Chapter 5 – The Old Comic Artist (1)
Ba-bam bam-bam bam-bara-ram♪
Ba-bam— bam-bam bam-bara-ram♪
A strange, nationality-indeterminate electronic tune played rhythmically, and to its beat, Oh Seung-heon hammered away at the keyboard.
2005: the legendary masterpiece fighting game (arcade port), Gundam Fight—better known as ‘Gun Something’.
A terrifying game where you transform into a gorilla and throw people off buildings.
Beat them with a baseball bat and throw them off.
Punch them senseless and throw them off.
Or just push them off.
A monstrous title completely focused on what players called “toxicity.”
Thwack! Thwack! Pow! Pow!
On screen, Seung-heon’s bald character swung fists furiously with every key press.
Then an enemy baseball bat connected—the character’s eyes bulged comically, and he plummeted off the building, leaving this mortal coil.
“Damn it… close one.”
Seung-heon scratched his head in irritation, then whipped around and shouted,
“Hey, Kang Min-hyuk. Your turn.”
Normally, this would make Min-hyuk rush over and take the keyboard…
“Nah. You keep going.”
“…For real?”
“Yeah.”
Scritch-scratch.
Scritch-scratch.
Min-hyuk sat cross-legged beside the bed with a small dining tray unfolded in front of him, pencil scribbling nonstop across a sketchbook.
His head was practically buried in the page, arm moving without pause.
The intense, almost murderous focus on his face was, from Seung-heon’s perspective, honestly a little scary.
‘This guy… what’s gotten into him all of a sudden?’
Starting yesterday—suddenly talking about drawing comics, going to animation high school, and now this. How could anyone make sense of it?
And on top of that…
‘He draws disgustingly well.’
Even at a glance, Min-hyuk’s work wasn’t the level of someone who’d only been drawing for a day or two.
They’d known each other for years, yet Seung-heon had never seen anything like this. It was naturally bewildering.
“Kang Min-hyuk… did you always like drawing?”
“I’ve been doing it for a while.”
“I… had no idea.”
“You should pay more attention to your friend.”
“S-sorry.”
Seung-heon scratched his forehead and asked,
“Are you seriously going to become a comic artist?”
“That’s the plan.”
“…”
“You sure you’re the real Kang Min-hyuk? Not possessed or something?”
“Yeah, it’s me. Just play your game.”
Min-hyuk waved him off lazily without lifting his eyes from the sketchbook.
“…Fine. This is boring anyway.”
Seung-heon sighed deeply and quit the game.
Then he quietly scooted over beside Min-hyuk and watched.
“You’re preparing for that contest thing, right?”
“Yeah. I have to take the grand prize.”
“Is winning the grand prize easy?”
“Probably not.”
“But you’re still going for it?”
“That’s why I’m practicing.”
Min-hyuk let out a deep sigh.
‘This isn’t going to be easy…’
—…So if you don’t win the grand prize, you’ll never touch comics again, right?
—Yes! If I don’t win that, I won’t even start.
—Then fine, give it a try.
He had made a bold declaration to Hong Mi-seon.
Win or die.
If he didn’t come in first, he wouldn’t go anywhere near comics.
Sure, he’d started late in his previous life, but he was still the pro artist who had proudly won gold in Bluehouse’s contest and secured serialization.
If he couldn’t even take first place among middle schoolers? Then yeah—he’d quit comics.
And besides…
‘These lunatics are really making middle schoolers do this?’
It was currently 2005.
Webtoons hadn’t even been born yet, and Bitcoin—the thing he’d sworn to invest in if he ever regressed—didn’t exist either.
So he understood the test being based on 16 pages, the standard weekly amount for print magazine manhwa.
But wasn’t that “weekly” manhwa?
They wanted middle schoolers to complete a full weekly serialization’s worth of pages in just 8 hours, on site?
And the theme would be announced that day, so even story planning time would be tight.
He’d done weekly serialization and plenty of short-story practice before debuting, so he was reasonably confident in that area…
‘But confidence isn’t enough. I’m aiming for absolute first place.’
If he didn’t win first, he was dead.
In the end, he needed skill overwhelming enough to crush everyone else.
The key to this contest would be speed.
How quickly he could produce a manuscript close to real weekly serialization quality.
That’s where most people would win or lose.
