Chapter 6 – The Old Comic Artist (2)
—“Writer Oh, what’ve you been up to lately?”
—“Me? Doing fine… preparing a new work and stuff.”
—“Still no thoughts about marriage?”
—“Can’t exactly get married alone.”
—“How’s the income? Decent?”
—“Just enough to get by.”
Conversations Pil-ho had whenever he talked to his friends surfaced one after another in his mind.
Being a comic artist past forty.
And not even one who’d hit it big—the life of that kind of artist was like a pair of shriveled balls.
You work your ass off, but there’s no savings. Stuck in your room staring at manuscripts all day, your back gives out, your face ages fast, and one by one your friends stop contacting you.
While everyone else talks about real estate, stocks, and their kids…
All he can contribute is cursing the idiot editors.
Cursing the rental shops that (he believes) ruined the Korean manhwa industry and the ignorant readers.
Cursing the hotshot artists who look down on him.
Cursing the Japanese for raising screentone prices.
Cursing the government that treats comics like something to suppress.
Curse, curse, curse—double curse. Keep that up and all that’s left inside is venom, irritation, and bitterness.
And a guy like that puffs himself up like a pufferfish.
My life isn’t that much of a failure.
I may not live an ordinary life like you guys, but I’m an artist doing what I love.
“So you two are Ji-heon’s kids?”
“No—his son is me, and this is my friend.”
“Ah… got it.”
The two brats standing in front of him.
When you think about it, they were also a product of Pil-ho’s pufferfish-like pride.
—“Hey, Pil-ho. My son says he wants to meet you.”
—“Huh? Why me?”
—“Dunno. His friend apparently wants to be a comic artist. Maybe he wants career advice? You too busy?”
—“Nah. I can make time.”
Pil-ho closed his eyes and let out a sigh.
‘Damn it… make time for what?’
Pil-ho, you idiot.
Your assistants just ran off and your deadline’s about to blow up—are you really worried about saving face right now?
But what could he do?
That’s just how a lifelong bachelor’s pride works.
If he didn’t do at least this, he felt like he’d really drop dead.
Let future Pil-ho worry about the manuscript.
“Heh heh, sure. Come on in.”
Seung-heon immediately stepped inside.
He pulled over a chair still warm from the vanished assistants, plopped down, and crossed his arms.
“So… both of you want to become comic artists?”
“No, just him—not me.”
At Seung-heon’s finger-point, Pil-ho turned his head.
A clean-cut middle schooler stared straight back without blinking.
‘This kid’s done for.’
You could tell just from his face.
That boy didn’t have the look of a comic artist.
A comic artist needs deep contemplation, perspective, a unique view of the world.
Having such a neat, handsome face meant he hadn’t suffered enough—and that meant less contemplation… anyway.
‘He’s 100% just saying he wants to be one because he hates studying.’
Trying to become a comic artist with that shallow mindset?
As a respectable mid-career artist in his forties with five major failures under his belt, it was his duty as an adult to set the kid straight.
Besides, it’s not exactly a profession he’d recommend anyway.
“Ahem. Kid, I get what you’re thinking, but this job isn’t as glamorous or easy as you imagine… Let me tell you a few things.”
“You’re the author of <Era of the Poor>, right, sir?”
“Huh?”
Pil-ho tilted his head.
Then the boy sitting across from him—Kang Min-hyuk—quietly pulled a book from his bag.
<Era of the Poor>, Volume 1.
The work that had won Shin Pil-ho the rookie award at the Korea Manhwa Grand Prize hosted by the Korea Manhwa Association—the badge of honor and the brand that had dragged him into this hellhole.
A biographical comic about a poor man born in the 1970s struggling his way up from the bottom.
But while <Era of the Poor> had given Pil-ho fame, it hadn’t given him food.
Sales: 3,000 copies per volume.
And even those dropped as the series went on—forcing what was planned as a 10-volume story to be slimmed down to 5 under pressure from the editorial department.
Well… it was already surprising they’d managed to serialize something like that in a shonen magazine in the first place.
‘They shouldn’t have serialized it in the first place, you rotten bastards!’
Even now, thinking about it made his stomach boil.
But anyway, that wasn’t important right now.
He had no idea how this kid knew about the series or managed to bring a copy, but for Pil-ho, the situation was simply bewildering.
<Era of the Poor> wasn’t exactly a comic you’d joke about recommending to a child.
Pil-ho scratched his head awkwardly and asked,
“Kid, have you actually read that comic?”
“It’s Min-hyuk.”
“Huh?”
“My name is Kang Min-hyuk, Mr. Shin Pil-ho.”
“Ah… sorry.”
This kid’s got some nerve.
As Pil-ho scratched his head again, Min-hyuk continued.
“Of course I’ve read <Era of the Poor>. Anyone aspiring to be a comic artist would. It was fun, and there were a lot of interesting directorial choices. I could see why it won an award. It wasn’t for nothing.”
“Huh?”
Min-hyuk’s eyes curved into crescents as he went on.
