Chapter 9 – We Can Do It
‘What did that kid just say?’
‘…Huh? Do what?’
Editor Go Gwang-jin.
Writer Shin Pil-ho.
And ride-or-die friend Oh Seung-heon.
All three men standing in the villa lobby stared wide-eyed at Kang Min-hyuk.
Min-hyuk looked straight at Pil-ho and said with a completely serious face,
“Like the editor said—do the short story, teacher.”
“Hey, Writer Pil-ho, I’ve been meaning to ask—who are these kids?”
Gwang-jin blinked and pointed at Min-hyuk. Pil-ho let out a deep sigh and said,
“They’re helping me with work… never mind that. Min-hyuk, I appreciate the sentiment, but this isn’t something you can say so lightly…”
“It’s not light at all.”
“Huh?”
“Your comic isn’t light, teacher. The serialization should go all the way to the end.”
Min-hyuk’s voice was earnest as he stared straight at him.
“…”
A brief silence hung in the air.
Then Min-hyuk added one more line.
“If you don’t do this… you’ll regret it, teacher.”
Regret.
The moment Min-hyuk uttered that word, a tremor ran through his voice.
Pil-ho’s eyes shook as they met his.
It was just one sentence. The kid was just looking at him.
Yet somehow, the weight of it—the unspoken feelings—came through completely.
‘Kids these days are scary.’
Pil-ho let out a big sigh, forced an awkward smile, and said,
“Min-hyuk, I get where you’re coming from, but finishing a short story in two days is physically…”
“It’s possible. If we help you.”
“Huh?”
“I’ll help. If you and I stay up all night for the next two days, we can finish it—even if it’s tight.”
“Stay up all night? No, you have to go home…”
Pil-ho’s eyebrows twitched. Min-hyuk held out his palm and said,
“Lend me your phone for a sec.”
“Huh? Why the phone…”
That was when—
Swish.
“Here, kid. Use mine.”
Go Gwang-jin, who had quietly stepped closer, handed over his flip phone.
Min-hyuk took it and punched in a number.
“Hi, Mom. It’s me.”
“…”
“I’m thinking of sleeping over here tonight.”
“…”
“No, no—Seung-heon’s here too. We already ate. Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. I’ll call if anything comes up.”
A worried woman’s voice leaked faintly from the other end, but Min-hyuk spoke without hesitation.
Then…
“Thanks for letting me use it, Editor.”
Snap!
He closed the phone and handed it back to Gwang-jin.
Gwang-jin huffed through his nose and asked,
“So, kid—what’s your deal?”
“Me? I’m Assistant to Writer Shin Pil-ho.”
“Assistant? You?”
Gwang-jin stroked his chin with interest.
“M-me too!”
Seung-heon, who had been watching the mood, timidly raised his hand.
Gwang-jin looked up and stared straight at Shin Pil-ho.
A complicated mix of emotions on his face.
Even without words, the meaning was clear.
What these kids had said… was true.
‘Man… eating editorial rice, you see all kinds of things.’
But it didn’t matter.
For an editor, the most important thing was getting good works from good artists out into the world.
To Go Gwang-jin, Shin Pil-ho was a good artist, and that’s why he wanted to see <Era of the Poor> through to the end.
If someone could help make that happen—even if it was a middle schooler, or the devil himself—an editor had to take that hand.
Gwang-jin huffed through his nose, patted Min-hyuk’s shoulder with his palm, and said,
“Then I’m counting on you, Writer Shin. Young assistant.”
“Yes, sir.”
Min-hyuk answered shortly. Gwang-jin turned, walked briskly out of the lobby, and waved without looking back.
“Two days. Two days. Manuscript by 3 p.m.—good luck.”
“Wait! Editor Go!”
Pil-ho reached out, but Gwang-jin had already vanished from sight.
“…Hah.”
What the hell kind of situation is this?
Pil-ho stood frozen, staring blankly ahead.
Just then—
Tug, tug!
Something pulled at him. He turned to see Kang Min-hyuk tugging on his sleeve.
“Teacher, let’s save the pork belly for next time.”
“You sure that’s okay?”
“Instead, if this goes well… upgrade it to beef.”
Min-hyuk grinned, turned, and started climbing the stairs.
Pil-ho stared blankly at the empty staircase where Min-hyuk had disappeared…
CLENCH!
Then suddenly clenched his fist hard, eyes blazing with determination, and bolted up the stairs.
In the now-empty lobby,
“H-hey, wait for me, sir!”
