When the Blade Didn’t Miss

Yoo-hyun had heard the rumors.
After the news broke that he’d been cast as Han Jeong-un, it was said that writer Yoo Jung-rim nearly had a major falling out with Director Baek.
Apparently, the one non-negotiable demand the writer had made for the main casting was “cast Go Yoo-hyun as the male lead.”
When it became known that the director had ignored this and originally auditioned Yoo-hyun for the role of Han Jeong-un, considerable conflict arose.

It was difficult to verify the truth, but judging from how writer Yoo Jung-rim, at their private meeting, had abruptly promised to “give you the most impactful entrance scene, even if it can’t be the most charming,” Yoo-hyun had a vague idea of what the director meant by the writer’s “requests.”

So what do you want to do?
The eyes asking that question held no expectation.
Confirming once again that Director Baek didn’t trust him, Yoo-hyun’s spirits deflated.

“What worries me most is that Yoo-hyun-ssi’s preparation period was short. So―”

“Director, first―”

Just before the declaration that would render all his efforts futile could be made, Yoo-hyun dared to cut the director off.
Director Baek, with a look of discomfort, and the action director, with anxious eyes, looked at Yoo-hyun with different expressions.

“I think it would be best to try the rehearsal first.”

* * * *

Yoo-hyun returned wearing uncomfortable wire equipment under his training clothes and exchanged brief greetings with a staff member.
It was one of the action team staff he’d be coordinating with today.

“What do I do? If the rehearsal doesn’t go well, the director’s talking about being willing to use CG. All my practice is about to go down the drain.”

“Down the drain? The master said it himself. If Go Yoo-hyun-ssi’s face wasn’t what it is, you would have been our team’s ace.”

“I thought that was just lip service.”

“Well, there was definitely some of that too.”

At Min-woong’s candid admission, delivered with a shrug as he checked the equipment by tugging on the wire, Yoo-hyun chuckled.

“Okay, the wire’s set. You just need to do it like we practiced, so there’s nothing difficult about it. It’s simple, right? They pull, you roll, one backward flip in the air, and land. You haven’t forgotten everything after a few days, have you?”

“We did it so many times, of course I remember―”

Answering while unconsciously looking at Min-woong’s face, Yoo-hyun’s eyes widened.
As far as he remembered, he wasn’t originally this pale.

When Yoo-hyun trailed off and stared blankly, Min-woong lifted his gaze from the wire.
His complexion showed an even more pronounced difference from usual in the sunlight.
Yoo-hyun spoke with concern.

“You look pale.”

“That much? I did get some sleep on the way here today, though.”

“Is it because you haven’t been sleeping well?”

“It’s just because it’s morning. I’ll be fine again by afternoon.”

“Are you sure you’ll be fine?”

“You know I’m not suggesting we keep going until afternoon, right?”

Yoo-hyun knew the action team had to be on set every single day without fail.
It was because almost every episode featured action scenes.
On top of that, he’d heard that several team members working under the action director had dropped out due to injuries during the last drama shoot, leaving some practically attached to this drama with几乎没有 rotation.
It seemed that various circumstances had made Min-woong, a long-time veteran, one of those “some.”

Is this really okay…?
As Yoo-hyun examined the staff member’s eyes, heavy with dark circles, Director Baek and the action director approached from behind.
Sensing their presence, Min-woong moved about ten paces away from Yoo-hyun.
It was to be ready to pull the wire on cue.

Today’s shoot was the training scene from the early part of Episode 1.
It was the scene where Yoo-hyun’s character made his entrance, revealing his overwhelming presence.
First, a full shot, where his face wasn’t clearly visible, would showcase his abilities as the center’s elite Esper agent through action.
Then, in the very next take, as the sharp focus shifted from the gun in his hand to the cold face behind it, that would mark Han Jeong-un’s first appearance.

The rehearsal for the scene the director worried most about began.

“Run from there to here… that’s right, that’s right!”

Feeling the approach from a distance, Yoo-hyun launched himself at the agreed signal, flipping backward in mid-air.

“Yoo-hyun-ssi! No, doing it like that makes it look like you’re waiting, going ‘come on, come on.’ Be more agile!”

Learning stunt action was similar to learning dance.
Every movement had its order and rhythm.
The key was to execute according to that order and rhythm, and to make the transitions as smooth as possible.
It had to look natural.

“Hey, Min-woong. Pull the wire a little faster there.”

“Wouldn’t it look unnatural if he stomps his feet that hard?”

“No, Min-woong! If you release it too suddenly like you just did, he’ll get hurt!”

The action director observed the coordination between Yoo-hyun and the wire team with his characteristically sharp eyes, offering advice here and there.
Because they’d decided Yoo-hyun would handle the entire long take without a double, rather than using a double and separately filming chest shots, there were many details to pay attention to.
Unlike the practice at action school, the connection between each movement wasn’t smooth, so the rehearsal ran longer than initially expected.

Run and flip, run and flip.
Throughout the rehearsal, Yoo-hyun moved with almost mechanical consistency in angle and speed.
Director Baek looked somewhat surprised.

