when the comments on my posts hit a measly five, I stopped checking.
I tried logging in once before the military, only to find it had been shut down.
Honestly, I couldn’t believe Hang-yeol’s claim of being my fan.
Even I didn’t have faith in my acting—how could anyone else?
Someone who knew my filmography this well felt oddly suspicious.
But with cameras rolling, I couldn’t let it show.
I flashed a bright smile.
“Thanks. Let’s do well together.”
It was a formality to end the conversation, but Hang-yeol’s eyes welled up.
“Yes…! Yes! I’ll do my best too, senior! I respect and love you!”
‘What is wrong with this guy?’
And the constant “senior” was grating.
If this got edited poorly, it could look like I was pulling rank as a senior.
“Hey… we’re both audition contestants now, so drop the formalities. ‘senior’ feels a bit much for me.”
“Oh, s-sorry…! I mean, not sorry, I…”
His round, single-lidded eyes, already teary, now sparkled like they were lit from within.
The overwhelming affection was so awkward it gave me chills.
“Uh, could I… call you brother instead?”
“Sure.”
I gave him one last smile before turning to face forward.
Just then, the next contestant was called.
“Next up, Seo Eun-jae from YM Entertainment.”
The sluggish atmosphere shifted in an instant.
A surreal silence fell, followed by a buzz of excitement that swept through the set.
“Seo Eun-jae? ‘Dreamer’ Seo Eun-jae?”
“YM Entertainment, so it’s gotta be that Seo Eun-jae.”
“Wow, top tier for sure. Probably thanks to his fanbase.”
“Why’s he even here?”
Muttered curses slipped through the crowd.
Had they forgotten the cameras were rolling?
“What’s an idol doing at an acting audition?”
“Dreamer hasn’t even disbanded yet, has it? What’s going on?”
“Isn’t this just unfair? Ridiculous.”
“Seriously… does he think acting’s a joke? Why not stick to being an idol?”
The unfiltered comments kept coming, and I could feel eyes turning toward me, laced with hostility.
Yeah, I’m an ex-idol too, so I must be trash, right?
I wanted to meet their gazes head-on, but with the Woohwang Cheongsimhwan’s effects gone, I could only look away.
‘Damn it.’
My breathing grew shallow.
Even avoiding their stares, the glares seemed to burn into my retina, vivid and malicious, tearing me down without a word.
My chest tightened.
Instinctively, I reached for the brim of a cap I wasn’t even wearing, then clenched my fist instead.
I tried to steady my breathing, to relax my tense body, but it was no use.
In the end, as always, I dug my nails into my palm, but the pain didn’t even register.
The world slowed, and the only sound was the heavy thud of my heart echoing in my head.
‘I need to escape.’
‘No. Absolutely not.’
Just as my rationality was about to snap, I remembered the Woohwang Cheongsimhwan.
I didn’t care if the cameras caught me—I reached for my inventory.
But before I could, someone grabbed my shoulder tightly.
“Hey, stop staring. brother, just ignore those guys.”
It was Hang-yeol.
His unexpected action startled me so much that, ironically, it calmed me down.
The panic subsided.
Stunned, I looked at him, and he let go of my shoulder with a sheepish “Oh!”
“Brother, I’m kind of touchy and clingy. Did I make you uncomfortable? I’m sorry, I’ll be more careful!”
He rattled off the words, as if he’d been scolded for his touchy nature before.
I wasn’t a fan of physical contact either, but this wasn’t the time to say so.
“Thanks.”
That one word was sincere.
When was the last time I’d spoken to someone with such genuine feeling?
Hang-yeol wrinkled his nose, grinning like a kid.
I turned my gaze to Seo Eun-jae, now standing on stage.
Before my death, I’d only seen him on TV, but now he was right in front of me.
Regaining my composure, I let a slight look of surprise cross my face.
Seo Eun-jae’s appearance was supposed to be a secret until the broadcast, so there was no need to act like I knew something or to hint at any connection with him.
Overdoing it would be worse than doing nothing.
“I’ve prepared the role of Cha Kijun from (Now, Time to Love).”
The chaotic atmosphere settled with Seo Eun-jae’s single sentence.
But in its place, a subtle mocking vibe lingered.
It was inevitable.
The work he’d chosen was one of the top three by a writer hailed as the queen of romantic comedies, and Cha Kijun was its male lead.
A well-crafted character from a famous work—play it safe, and you’d at least hit average.
But no matter how well you did, you couldn’t outshine the original.
It was proof that Seo Eun-jae’s acting skills weren’t anything special.
He was aiming for a safe start, or more likely, his agency had picked the role for that exact reason.
‘It’s the same.’
The same work, the same role as before I died.
A chill ran down my spine.
I’d seen plenty of things that defied my old sense of reality, but only now did it truly hit me.
I’d really traveled back in time.
I knew what would happen next, who’d make it to the top three.
And more than that, I knew which works would be chosen for the missions.
Ironically, it was because of Seo Eun-jae that I’d watched this show from start to finish.