Seung-heon, the last one left, hurriedly scrambled up after them.
***
A short while later, inside the studio.
Min-hyuk pulled a chair up to Shin Pil-ho’s desk, flipped through a sketchbook with a serious expression.
When he reached the last page,
Pil-ho—who had been watching nervously from the side—asked cautiously,
“What do you think, Min-hyuk?”
“…It’s not bad, but… I think it’ll be tough with these.”
Min-hyuk scratched his forehead lightly. Pil-ho’s shoulders slumped.
‘Figures.’
This sketchbook contained old short stories and storyboards Pil-ho had drawn as practice before his pro debut.
With only two days left, these were the quickest things he could pull out.
The problem was that they were so old—even to Pil-ho’s current eyes, none of them were usable.
He’d shown them to Min-hyuk in faint hope that something might work, but just as Min-hyuk shook his head, there wasn’t a single viable short among them.
From working together and especially from hearing Min-hyuk’s critique of <Era of the Poor>, Pil-ho already trusted the kid’s eye completely.
Meanwhile, Min-hyuk stroked his chin in thought.
‘Just filling the hole isn’t enough.’
This manuscript was the handle of the knife he’d hand to Editor Go Gwang-jin to overturn the editorial decision.
If the blade wasn’t sharp enough—if this manuscript didn’t make people reconsider Shin Pil-ho’s worth as an artist…
Everything they were doing now would be pointless.
In the end, what they had to produce in two days was a manuscript that everyone would agree was “good.”
‘It definitely won’t be easy.’
But Min-hyuk wasn’t worried.
Thump! Thump!
His heart pounded hard, and he felt like he could leap out of his skin.
“Phewww… what should I draw…”
Pil-ho, on the other hand, clutched his head in worry.
The pressure felt like something crushing his chest.
Just then, Min-hyuk crossed his arms and asked,
“Teacher, is there any story you’ve always wanted to tell?”
A story he wanted to tell.
The fun of a story ultimately comes from some desire within the artist.
What a protagonist driven by a certain desire will do—especially when that character overlaps with the artist themselves—naturally creates flow and narrative.
That’s why this was the most natural question to ask when starting a new work.
“A story… a story…”
Pil-ho’s brow furrowed.
“Phew… I’m the type who pours everything I want to say into my current work. What I’m doing now is the story I wanted to tell…”
“Yeah… that makes sense.”
Shin Pil-ho’s comics were fundamentally similar to the way alternative or arthouse films convey messages.
He carefully arranged era, characters, and events to clearly weave the message he wanted to deliver.
In short…
His approach was quite different from the usual comic style focused on vicarious satisfaction and entertainment.
‘For this type… it takes time to capture a theme from everyday life.’
Having interacted with plenty of artists during his webtoon days, Min-hyuk knew this well.
Unlike his own type—who would dive headfirst into anything—artists like Pil-ho couldn’t produce anything if they didn’t have a story burning inside them.
So right now, squeezing Pil-ho dry wasn’t the way.
‘I need to help him find the story he wants to tell.’
Min-hyuk let out a low hum and said,
“Hmm… Teacher.”
“Yeah, Min-hyuk?”
“How about making this short story about your own life?”
“Huh?”
Pil-ho’s eyebrows twitched.
Just then—
Whoosh!
“That summer… we didn’t win a single game.”
Oh Seung-heon’s face suddenly shoved itself between them.
The problem was… his long snout was stuffed with a huge mouthful of ramen noodles.
Min-hyuk frowned and pushed Seung-heon’s face aside with one hand.
“Seriously.”
“Mmgh, mmph, why’d you—”
Munch, munch, gulp.
Seung-heon, pushed away, finished swallowing the noodles in his mouth.
Min-hyuk and Pil-ho both stared at him, thinking the same thing.
‘So annoying…’
‘Why hasn’t he gone home yet?’
But whether he lacked awareness or was just eternally optimistic,
Seung-heon’s eyes sparkled as he asked,
“So… what do you mean by a story about himself? Aren’t we supposed to be drawing a comic?”
Min-hyuk let out a deep sigh, crossed his arms, and answered,
“This is purely as a reader, but… you’re incredibly meticulous at capturing details from everyday emotions and moments, right?”
“…O-oh… I guess?”
“Anyway, if we want to produce maximum quality in minimum time, we should plan in a way that maximizes your strengths—that’s my opinion.”
As Min-hyuk continued, Pil-ho stroked his chin and nodded.
