Chapter 10 – The Reason I Started Drawing Comics
2 a.m.
In the room lit by flickering fluorescent lights.
“Drrroooong… Phwewww.”
In one corner, Oh Seung-heon was sprawled face-down on the desk, snoring thunderously.
“…Ugh.”
Flip, flip.
Behind him, Kang Min-hyuk intently read through each page of the storyboard sketchbook with a serious expression.
Across from him, Shin Pil-ho sat with arms crossed, anxiously watching while biting his nails.
They had already spent a full half-day drafting, revising, redrafting, and drawing.
Considering the time left, even if they had settled on something and just worked straight through, it would still be tight.
“Take a look at this one too… Min-hyuk.”
“Yes.”
Pil-ho tried to act calm, but his face was full of unease.
If they delayed any longer, meeting the deadline itself would become impossible—that’s why he was reacting this way.
But Min-hyuk couldn’t bring himself to answer easily.
‘The quality has definitely improved.’
They’d tried adding fantasy elements, changing dialogue, altering direction.
It was certainly a solid comic—readable, with Shin Pil-ho’s signature meticulousness that carried the scent of real life.
The double-page spreads typical of print comics were used effectively for impactful highlights.
This level of skill was exactly why Shin Pil-ho had won the Korea Manhwa Award and debuted as a pro.
But…
‘It’s still missing something.’
A comic artist notified of serialization termination because of poor sales.
Was this short story strong enough to reverse that fate? Honestly… it didn’t feel like it.
Min-hyuk reviewed the storyboard once more.
‘It’s clearly not bad…’
Direction, thematic depth, material—everything was appropriately placed and felt solid.
The problem was that the most crucial element of a comic—“fun”—was still thin.
Shin Pil-ho was the type who drew auteur-style comics steeped in the smell of yellowed linoleum, centered on characters.
Because of the short story’s pacing, he couldn’t fully bring those strengths to life.
‘How do I inject more fun into this manuscript…’
His head throbbed.
In his previous life, he’d only drawn action webtoons.
The genre and medium were completely different, so a good solution didn’t come quickly.
As Min-hyuk groaned inwardly, Pil-ho forced an awkward smile and said,
“We should probably just start with something. It’s a shame, but we’re out of time…”
“Sorry, could you give me ten more minutes?”
“Huh?”
“Just ten more minutes to think together, teacher. If nothing comes up after that… we’ll just start.”
Min-hyuk’s face was deadly serious.
There was a firmness in his expression that made it hard to refuse.
“…Alright.”
Pil-ho closed his eyes, exhaled, and agreed.
Meanwhile, Min-hyuk shut his own eyes and kept replaying the current storyboard in his mind.
‘A way to breathe more fun into it.’
Thump-thump.
His heart beat faster, blood rushed through his body, giving him the sensation of worms crawling under his skin.
‘The theme and point of this comic is the autobiographical story of a man who loves comics.’
As a child, the protagonist—who had nothing he was good at—was praised by his teacher for a drawing and fell in love with comics.
That’s why he drew comics his whole life.
It was a plausible story, and since it was Shin Pil-ho’s autobiography, it had actually happened…
But honestly, it didn’t feel particularly special to others.
‘Because of that, the protagonist’s desire doesn’t feel urgent enough.’
Yes—that’s why it lacked fun.
The protagonist’s desire was too mild, too vague.
Because the reason he had to draw comics—laid out early on—wasn’t intense enough, the later obsession with comics couldn’t explode with force.
Just then, a memory from the past flashed like lightning.
—When it comes to the material or message in my comics… it’s hard to say it’s something people will love, right? So I substitute the character’s desire. I swap it for something people can relate to and enjoy.
Choi Kyu-rim—a writer who handled social-message comics similar to Shin Pil-ho’s style, but whose works were adapted into hit movies and dramas.
A conversation they’d had during an exchange suddenly came back to him.
Was the crisis pulling an ability Min-hyuk didn’t even know he had to the surface?
In an instant, a spark exploded in his mind.
‘That’s it—substitute the desire!’
That could bring it to life.
Min-hyuk’s eyes shot open wide. He stared straight at Shin Pil-ho and said,
“Teacher.”
“Huh? What is it?”
“Let’s change the trigger that made the protagonist fall in love with comics. Instead of praise from a teacher… make it because of his first love in elementary school.”
