God of Ad-libs

His vision was blurry.

Taegyu’s sunken eyes reflected the mental strain of the past few days. A haze of fatigue and helplessness weighed heavily on his eyelids, like dust settling layer by layer.

‘…I just want to sleep.’

Did you know?

Surprisingly, it’s rare to witness outright human depravity inside Kangwon Land. The ceilings are dotted with a network of CCTV cameras to prevent any form of cheating. Even minor commotions summon security in an instant.

In other words, the casino itself was just a shell. The true, raw bursts of negativity erupted elsewhere.

Fwoosh!

Amid the swirling Dokkaebi Flames of emotions inside the casino, Taegyu had spotted someone radiating an especially dense aura.

It was so overwhelming that Taegyu couldn’t help but lock eyes with them. After an impromptu conversation, he had naturally ended up following the person somewhere.

Their destination? One of the motels advertised on a banner Taegyu had glimpsed on the way up to the casino.

『Baccarat Research Society – Rose Motel Room 401』

『Inquiries: 010 – XXXX – XXXX』

If you don’t know what baccarat is, don’t bother asking.

Just know that it’s one of the most popular games with the most tables in casinos worldwide—and one of the most soul-crushing forms of gambling you could get tangled up in.

“Nice to meet you. We’re the ‘lifestyle baccarat’ players.”

And here’s some advice: if you ever meet someone who introduces themselves as a lifestyle baccarat player—known colloquially as “saengba”—hand over all the money in your wallet, spit in their face, and run.

Taegyu didn’t know it at the time, but the motels surrounding Kangwon Land were home to ant-lion pits like this one. Desperate people gathered, plastering banners and pooling their hopeless lives together in search of the mythical ‘winning formula of gambling.’

“Handsome guy, eh? We’ll soak up some good vibes with you here. Sit down.”

The moment he entered the motel room, Taegyu was greeted by a fog of cigarette smoke from the middle-aged men and women puffing away.

Their conversations were nothing short of lunacy.

“Did you see our bet streak earlier? It finally formed a perfect V.”

“Of course! It’s because it’s the Year of the Dog, and oppa is a Dog in the zodiac.”

“Before our luck flips, tomorrow we need someone with ‘water’ in their name to go first.”

The jargon was incomprehensible, but the intensity of the flames was unmistakable.

Fwoosh, fwoosh!

Every single one of them exuded extraordinary density.

Especially during moments like—

—when someone, after a night at the casino, cracked open a bottle of soju in the morning: “Why the hell is this shitty world making me lose all my money? Damn it!”

—when the person in the next room had their emergency cash stolen the next day: “Ugh! Because of that bastard, I can’t even play today!”

—when they got into fights at the restaurant over meals: “Back in the day, I turned 50,000 won into 2 million overnight, you hear me?”

These were overwhelming emotions, capable of consuming a person.

The place was nothing short of a haven for gambling addicts—a terminal station for those who had lost their way. Even as one person, drunk, smashed a bottle on another, the crowd would simply laugh and cheer, betting on the winner of the fight.

Taegyu felt that staying there any longer would erode his perception of reality and common sense, to the point of no return.

When he finally decided to leave after several days, one particular comment from an elderly woman lingered in his ears.

“I’m heading out now.”

“Young man, you’re leaving already?”

“?”

“You haven’t sold your kidney yet, right? If you head over to the underpass nearby, there are cards scattered all over the floor. Sell one, and you’ll have enough money to gamble for another week.”

“Ah…”

It was only after a delayed beat that Taegyu grasped the meaning of “leaving” in that world. His mouth fell open in stunned disbelief.

He couldn’t stay there any longer.

Whatever the case, prolonged exposure to such conversations might warp his sense of values beyond repair. This conclusion wasn’t reached through emotions, but through a very rational line of thinking,

That place was━

“…Mister? Are you okay!?”

“Ah.”

“Whoa, is this some kind of method acting… hmm?”

Kim Hwan’s gaze locked onto Taegyu’s dull eyes.

Though his face was expressionless, the toll of sleepless nights and constant strain was evident in his haggard state.

But then—

Flash.

A faint glint sparked in Taegyu’s pupils, stopping Kim Hwan mid-sentence.

‘…Finally.’

Yes.

