After several days of intense discussion, the screenplay was finally completed.
A significant portion had changed from the original, including the setting being moved to the modern era.
Nam Hyun-a, the owner of the screenplay, seemed quite dissatisfied with these changes but admitted one thing—even she had to acknowledge that this version was much better than her initial draft.
“Well, now that it’s come to this, we really need to make this a success. It’s even more necessary if I’m going to direct my next work the way I want.”
“And it seems she plans to direct the next work exactly as she’s planned it.”
Actually, I don’t really care how her next work turns out.
It’s not like I’ll be in any movie she makes.
As long as it’s not with me, anything goes, since I plan to switch back to dramas after this movie.
“I swear, is her next project really going to star me again? She’s claiming this one doesn’t count since it’s not her original work.”
Meanwhile, Nam Hyun-ho, who’s related by blood, frowned unhappily.
Our crazy older brother must be weak when it comes to family, I guess.
I’ve heard that even in Martial Forest, Namgoong Hyun-ho was always getting beaten up by Namgoong Hyun-a. Does that dynamic remain unchanged here too?
All I could do was silently pray for his well-being.
“So, I’m the protagonist?”
“Yes, Mr. Baek Siu. We would like you to take on the role of the protagonist for this work.”
Nam Hyun-a had chosen me as the protagonist for this production.
When I asked why she picked me instead of Nam Hyun-ho, she said the character had been designed with me in mind from the beginning.
During the screenplay-writing process, Nam Hyun-ho was never even considered for the protagonist role.
“Ah, he’s… too short to be a leading man.”
“Isn’t Hyun-ho taller than average for Korea?”
“Ugh, it’s settled. He’s definitely too short. Too tiny.”
“…Alright, then.”
“There’s a lot of action scenes, and I’ve always admired your action skills. I’m really looking forward to this.”
So, there’s family hatred brewing over here.
Even though Nam Hyun-ho is clearly taller than the average Korean male…
It’s irrational, but I understand where it’s coming from.
Besides, when it comes to action, I’m probably a bit better than Nam Hyun-ho.
Nam Hyun-ho may be a decent action actor, but I’m an incredibly skilled fighter.
I nodded and began reviewing the screenplay. I was curious about the character they had tailored for me.
“Hmm…Jangsanbeom?”
“Yeah, that’s right. Jangsanbeom.”
“You mean a mythical creature? Jangsanbeom?”
Although the screenplay had undergone much revision, the main storyline remained unchanged: a group of half-yokai (half-demons) fighting out-of-control yokai.
In that sense, I was cast as one of the half-yokai—a Jangsanbeom, to be specific.
But is this creature really a yokai?
I had expected some kind of goblin or two-headed giant to pop up, but Jangsanbeom? It threw me off. This seemed more like an urban legend than a traditional yokai.
“It might have been touched on by others, but among yokai, Jangsanbeom counts as relatively new, right?”
“Well… I suppose.”
“That’s why we chose it. Also, there were recommendations that you, Mr. Baek Siu, could convincingly portray the character of Jangsanbeom.”
“Who recommended me?”
“Heavenly Yuah.”
“Ah, is that so?”
The Jangsanbeom originates from internet urban legends. One common trait shared by these tales is that the creature steals other people’s voices to deceive them.
Our protagonist, half-yokai, was no exception, using his mimicry skills to swindle others, though being a yokai he doesn’t entirely qualify as a human scumbag.
Regardless, Jangsanbeom has this urban-legend feel, so the screenplay features numerous instances where the character mimics others’ voices.
“Will this be done with dubbing?”
“What? Heavenly Yuah mentioned that you’re capable of mimicking others’ voices almost perfectly.”
“That might be true, but shouldn’t we use dubbing anyway?”
“If we completely replace the voice, won’t it feel less eerie? If you can do it yourself, the character might come across more believably.”
“Hmm… I think I can mimic voices decently well…”
I have a hidden talent: mimicking others’ voices. It’s a great skill for sneaking away undetected, causing confusion in Martial Forest where I used it often to trick and escape from the orthodoxy.
Combined with face masks, it served as a useful survival skill.
The issue is, while back in Martial Forest with an energy boost, I could copy voices with nearly 100% accuracy; now, I’m reduced to 80-90%. Female voices are completely out of my range right now, so my ability is significantly degraded.
Heavenly Yuah must be aware of my talent since she recommended this character for me, but why would you need it in this modern-day world? Machines or dubbing could do a much better job than my skills could.
When I asked, they said a slightly imperfect imitation would actually be better.
“It’s a half-yokai, after all. While it can’t be completely messy, a bit clumsy is better. And it’s marketing material, too.”
“That’s true.”
“We’ll check it later. If it doesn’t work, we can always adjust the recordings.”