“Huh? But in reality, I didn’t start loving comics because of a first love…”
Pil-ho scratched his forehead with an awkward expression. Min-hyuk shook his head firmly and continued,
“Teacher, this is… a comic. We don’t have to stick exactly to the real story, right?”
“…”
Pil-ho’s eyes widened.
‘Ah!’
His mouth fell open as if he’d been hit over the head with a hammer.
For the hours he’d spent drafting the storyboard, he had fixated—like pinning it down with tweezers—on the fact that as a child, he had been praised by his homeroom teacher and that’s how he started comics.
Because that was the entirety of what had actually happened.
But if the protagonist’s motivation itself… wasn’t strong enough to evoke intense empathy in readers?
If the material of “being praised by a teacher” wasn’t particularly crucial?
Pil-ho and Min-hyuk’s eyes met, and in that fleeting instant, an unspoken conversation passed between them.
What was truly important in this work was…
“The protagonist’s… desire to love comics itself.”
At Pil-ho’s words, Min-hyuk nodded.
‘So that’s why he suggested first love.’
The reason the protagonist in the story couldn’t let go of comics—despite never achieving great success—and kept circling around it.
Something everyone has experienced at least once, something unforgettable that lingers around the edges of memory, occasionally resurfacing.
First love.
This wasn’t just about creating a fun hook—it also became a metaphor for how Shin Pil-ho—no, the protagonist of this short comic—viewed and related to comics.
Suddenly, Pil-ho’s mind started tingling.
‘If I change the opening like this…’
Instead of a teacher’s praise, the protagonist starts drawing because of praise or a connection with a girl in his class.
With the opening changed this way, the later direction, dialogue, and flow began rearranging themselves in his head like puzzle pieces.
Pil-ho bit his lip hard.
“Min-hyuk, wait just a minute.”
“Yes.”
He’s finally got it.
Min-hyuk nodded with a serious face.
Then…
Scritch-scratch!
Pil-ho buried his head in the sketchbook, moving his pencil rapidly.
His eyes were bloodshot red from skipping meals and pushing through the night.
Yet somehow, his face carried a strange mix of excitement and anticipation.
How much time passed?
Tap!
He set down the pencil, turned back, and handed the sketchbook to Min-hyuk.
“Take a look.”
Flip, flip.
A brand-new short storyboard, drawn in an instant.
Min-hyuk turned each page slowly, chewing over every panel with a grave expression.
Pil-ho watched him with a tense face.
When Min-hyuk finally reached the last page and slowly lifted his head to meet Pil-ho’s eyes again…
Gulp!
Pil-ho’s throat bobbed.
Min-hyuk’s mouth curved into a wide, beaming smile as he said,
“Teacher.”
“Yeah?”
“This comic is amazing. It’s really… really fun.”
In that moment, the tension drained from Pil-ho’s face, replaced by an odd expression—half laugh, half tears.
“Let’s… start working.”
“Yes.”
Min-hyuk nodded brightly at Pil-ho’s words.
***
5:20 a.m.
In the alley of the quiet villa village, where the night’s darkness had swallowed everything.
Under the orange streetlights and the crescent moon in the sky, all light had vanished—except for one place that was bright as day.
Tick-tock, tick-tock.
Scritch-scratch.
At the desk, Shin Pil-ho glared at the manuscript paper as if trying to kill it, sketching furiously with his pencil.
[“…Take care.”
“Wait for me! I’ll definitely succeed as a comic artist!”]
The scene they were drawing now was the one where the first love transfers away, and the protagonist—watching her go—makes a childish vow to definitely succeed as a comic artist.
Since this was the highlight of the first half, it needed strong direction, so Pil-ho gripped his focus tightly and refused to let go.
Brrrrrr.
His hand holding the pencil trembled violently.
One wrong move and he’d get a cramp.
But Pil-ho didn’t stop.
‘This has to work.’
He knew this scene—this moment—would decide the fun and impact of the entire short story.
He poured 100%—no, 120%—of himself into it.
And besides… he wasn’t doing this manuscript alone.
Glance.
He turned his eyes slightly and saw the kids working behind him.
“Huuuaaahmm… I’m dying of sleepiness…”
Seung-heon, on one side, yawning hugely while cutting and trimming screentone with a cutter knife.
And on the other…
“…”
Min-hyuk, head buried in the manuscript paper, inking lines like a madman.
No matter that they were his friend’s son, no matter how unnaturally talented for their age.
Those boys were still third-year middle schoolers.
As an adult, as a comic artist himself, borrowing the tiny hands of kids like this… he couldn’t afford to complain.