“Hmm… yeah, that makes sense. If the protagonist is me in an autobiographical story, I’d be able to quickly capture those subtle details.”
“Yes, exactly. Statistically, we’re more likely to get something good that way.”
“Phew… alright, I’ll start on the storyboard then. Can you wait a bit? I’ll be quick—make yourselves comfortable.”
“Yes, sir!”
Scritch-scratch.
‘A short in two days… that brings out the full charm of Writer Shin Pil-ho.’
Min-hyuk returned to his seat and—just in case—began jotting ideas in his sketchbook.
“Hmm hmm♪”
Seung-heon, having finished his ramen, hummed a tune while flipping through comics to kill time.
About an hour passed like that.
“Phewww… done.”
Shin Pil-ho wiped the sweat from his forehead and let out a long breath.
‘Already? That was faster than I expected.’
Min-hyuk scratched his forehead and casually asked,
“Teacher, if it’s okay… could I take a look at the storyboard?”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
Pil-ho handed over the storyboard, and Min-hyuk immediately began reading through it.
“Ooh, I wanna see too.”
Seung-heon suddenly squeezed in beside him to peek. Min-hyuk shot him a glare sharp enough to kill as he turned each page of manuscript paper intently.
When he finally reached the last page…
“What do you think? Does it seem decent?”
At Pil-ho’s question, Min-hyuk stroked his chin and replied,
“The details are good, the direction is solid, and the layout completion is strong overall. The dialogue flow and structure are smooth too.”
The story Pil-ho had outlined was simple.
A man who, as a child, was praised by his teacher for a drawing during art class and grew up to become a comic artist.
He achieves ambiguous success in the field he loves, begins to curse himself, and finds the seed of resolution through a conversation with the “god of comics” in a dream.
It was easy to understand, and the visual impact of the scene where he meets the god of comics wasn’t bad.
Everything was good—except for one problem.
“I think… it’s a bit too heavy.”
Seung-heon wrinkled his brow as he said it. Pil-ho scratched his head and replied,
“Well… my comics have always been a little hard to digest…”
Just as Pil-ho was about to continue, Min-hyuk cautiously asked,
“Teacher, do you think this will be enough to overturn the editorial decision?”
“…”
Pil-ho’s eyes widened instantly.
He understood exactly what Min-hyuk meant.
‘It’s not just about churning out any manuscript.’
What they needed wasn’t just any short story—it had to be one that would satisfy the editorial department.
From that perspective, this one was…
‘It’s basically a rehash of what I’ve done before.’
The feeling of being yanked back to reality made his throat tighten.
‘But… I have no idea how to fix it.’
Just then, he noticed Min-hyuk staring intensely at the storyboard.
A serious expression, as if he were trying to murder the pages with his eyes.
‘Anyway… there’s nowhere left to retreat.’
It was humiliating to his pride, but Pil-ho finally forced the words out.
“Min-hyuk.”
“Yes, teacher.”
“Do you… have any thoughts looking at this storyboard? Any ideas on how to make it better… anything at all?”
He knew it was embarrassing and pathetic.
No matter how much of a genius Kang Min-hyuk was, he was still just a middle schooler.
Here Pil-ho was—a pro who got paid to do this—asking a kid for answers.
But he had to grasp at any straw.
There simply wasn’t enough time left for him to break out of his own mold on his own.
Min-hyuk stroked his chin and said,
“After hearing what Seung-heon said… I think it could use some genre fun.”
“Hmm… genre fun.”
Pil-ho’s reply made Min-hyuk’s expression turn grave.
‘The short-story-specific twist or hook feels lacking. There’s not enough anticipation or catharsis.’
To fully utilize Shin Pil-ho’s meticulous strengths, a fairly long buildup and emotional layering would normally be needed.
The issue was that the short format’s pacing killed that strength.
Just then, Pil-ho took the storyboard back and said,
“Ugh… give me a minute. I’ll revise it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Scritch-scratch.
Pil-ho grabbed the storyboard again and started groaning over it.
Another thirty minutes passed like that.
“How’s this one?”
Pil-ho brought over the revised version.
The meeting with the god of comics was no longer a simple dream—instead, the protagonist gets sucked into a book lying in the studio.
It definitely had stronger visual punch, and adding the fantasy element improved things.
But would it be astonishing enough to reverse the editorial decision…?
“I still think… it’s not quite there yet, teacher.”
Min-hyuk had no choice but to voice his honest feelings.