The problem was…
‘I’ve never worked fully analog.’
He was a delicate, frail former webtoon artist.
Meaning: he had never wielded a real G-pen dipped in ink with bold strokes… nor had he ever used real screentone, nervously sharpening the blade so it wouldn’t tear the paper.
Sure, there was time left to practice… but the real issue was money.
—Then you handle the contest prep yourself. Mom will only help with registering and getting you there.
—Got it. Don’t worry about it.
The moment he’d boasted so loudly to Hong Mi-seon now felt a little embarrassing.
They say a true craftsman never blames his tools?
Just scribble with a Monami ballpoint pen?
Try saying that in front of real craftsmen—you’d get cursed out in seconds.
Min-hyuk paused his pencil for a moment and asked Seung-heon, who was staring intently beside him.
“Oh Seung-heon.”
“What.”
“You got any money? Like… 100,000 won?”
“Would I have it? And even if I did, why would I give it to you?”
“Stingy bastard.”
“Ugh, what’s with you now?”
“I need to buy some tools for comics. Pens, screentone, stuff like that. Even cutting it to the bare minimum, I think it’ll take at least 100,000 won to get anything decent.”
If his memory was correct, that was already the rock-bottom estimate.
“…Why not just quit and play another round of Gun Something?”
“Nope.”
Min-hyuk’s eyes narrowed.
‘This guy’s exactly the same as always.’
When he complained about how tough it was after joining the public corporation.
When he quit the company to draw comics.
Whenever he was troubled and called Seung-heon, the reaction was always similar.
—Wanna grab a drink? My treat!
—Come on, let’s hit the PC bang and play a round of LoL.
In a word…
He always showed up without fail and spent time with him, no matter what.
Nicely put: big-hearted. Harshly put: nosy as hell.
Above all… comfortable.
He could practice at home, but the reason he came here anyway was largely because it was Seung-heon.
Though the computer was part of it too.
—Hey! Kang Min-hyuk, I believe in you, man. You can do it.
Even before the regression, there were several critical moments when this guy had been a huge help.
Anyway, that wasn’t the important thing right now.
Min-hyuk let out a big sigh and said,
“I have to win the grand prize—no matter what. If I don’t, I’m dead.”
Is this guy finally losing it?
Seung-heon tilted his head, staring at Min-hyuk as he said it with deadly seriousness.
“Ugggh… this is tough. 100,000 won, 100,000 won… Should I sneak it from Dad’s wallet?”
“I’m the one using it—why would you steal it?”
“You said you need it.”
Man, talk about nosy.
But if things got really desperate, that might actually be an option.
…Still, the idea of a 34-year-old man thinking about pickpocketing his parents made a wave of self-loathing creep up.
“Haa… Isn’t there any other way?”
Seung-heon flopped onto his back in his spot and let out a sigh.
‘If it comes down to it, maybe I should look for a part-time job that hires minors. Worst case, I’ll get on my knees in front of Madam Hong Mi-seon…’
Scritch-scratch.
Just as Min-hyuk was deep in thought, still doodling away,
“Ah! I got it!”
“Jesus! Give a guy some warning!”
Seung-heon shot up and shouted, making Min-hyuk jump.
“Warning? Why are you talking like some old man?”
“Ahem! Anyway, what’s up?”
“My dad once said he has a friend who’s a comic artist.”
“And?”
“Why not go visit that guy and ask to borrow some tools? Comic artists have tons of that stuff, right?”
“…Friend.”
“What?”
“So what you’re saying is… let’s rob a poor comic artist’s supplies?”
“…Comic artists are poor?”
“Yeah. Dirt poor.”
Seung-heon’s eyebrow twitched.
“Then why the hell are you trying to become one?”
“Because when I become a comic artist, I won’t be poor.”
“What kind of nonsense is that?”
Buddy, pretty soon something called webtoons is gonna appear… and that market’s gonna grow huge—massive.
—but there’s no way this guy would understand even if I explained.
‘Whatever.’
Just as Min-hyuk was about to sigh again,
Seung-heon pouted and muttered,
“Even if he’s poor, does he have to be that broke…? If worst comes to worst, you could bring a gift or something, right?”
“You got money to buy a gift?”
“If I steal something good… Wait, there’s half a watermelon in our fridge. Couldn’t you take that?”