‘Come on, push! Push!’
Gulp, gulp!
Pil-ho grabbed an energy drink from the desk and chugged it roughly, then dove back into work.
How many more pencil lines did he draw on the manuscript paper?
“Min-hyuk. Pages up to 7 are done.”
“Yes.”
Pil-ho immediately passed three finished rough pages to Min-hyuk.
Min-hyuk took them and hurriedly started inking.
Pil-ho stretched his back for a moment, then sat down again and continued sketching.
Scritch-scratch.
The sounds of pencil sketching, screentone cutting, and pen inking echoed repeatedly through the room.
It felt as if they were the only people left in the world.
Time kept flowing.
When the clock hands roughly pointed to around 6 a.m.…
“…”
Nod, nod.
Was it because he’d maintained insane focus for hours? Or had his body finally reached its limit?
Pil-ho’s eyes unfocused, his head bobbing up and down.
‘No… can’t…’
If he fell asleep here… it was over.
He slapped his cheeks, pinched his thighs.
Whenever his mind cleared, he moved the pencil again; whenever his eyelids drooped, he fought to wake himself.
But there are limits that human willpower alone can’t overcome.
His body—worn from endless manuscripts without rest, now pulling an all-nighter—slowly, very slowly, began stepping into the world of darkness.
“…”
Nod, nod.
Even Pil-ho fell silent.
“Phewww… I’m really gonna die.”
Min-hyuk gritted his teeth and kept his hand moving without pause.
Honestly, he felt like he could collapse any second.
‘If I fall asleep here… everything’s over.’
He’d resolved himself, but it wasn’t easy.
The limits of the flesh were clear.
Energy drinks and coffee weren’t working anymore.
If he closed his eyes even for a moment, he’d be gone to dreamland.
But Min-hyuk couldn’t stop.
‘If I fall asleep… it’s all over.’
I won’t… I won’t ever create something I’ll regret again.
“Grrraaah…”
Gritting his teeth, hand trembling as he gripped the pen.
Min-hyuk kept moving it, over and over.
***
Flash!
Pil-ho’s head jerked up from its nodding as his shoulders snapped upright.
“Huh… wait?”
A chilling sensation swept over his entire body.
Anxious and restless, he slowly turned his head…
The studio clock read 9:10 a.m.
“Shit!”
I’ve lost it—I’m the crazy bastard.
Sleeping when every minute, every second counted?
Pil-ho turned his head.
“Drrroooong… Phwewww…”
Seung-heon lay face-down on the desk, drooling in a puddle.
Despair crashed over him.
They had finally crafted a satisfying storyboard, but if they’d all passed out like this… everything they’d done would be for nothing.
Pil-ho let out a heavy sigh and leaned back in his chair.
Just then—a sound.
Scritch-scratch. Scritch-scratch.
“Hm?”
He turned toward it.
There was Kang Min-hyuk, head buried in the desk, hand still moving.
“…M-Min-hyuk?”
Pil-ho quickly stood, but Min-hyuk didn’t respond.
He just kept moving his arm—moving, moving, moving.
And…
‘He’s… smiling?’
He’d pulled an all-nighter just like the rest of them, yet a faint smile lingered on Min-hyuk’s face.
It was the look of someone who felt like this moment was pure bliss.
Morning sunlight poured in through the window, bathing Min-hyuk’s figure.
Somehow… he looked sacred, like the “god of comics” himself.
‘Who the hell is this kid…’
It was hard to put into words.
When Pil-ho was that age—crazy about comics, completely enchanted—could he have been like that?
No. Absolutely not.
This was…
‘A guy born to draw comics.’
Seriously, the world was full of all kinds of monsters.
Pil-ho scratched his head with a hollow laugh.
Just then—
“Hm?”
Finally sensing someone, perhaps.
Min-hyuk turned his head and said to Pil-ho,
“Ah… you’re awake, teacher?”
With a completely natural smile.
Pil-ho forced an awkward grin and replied,
“Sorry, Min-hyuk. I dozed off for a bit.”
“It’s fine. You didn’t sleep much.”
“Whatever—take Seung-heon and go crash in the room. I’ll wake you soon.”
“I’m okay. Let’s finish it together. I can… still hold out.”
A fighting spirit-filled smile spread across Min-hyuk’s face.
“Really… I can’t beat you.”
“Haha, I’ll take that as a compliment.”
An awkward smile mixed with apology and gratitude appeared on Pil-ho’s face.