“You subtly show the desires and vicarious satisfaction of adults from your generation, while using the supporting characters to constantly highlight the contradictions and problems in the protagonist’s desires. Your character-handling technique overall was impressive. The art style and pen lines fit the work perfectly too. The only regret is that the tone didn’t quite match a shonen magazine.”
At that moment, Seung-heon—who had been listening quietly from the side—scratched his eyebrow with a finger.
‘What the hell is he talking about? Did that guy actually read it?’
<Era of the Poor> had been sitting on the family bookshelf for years. His dad had apparently bought it out of pity for the author…
But it was boring as hell, dragged on, and he couldn’t make sense of it at all.
And Min-hyuk had read it without him knowing?
Seung-heon couldn’t help tilting his head in confusion.
Just then, as doubt filled Seung-heon’s mind, Min-hyuk’s eyes sparkled even brighter as he continued.
“This work… if there hadn’t been pressure from the editorial department, it could’ve had a much better ending. As a reader, that was really disappointing.”
“Huh? What did you just say?”
“Didn’t it end prematurely? Anyone could tell… it felt like the story was about to expand with episodes of the protagonist and heroine’s married life. After that, it seemed headed toward conflict between the protagonist and his ride-or-die friend who was thriving at a rival company.”
“…Huh?”
Look at this kid.
Pil-ho scratched his forehead.
‘Who the hell is this guy?’
A strange sense of unease stabbed deep into Pil-ho’s gut.
Even an idiot could tell.
No one could analyze it that deeply just from being told to read it.
What the kid was saying wasn’t made-up nonsense.
‘Is he… really a middle schooler?’
A mere middle schooler reading his work at that level?
The oddly relaxed expression, the gestures, the way he spoke…
How to put it…
‘An old soul?’
No, this wasn’t just an old soul—it felt like talking to a real adult.
While Pil-ho blinked in confusion,
“Um, Mr. Pil-ho… could I ask you a favor?”
“Yeah, what is it?”
“An autograph.”
“Ah…”
Only then did he notice again the copy of <Era of the Poor> Volume 1 in Min-hyuk’s hand.
“H-here, give it to me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What was your name again?”
Pil-ho grabbed a random name pen lying around and quickly scribbled a signature before handing it back.
“Thank you so much!”
Min-hyuk bowed politely, and for some reason Pil-ho’s mouth twitched into a faint smile.
‘So… there’s a middle schooler out there reading my comics.’
A warm, fuzzy feeling rose in his chest for no reason.
He felt a little embarrassed for having prejudged the kid.
Pil-ho scratched his forehead again and asked,
“Ahem, so… you want to become a comic artist. What can I help you with? You didn’t come just for an autograph.”
He could at least give some advice or introduce the kid to an editor for a casual chat over tea.
It wouldn’t hurt to pull a few strings…
Just then, Min-hyuk glanced around the room and spoke.
“Sir, where did your assistants go?”
“Huh… why do you ask?”
“Well, the seats we’re sitting in look like where assistants usually sit.”
Ah, right. My manuscript deadline is about to explode.
Only then did Pil-ho once again remember his miserable reality, heat rising to his forehead.
“Well… they all had things to do today, so they couldn’t come in. Heh heh. It’s not important—don’t worry about it.”
“Hmm, really? They didn’t all quit or anything?”
At Min-hyuk’s words, Pil-ho’s eyes widened as if he’d been stabbed in a sore spot.
Of course, the only reason a middle-schooler could know this was because the person standing in front of him wasn’t actually a third-year middle school kid—but Kang Min-hyuk, age 34, who had spent years grinding in the webtoon industry.
‘It’s obvious. A studio empty at this hour, the artist just chain-smoking.’
During his webtoon days.
He’d heard countless war stories from PDs and artists who came from the print manhwa world about this era—until his ears bled.
‘What the hell, this kid’s kinda creepy.’
Pil-ho smacked his lips and waved his hand.
“It’s not important. If there’s anything you’re curious about or any way I can help, just say it. I’ll do what I can…”
“Really? Actually, that’s exactly why I came—to ask for a little help.”
“What is it?”
Min-hyuk smiled brightly and answered,
“Could you let me work as your assistant?”
“What?”
What kind of nonsense is this kid spouting?
Deep wrinkles formed on Pil-ho’s face in an instant.
***
“Whoa… you drew all of these?”
Flip.
Flip-flip.
Pil-ho’s eyes widened and narrowed repeatedly as he turned the pages of the plain sketchbook in his hands.
“Yes. If you don’t believe me, I can draw something right now.”
“Sir, he really drew them. Pretty good, right?”
Seung-heon chimed in to back up Min-hyuk’s bold claim.
But what could Pil-ho do?
The kid really was good.
‘Solid grasp of form… great line quality too.’
Usually, kids this age who say they want to draw comics are mostly just “head-diggers”—obsessed with drawing faces over and over.
Drawing hands, clothes, full bodies takes a long time to learn and even longer to feel improvement, so they stick to the instantly gratifying faces.
