“Here are the prospects we have for this month, sir,” a lean man with rimless glasses said, entering a prestigious office filled with plaques, medals, and certificates.
The sound of a basketball game resonated in the large room. Overlooking the office was an urban garden with a large artificial fountain, separating them from the rest of the city.
“Ah, fuck this country’s team,” the man muttered as they were overtaken by a 17-year-old prodigy.1
The assistant cleared his throat again, but the man raised his hand, rendering the former quiet.
Then, when the gap widened against their country’s favor, the man threw his coffee cup toward the expensive television, shattering the screen into pieces.
Some of the glass splattered, and one shard grazed the assistant’s face, making it bleed slightly.
However, he merely grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped it away, seemingly used to such situations.
“Assistant Byun,” the man said, completely unbothered by the situation. “Do you think this makes sense? Our country spends so much on the sport, but they can’t even beat a team with a minor in it?”
Assistant Byun nodded. “I’ll get the television replaced right away, Sir Kim.”
Sir Kim nodded, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “What is it that you want to say?”
Assistant Byun placed the profiles on Sir Kim’s table. “The prospects,” he muttered.
“Do we have anyone worthy of joining our company this month?”
“This is what the teams have gathered so far,” Assistant Byun answered.
Sir Kim looked at the ten profiles on the table. His expression was unreadable, causing Assistant Byun to purse his lips.
Despite the assistant’s robotic personality, he found himself feeling fearful during times like this.
“Do you know how long Daebak Entertainment has been operating?” Sir Kim suddenly asked.
“77 years, sir,” Assistant Byun said without any hesitation.
“Hmm, that’s right,” Sir Kim hummed. “It has been started by my great grandfather, down to my grandfather, my father, and now, me.”
“We have been serving the Korean people for four generations, providing them with the best artists in the acting industry.”
Assistant Byun merely nodded to every statement that Sir Kim said.
“In my 32 years of life, I saw how this industry operated,” he continued.
“There’s a natural order—a hierarchy that separates the true elites from the disposable.”
Assistant Byun pursed his lips, continuing to listen intently.
“At the top, we have the Imperial Class—the untouchable greats. These are the actors who define generations, who dictate trends, and who don’t audition because scripts are written with them in mind. They are the pinnacle of this industry, the very reason we call it an art. And, of course, the highest-paid ones.” 1
“Then, there’s the Regency Class—the next in line to the throne. Whether through talent or influence, it’s only a matter of time before they ascend. Their names are already spoken with reverence, and the industry is just waiting for their inevitable coronation,” Sir Kim continued.
“Below them, we have the Rookie Class—the rising conquerors. They’ve already begun proving themselves, taking over screens and earning their place among the elite.”
Assistant Byun nodded. He already knew where this was going, so he fastened his gaze on the ground.
“And what sets us apart? We don’t entertain potential. We don’t gamble on ‘what-ifs.’ We take those who have already claimed their place on the list. If their name isn’t on it, why should we care? If they were worth our time, they’d already be here,” he chuckled.
Then, his smile quickly went away, and a look of insanity appeared in his eyes.
“So tell me… why are the artists on this table useless?”
Assistant Byun continued to look at the ground.
Sir Kim made sure to tear each of the profiles and let them scatter on the floor.
“Daebak is not a charity case,” he smirked. “Tell the employees that I won’t mind disposing of those who are incompetent.”
Then, he stood from his seat, placing his hand on Assistant Byun’s shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze.
“Do that, will you?”
“Yes, sir.”
***
“Do you think you can enter the Rookie Class by the end of the year?” Bobby exclaimed, prancing around their office.
However, since the space was quite small, he could only do five skips before turning back around.
Jace, who was playing a game on his phone, clicked his tongue. “Sir, would you mind stopping? I’m getting dizzy.”
Bobby sheepishly chuckled. “Pardon,” he said. “I’m just so excited for the future! It would be great for one of our artists to enter the royal classes of actors! Just the thought of it makes me want to pee!”
Jace placed down his phone. “Only one?”
Bobby smiled. “Of course, it would be great if all of our artists become successful. However,” he continued, glancing at Zeno, who appeared like he had an elephant weighing down his shoulders, “there are people with more chances, don’t you think?”
Meanwhile, Zeno felt it again—the wrath of the Ascendants. He knew he had everlasting missions now, but would it hurt to give him something easy?
[New Missions:
1. Obtain a lead role in an acting project
2. Impart a talent with another human
Deadline: 20 days]
A lead role? They were basically asking him to stay on Earth forever!
Zeno’s fists clenched by his side, and he wondered what he could do once more.
He had tried giving up, but that seemed to work against his favor.
People had ruined his career, but again, it backfired and made him even more popular.
He had lived such a long life.
For more than five hundred years, Zeno had walked the Earth, never truly belonging.
He had lived as countless people, borrowed their faces, spoken their words, breathed their air—only to leave when his mission was done.
He was a phantom in their stories, a guide who led them toward their desires before vanishing, forgotten.
He used to find solace in it, knowing he made a difference. But as the years stretched on, the faces blurred together, and the goodbyes turned into just another day.
It wasn’t just humans. Even in Avalis, where he once found companionship, he lost them all.
Time did not care for him. Nothing was permanent.
And now, everything didn’t work in his favor.
They didn’t help. They only drained him further.
They promised him rest, dangled it in front of him like a reward, yet never gave it.
Always another task. Always another life to step into. He had served them without question, abided by their system, and trusted that one day, his work would end.
But it never did.
Zeno bit his lip, a bitter laugh escaping him.
“So, you don’t want to give me rest?” he muttered to himself.
Fine. Then don’t.
For centuries, he had been their best. Their most efficient. Their irreplaceable agent.
What would they do if they lost him?
Would they beg? Would they chase him? Would they finally realize that he was more than a tool?
If they refused to let him stop, then he would make the choice for them.
Let’s see how the system functioned without its greatest asset.
if you know, you know
This actually exists! They are called “Chungmuro Actors.” They’re considered the best of the best in the Korean Film Industry – the highly respected and recognized high-end stars.
Below them are the Chungmuro Blue Chip (Next Gen), Hallyu Stars (Global), then Rookie Stars (New Gen). It’s a pretty interesting concept.