As the director had worried, compared to other actors who’d had months of preparation after receiving notice, his training period was indeed shorter.
However, his skill level was by no means inferior to theirs.
He’d always had good natural athleticism, and with nearly a decade of practice memorizing and replicating choreography, things were actually easier for him than for the others.
The action director, seeing him quickly catch up despite the tight schedule, had sincerely admired his talent on several occasions.

Anyway, at this rate, I’m going to end up needing a double because of motion sickness….

Just as he was beginning to suspect this might be Director Baek’s grand plan all along, the assistant director announced that filming preparations were complete.
The action director, apparently having something to say to the two staff members controlling Yoo-hyun’s wire, frowned and called them over with a gesture.

Left alone, Yoo-hyun caught his ragged breath and shot a resentful look at the director, wondering how much more it would take to satisfy him.
Director Baek’s shoulders shook slightly as he spoke.

“It really would be a shame not to use him. Let’s go ahead.”

* * * *

One thing that consistently surprised Yoo-hyun during filming was how most of the episodes depicted in the drama were, unexpectedly, based on facts.
A disclaimer at the beginning of each episode would state that everything was fictional and that events, organizations, and locations bore no relation to reality.
But viewers of this drama would undoubtedly learn more about the Center than they might expect.

Even today’s training scene, they said, was thoroughly researched.
In a certain zone, all participating personnel became someone’s target.
The rule was to neutralize the moving targets within a time limit using the weapons provided to each individual.
And shockingly, this training allowed the use of guns and knives against opponents.

If allowing guns and knives is basic training, how violent and rough are the non-basic ones?
When first hearing this explanation, Yoo-hyun couldn’t believe such a brutal killing game was part of actual training in 21st century South Korea.

Because perfectly recreating the training carried risks of promoting violence and imitation, the drama adjusted the rules.
Instead of the bloody rule where everyone became each other’s target within the zone, they made it so that staying within the zone for a limited time meant victory.
They also reduced the training participants from ten to four, and changed the attack weapons to knives of a form and length that wouldn’t create fear in viewers.

In this scene, the action Yoo-hyun needed to perform was to use the installed structures to sequentially take down three stunt actors charging at him, and finally spin in the air using the wire.
If he did it as practiced, there would be no problem.

Slate in!

Wearing the wire, Yoo-hyun moved quickly.
With a long take, he had to run continuously for about seven minutes.
As the script described his movements as seeming to defy gravity, they needed to appear as light as possible while not looking desperately urgent, like someone being chased.

Inside his clamped mouth, his breath grew ragged.
He wanted to collapse right there, open his mouth wide, and gasp for air, but outwardly he continued acting as if he had room to spare.

「Through the viewfinder, ‘Han Jeong-un’ blocks the combined attack of three who had united to push out the strongest member. Using the structures, he lures them one by one and succeeds in pushing them out of the zone through close combat. On the display board near the training ground entrance, Jeong-un’s past training records, including elapsed time and scores, flash. Then, a warning tone sounds, signaling the next participants to prepare. At that moment, as Jeong-un leisurely tries to leave the training ground, someone rushes at him from behind with a knife.」

Yoo-hyun had now reached the final stage.

When the action director’s signal came, the stunt actor with the actual knife would charge at full speed, wearing wire equipment just like Yoo-hyun.
Countless rehearsals had prepared him—when he rose onto his toes at the signal, the wire team would pull, and his body would lift into the air.

Now, using the wire, Yoo-hyun would arch his head and back, execute a large backward flip in mid-air, land behind his opponent, kick his back to force him to his knees, draw his gun, and aim it at his head.
That was the end.
The sequence had to be very fast, and since the stunt actor was also on a wire, he had to ensure their lines didn’t tangle during the maneuver.

Yoo-hyun heightened his tension.
He put force into the balls of his feet, ready to spring at the action director’s signal from in front of him.
But the wire didn’t budge.

“…”

What? Not yet?

Yoo-hyun reflexively turned around.
The horrified faces of the staff came into sharp focus.
The stunt actor, equipped with a double wire system—front and above—to increase his running speed, was flying toward Yoo-hyun, a blue blade clutched in his hand, his face blank, as if he didn’t have the presence of mind to have dropped the knife.

…The signals had crossed.

The stuntman was too close to stop of his own accord.
Even if they pulled Yoo-hyun’s wire now, it was an instant where avoidance was impossible.
The staff, as if their voices had been stolen, stood with mouths agape, none able to make a sound.
Everyone was anticipating the next scene.
The sight of an actor, unable to dodge the sharp blade’s tip, meeting with a terrible accident.

“…”

In that moment, for some reason, Yoo-hyun felt even the sound of the wind grazing his ears acutely.
At the same time, he thought everything was approaching very slowly.
By a hair’s breadth, he twisted his body, dodged the knife, reached out, and grabbed the arm, twisting it behind the attacker’s back.
And immediately, he aimed his gun at the ribs of the stunt actor who had lunged with the knife.

Clatter.
The knife, falling from the twisted, strengthless hand, made a harsh sound against the floor.
Time, which had been moving slowly, returned to its place.