“…Understood.”
As Director Nam accurately pointed out, there are alternatives, so there’s no need to worry too much. I’m just going along with it for now.
“Also… it’s really a tiger, huh?”
“Yes. We plan to use a lot of CG for the action scenes.”
“Hmm…”
In our screenplay, Jangsanbeom is depicted like an enormous white tiger. As for me, the half-yokai version of Jangsanbeom transforms into a tiger-like form when entering combat mode.
Contrary to typical yokai that deal with magical or mystical forces, this character boasts pure physical power. It’s as if the traditional Jangsanbeom, typically a strategic character, has been fused with other tiger yokai.
But, well… it is an urban legend, so it ultimately depends on how the writer sets it up.
“But if Jangsanbeom is really a tiger-type yokai… how exactly do half-yokai come into existence?”
A somewhat awkward point arises from this setting.
Half-yokai, after all, are half-human, meaning their yokai parents had… you know. If Jangsanbeom is male, then it’s tiger-to-human mating, and if female, it’s… an extremely niche fetish.
Considering our character doesn’t have any high-level transformation abilities, there’s really no other way to interpret this. The whole thing feels absurdly extreme.
“Hey, this probably wasn’t written by Writer Ok, was it?”
“Eh? How did you guess? Writer Yang wanted to make it a full yokai, but Writer Ok insisted on making it a half-yokai.”
Of course, Writer Ok.
This quirky setup fits her style.
While pondering this, I reviewed the rest of the characters’ settings, as the story’s rework completely transformed their concepts.
“First, Senior Hyun-ho… is this Jeon Woo-chi? A Taoist? And also the antagonist?”
Nam Hyun-ho was cast as Jeon Woo-chi, a Taoist.
In our world, Taoists exist, forming something called the National Taoist Union and solving criminal cases involving yokai-related phenomena.
Jeon Woo-chi is one of the most skilled Taoists within the Union, a counterbalance to the protagonist’s half-yokai organization, and ultimately revealed as the antagonist. This character holds significant weight next to the protagonist.
Jeon Woo-chi as the antagonist? Pretty fresh.
Though his dialogue might be harsh, blood is blood—it seems he was given a fairly important role.
“He totally fits as the villain. He’s garbage after all.”
Hmm… that’s not quite right. How come their family dynamics are so much like ours?
“His death was meant to be truly pitiful, but it didn’t work out, which is a bit disappointing.”
Watching Nam Hyun-ah lament over Nam Hyun-ho’s ultimately softer ending than she had planned made it feel strangely less like someone else’s problem.
It was a very familiar setup.
But since it wasn’t my issue, I forced myself to look away and act oblivious.
“Taoist with a bowler hat and a neat suit…”
“Well, it fits with the setting.”
Though this character isn’t your typical Taoist.
If you think of Taoists, the image that comes to mind is probably someone in a robe. But here, he’s dressed in a bowler hat and a crisp suit, giving off a gentlemanly vibe.
Given the era, it would be a bit strange to see a traditional Taoist actively operating.
Nam Hyun-ho also looks good in suits, so the visuals should turn out nicely.
“And the other characters…”
The protagonist joins a secret society of half-yokai called ‘Half Blood.’
There they are given code numbers and act as covert agents. The protagonist’s code number is 7, and the movie’s title ‘Code Number: 7’ comes from this.
If the protagonist is code number 7, that means there are at least six other half-yokai in the organization—making at least six characters necessary right from the start.
“Seniors Yuah and Su-yeon are also characters. Number 3 and Number 5. So, Succubus and Gumiho?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“Really? What’s a Succubus doing here…”
“Because we live in a global era.”
Even though Gumiho is a famous yokai in Korea, the sudden introduction of a Succubus feels rather absurd.
Is this all just a random mishmash intended to call anything a yokai story?
Though this isn’t some grand arthouse film. In the realm of popcorn movies, fun is the priority, so anything goes. But bringing in a Succubus… the audience will…
“…definitely love it. Heavenly Yuah as a Succubus will surely draw attention.”
Seeing as her money is invested in this project, it seems Heavenly Yuah is genuinely concerned about recouping the production costs.
“Hold on. With Gumiho and Succubus… won’t that…”
Considering certain attributes possessed by those creatures, and given that they are allies in the same organization as the protagonist, it’s not unusual to suspect some… frisson.
“Director, this movie isn’t rated 19+, is it?”
“Of course not. It’s teen-appropriate viewing.”
“Ah, good.”
Just checking on a crucial point, and I’m pleased with the answer.
Teen-appropriate?
Even if there’s Succubus and Gumiho lore swirling around, it won’t amount to much.
There was a refreshing sense of relief as any lingering concerns vanished.