But Min-hyuk’s drawings were far beyond that level.
To be honest…
‘Just looking at the drawing skill… he’s about as good as me—or even better?’
I’m not exactly a slouch myself, but this is ridiculous.
A twinge of jealousy stirred inside him.
If seeing this kind of dazzling talent didn’t spark any feeling at all, you weren’t a real artist.
And at the same time, one conclusion came to him.
“You’re serious about wanting to be my assistant?”
“Yes. I can’t do it long-term because of my situation… maybe just two weeks? I want to try inking lines and working with screentone.”
“Have you done it before?”
“No—that’s why I’m asking you to teach me. In return, you don’t have to pay me assistant wages or anything.”
Was this boldness or overflowing confidence?
Pil-ho scratched his head and asked,
“Your parents… they know about this?”
“Yes, I told them everything.”
Min-hyuk nodded cheerfully.
Determination filled his eyes.
Pil-ho knew instinctively.
This wasn’t a joke.
‘Man, you really see all kinds of people in this world…’
Pil-ho crossed his arms, lowered his head, and groaned for a moment.
It didn’t take long to reach a decision.
“Fine, let’s give it a shot! But—if you can’t cut it, that’s it, okay? I may look like this, but I’m a pro.”
Now wasn’t the time to be picky about hot or cold rice.
With his assistants gone, missing deadline was basically guaranteed.
Better to try something than just sit there and rot.
“Yes, sir! Thank you—I’ll do my best. Should I call you ‘sir’… or ‘teacher’?”
Min-hyuk bowed deeply, showing proper respect to his senior in the industry—if not quite his master.
Pil-ho let out a sigh, the corners of his mouth lifting faintly.
“Yeah, whatever. Call me whatever you’re comfortable with.”
***
“Put more strength into it. If you press too lightly, the line quality dies. You have to grip firmly and let it slide smoothly.”
“Ah, yes.”
At the desk.
Min-hyuk leaned his head so close to the blank paper it was almost buried, moving the G-pen clutched in his hand.
‘This… isn’t easy.’
The sensation was completely different from drawing on a tablet.
He had to dip the pen in ink every few lines and adjust the amount by feel.
But the hardest part was… the resistance of the G-pen itself and the constant ink blobs it produced.
Because of that, controlling line thickness was tricky, and the blobs often smeared and ruined the paper.
“The G-pen was made to maximize line quality in the first place. That’s why you have to apply proper pressure for the feel to come alive.”
“Yes, I’ll keep trying.”
Swish.
Swooooosh.
Swish.
Long, even longer, then short this time.
Min-hyuk kept drawing lines.
After focusing like that for another several dozen minutes…
‘It’s getting better.’
Min-hyuk could feel the precision of his lines improving.
The only slight issue was…
‘My arm… the strain is no joke.’
Pushing against the G-pen already took a lot of force, and the body he had now wasn’t that of an adult but a middle schooler’s.
It made him feel a quiet reverence for the insane work habits of old-school comic artists.
But at the same time—
‘This is fun.’
The smell of ink, the unique feel of the pen in his hand, the strange sensation of facing actual manuscript paper.
The world of traditional analog comics—something he had never experienced in his previous life, only admired from afar.
He had finally stepped into it. The thought made his heart race in a curious way.
‘Good choice.’
All of this was essential technique he absolutely needed to win the Korea Animation High contest.
Unlike digital work where you can erase and redraw endlessly, analog didn’t forgive mistakes.
If he didn’t master these traditional skills here, he wouldn’t even be able to show half his true ability.
But if he spent two weeks rolling around in this studio…
‘I can definitely take first place.’
And when he left…
‘I can ask Mr. Shin to lend me some materials.’
The corners of Min-hyuk’s mouth twitched upward.
To the other assistants, this place was a low-wage hellhole they had to escape.
But for the current him, there was no sweeter honey pot.
Just then, Pil-ho—who had been watching from the side—nodded and said,
“Let’s practice like this for about thirty more minutes. Then I’ll give you some inking tasks on the actual manuscript.”
“Oh… already?”
Pil-ho stared intently at Min-hyuk and scratched his chin.
‘Man, this kid’s scary.’
He’d only been scribbling for a few dozen minutes, and he was already this comfortable with the pen?
Is his talent insane, or has he done this kind of work before?
Pil-ho waved his hand.
“If it doesn’t turn out well, we can just redraw it.”
Min-hyuk bowed his head again.
“Thank you, teacher.”
“I told you—that ‘teacher’
thing is burdensome. Just call me sir.”
“But you’re my teacher, so…”
“It’s fine, really. Anyway, keep going. I’ll finish up the roughs.”
“Yes, sir! Teacher.”
“I said not to call me teacher…”
Pil-ho was about to head back to his own seat when—
“Um, sir. What should I do?”
“Huh?”
He turned his head.
The friend’s son—middle schooler Oh Seung-heon—was standing there staring at him.
“You’re… still here?”
You really didn’t have to stay too…
Pil-ho answered with an awkward smile.