“…”
Why does every idea end with stealing?
And half a watermelon?
‘What the hell do you think comic artists are?’
Just as Min-hyuk was about to sigh again,
Flash.
‘Wait a second.’
A thought struck him like lightning.
“Hey, that might actually work.”
“Taking the watermelon?”
“No—the gift idea.”
“You just said you don’t have money.”
“A gift doesn’t have to cost money.”
“…Like giving him a wish coupon or something? What are we, elementary school kids?”
Seung-heon shook his head in disbelief, but Min-hyuk placed a hand firmly on his shoulder and said,
“Never mind that. Just tell your dad for me. Tell him I dream of becoming a comic artist… and that I really want to meet his friend.”
A gift? Hell yeah, a gift.
‘Because I can give a comic artist the best possible gift.’
If this works, materials… I can get as many as I need.
The corners of Min-hyuk’s mouth curled up into a wide grin.
***
Inside a room where sunlight poured in through an old window that took up one entire wall.
Three desks lined the walls, cluttered with drafting ink, G-pens, rulers, pencils, and all sorts of tools needed for drawing comics.
Creak.
The door opened, and a man walked in.
“Huuuuaaahmm.”
A man in his early to mid-forties stretched with a big yawn.
Wearing a stretched-out short-sleeve T-shirt and horn-rimmed glasses.
Pale skin from hardly ever seeing sunlight, a skinny, bony frame.
His name was Shin Pil-ho.
An aging, sickly, lifelong bachelor—and dirt-poor—comic artist who drew for the biweekly magazine <New Chance>.
Entering his studio, he glanced around.
The place was completely empty. On one of the desks…
[We’re sorry, sir.
We just can’t do this anymore.
—Your assistants]
…was the only thing left: a single note.
A message from his now-former assistants (may they rest in peace).
The moment he saw it, Pil-ho’s shoulders slumped and his face crumpled.
“Damn it, they ran off again?”
Thud.
He collapsed into a chair, scratched his head furiously, and stared at the ceiling.
Then he pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it.
“Fucking life…”
White smoke filled the room along with his sigh.
This was already the fifth time his assistants had bailed.
Thanks to that, his workload had doubled, but he didn’t feel resentment or anger.
After all, he only (could only) pay them 600,000 won a month… Ten hours a day of grueling labor that didn’t even meet minimum wage—who wouldn’t run?
But Pil-ho had his excuses too.
He earned 30,000 won per page, 16 pages a week—that came to 480,000 won.
Doing that nonstop all month barely scraped together under 2 million won.
Minus 1.2 million for two assistants’ salaries, 250,000 for rent, utilities…
There was no point in going on.
Sure, royalties came in if the books sold, but in a market where even the #1 artist barely moved 30,000 copies, what was there to hope for?
If someone said, “Nobody forced you to become a comic artist,” he’d have nothing to say…
“But this isn’t how I wanted it to turn out.”
Toriyama Akira, Tezuka Osamu, Lee Hyun-se, Heo Young-man…
Damn it, damn it all.
I wanted to become a legend too!
Make it big, do character merchandising!
Sit back collecting royalties while living with a fox-like wife and bunny-like kids!
How the hell did I end up like this?
Just thinking about reality made stomach acid rise in Pil-ho’s throat.
‘Should’ve just quit and gone to work in a factory.’
His cigarette was burning down to the filter when—
Ding-dong! Ding-dong!
The doorbell rang.
Pil-ho quickly stood up.
“Who the hell is it at this hour?”
Did one of the runaway assistants come back? Or…
Creak!
He brushed the ashes off his clothes with his hand and opened the door.
There stood two kids who looked like middle schoolers.
“Hello, sir!”
“Good afternoon
!”
‘Who are these punks?’
Pil-ho tilted his head and asked,
“Who are you guys?”
“My dad sent us.”
“Your dad? Who’s your dad?”
“You talk all fancy and you still don’t know?”
[TL Note: In the original Korean, the Seung-heon teases Pil-ho for using old-fashioned, formal speech associated with Sino-Korean (한자어). The above line or dialogue isn’t literal—it’s a playful jab meaning,]
“Oh Ji-heon?”
Ah… damn it.
A memory suddenly surfaced in Pil-ho’s mind.