It had been an arduous journey, but Taegyu had not only gathered the emotions he needed to replicate for his role in [Oh Daebak]—he had also uncovered something much greater during his time in Kangwon Land.

‘I’ve figured it out.’

The secret of that overwhelming emotional outburst from the Do Gwang-sun incident—back when he first used his ability. He now understood why his solo attempts never produced the same results, not even during the wedding scene when he tried to immerse himself completely.

“…Heh.”

Finally, he understood why.

“Haha.”

And this realization connected deeply to the reason he had chosen this path of acting in the first place.

Taegyu couldn’t hold back his laughter.

“Hahaha!”

“M-Manager! This guy seems kind of weird!”

Kim Hwan, slightly flustered, tapped his manager’s shoulder nervously. Already on edge, he was startled by the ominous aura radiating from Taegyu’s presence.

Just then—

Clank!

The audition room doors swung open.

“Alright, we’ll begin now! Please come in according to the numbers we call!”

The official audition for the roles had begun.

***

Deep wrinkles formed on Gwak Inho’s brow.

Damn it.

Leaning his chin on his pen-wielding hand, he watched the door to the audition room open and close as participants came and went. But no matter how many performances he sat through, the stifling frustration inside him refused to dissipate.

“Number 2, participant Jeong In-gyu.”

“Hello, I’m Number 8, Kim Suho. Pleased to meet you.”

“I’m Number 12, Jung Ilsu. May I start right away?”

Observing the performances, scribbling notes with his ballpoint pen, nodding occasionally, rubbing his eyes, and recalling standout moments—all of it felt mechanical. Yet, amidst the routine, an ember of unresolved anger still burned within him.

‘…The bastard really wants to take this all the way, doesn’t he.’

Gwak cast a sidelong glance at Ji Cheolgeun, the PD sitting nearby, his rimless glasses pushed up as he scribbled on his notepad.

‘After all I’ve done for him…’

He had long grown accustomed to the disillusionment of human relationships. But seeing such blatant maneuvering from a junior he once trusted left a particularly bitter taste in his mouth.

In truth, this wasn’t the first time he had experienced something like this.

Take Ji Kyungho and Joo Minhee, for instance. Both were now soaring as Hallyu stars, but back when they were nobodies, Gwak had pulled every string to secure them leading roles in the hit movie The Wrath of the Living Dead. They had acted as though they’d give him their liver and gallbladder in gratitude.

But once he was branded as a has-been, they never called.

When he reached out?

A week later, at best, he’d get a dismissive text:

—Oh, you called. Sorry, I’ve been busy.

—Writer Gwak, long time no see! Let’s catch up sometime.

The moment you’re irrelevant, you stop being human in their eyes.

It was pathetic that he had ever expected genuine connections in this industry. He loathed himself for repeatedly putting his neck on the line for talented individuals, despite knowing he’d been burned before.

But he couldn’t stop.

After all, wasn’t it someone else’s unwarranted generosity that had once helped him debut?

‘Do Gwang-sun.’

The one person who had recognized his spark when no one else had noticed. Whenever Gwak thought of that benefactor, he couldn’t bring himself to ignore the glimmers of talent in others.

More than that, it drove him mad to see someone with potential squander their gifts. His urge to nurture talent was akin to his creative impulse—to breathe life into empty manuscripts and mold characters from nothing.

Yet today, in this audition room, none of the performances had that spark he sought.

A cycle of introductions, performances, and exits.

Greetings. Acting. Goodbye.

Greetings. Acting. Goodbye.

Greetings. Acting. Goodbye.

Still, there was one exception.

‘Lee Taegyu.’

Gwak had staked his pride on that young man.

He’d only seen him act once, but it was enough to convince him. This was his chance to prove that the so-called has-been still had an eye for talent.

‘Kim Hwan is nothing more than an obstacle.’

He knew exactly who Kim Hwan was.

An idol-turned-actor who had starred in a moderately successful web drama. A rookie with decent acting chops who would face off against Lee Taegyu for the role.

But if you gave Gwak a cigarette, he could name at least ten flaws in Kim Hwan’s performance before flicking away the ashes.

The label of “rookie” had a way of lowering expectations, granting leniency to mediocrity.

“Thank you. Next.”

“That was the last audition for the role of Kim Min, PD.”

“Already?”

“Yes. Next are the auditions for the role of Oh Daebak.”

The room grew still.

The judges, who had been animatedly discussing performances moments ago, now turned their attention to Ji Cheolgeun and Gwak Inho.

“PD Ji. I have a proposal.”

“Yes?”

“For the role of Oh Daebak, how about I personally read lines with the participants?”

“By all means.”

The atmosphere shifted.

Until now, the other judges had taken turns reading lines with the participants. Though their delivery was clumsy, the characters’ lines were so minimal it didn’t matter.

“And if it’s alright, I’d like to handle Kim Hwan’s scenes myself.”

“Then I’ll read with Lee Taegyu?”

“Sure.”

This wasn’t about easing the judges’ workload. It was a declaration of war—a blatant challenge to prove whose pick was superior.

“…Or, let’s do this instead.”

Ji Cheolgeun removed his glasses and casually wiped them, his tone indifferent.

“Let’s start with that Lee Taegyu guy. How about it?”

“You sure?”

“Better than listening to you whine later about how he got unlucky by auditioning too late.”

“If we start with someone strong, the bar might be set too high for your pick, PD.”

“Feel free to ad-lib your excuses.”

Ji pointed a finger at the camera in the corner of the room.

“You know this footage goes to the investors and the director, right? Don’t bother sabotaging anyone unless you want to embarrass yourself at the production presentation.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“Whatever you say.”

Their casual exchange of informalities only thickened the tension.

Gulp.

The other judges straightened in their seats, swallowing hard. Fatigue from the long auditions gave way to an electrifying focus.

Now, the real competition was about to begin.

“Let’s proceed with the auditions for the role of Oh Daebak.”

After all, this wasn’t just about casting a role. It was a showdown between Ji Cheolgeun and Gwak Inho—a battle where one of them would have to forfeit their pride.

***

When the staff outside knocked and opened the door to the audition room—

Click.

Everyone’s attention was drawn to the entrance.

From the judges seated behind the long table, including the PD, the writer, and the casting manager, to the crew filming the making-of footage, all eyes were on the newcomer.

“Number 85, Lee Taegyu.”

“Hello, I’m Lee Taegyu.”

Lee Taegyu.

‘…Oh.’

The moment the source of the tension between PD Ji and Writer Gwak stepped into view, most of them found themselves unconsciously nodding.

‘There’s something about him.’

The atmosphere felt promising.

With his haggard face, a coat that reeked of cigarettes even from a distance, and slumped shoulders, he exuded a natural aura.

Grin—

Even the smile he flashed after introducing himself looked like it came from someone with a few screws loose.

It was the face of someone thoroughly beaten down by life.

Compared to the half-baked attempts at makeup and styling from the other participants, this man carried the aura of a gambling addict as if he’d lived it.

“Hah.”

But PD Ji only let out a faint chuckle.

The engine of acting is emotion.

Portraying a character means understanding the emotions they would feel in a specific situation and translating those emotions into action.

An over-the-top exterior like his, without the substance of genuine emotion, was like slapping a luxury car shell onto a bicycle—it would only get in the way.

That’s when it happened.

Suddenly, the man waved his left hand awkwardly and spoke with a strange tone.

“Please… let me start.”

The line felt off.

But PD Ji had seen his fair share of desperate amateurs trying to mask their lack of skill with forced eccentricity.

‘Clearly below Kim Hwan.’

Judging by the unnecessary theatrics from the start, PD Ji’s expression relaxed. If anything, it reassured him.

“Scene number 33. Start whenever you’re ready after the cue. I might throw in some ad-libs midway, so feel free to respond however you see fit.”

The latter part of his instructions was clearly aimed at Writer Gwak.

‘If you’re going to hype him up for his ad-lib skills, you better take responsibility.’

“Yes.”

“Alright then.”

PD Ji Cheolgeun nodded toward the camera recording for the making-of footage, signaling them to start.

Action—

The moment he turned his gaze back to Lee Taegyu, his eyes widened in disbelief.

‘…What?’

The man named Lee Taegyu had disappeared.

In his place, the audition room seemed to fill with something else entirely.

“That was my money, you filthy bastard—!”

The raw, guttural voice of a man reeking of desperation, filled with unrestrained rage, exploded into the room.

It was the primal energy of someone you could believe had been blacklisted from Kangwon Land for causing a scene.

The savage presence of a nobody, utterly consumed by madness.