Everyone stood in anticipation. By the end of the episode, most of the cast felt satisfaction. Well, perhaps not Oska, who was displeased with his screentime. Even so, deep down, he would reluctantly admit that the episode was a solid success.
The real test, however, would be whether it achieved their desired ratings—the kind that would inch him closer to the prestigious Imperial Class he coveted.
They collectively held their breaths as Daeshim PD snatched the phone from Chachi, who was frantically trying to access the site that displayed real-time ratings.
Zeno remained seated but was all ears, his heart racing. If the announcement revealed a rating lower than 20%, he would find himself enduring yet another Pain Trial.
“It’s…,” Daeshim began, his voice filled with suspense.
“23%!” he finally declared, the words echoing in the air. Silence enveloped them for a second before cheers erupted.
Zeno sighed in relief. No Pain Trial for now.
[+5 Job and Income. Highest real-time ratings among competitors.]
[+5 Public Perception. Increased followers.]
[Fame meter: 37%]
Zeno’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. The leap in his fame meter was astonishing. Yet, it made sense—’The Forsaken Prince’ had immense influence in their country.
[New Item Available]
Zeno navigated to his items list immediately.
[+1 Quick Learn. Consumable / One-Time Use. A mysterious item containing knowledge. Once consumed, the user instantly comprehends the full mechanics of a new skill or task. Perfect for those critical moments when time is short.]
Just then, he felt someone drape their arms around his shoulders. Zeno frowned and turned to glare at Yuan, whose grin was too bright for the moment. “You’re still here?” he asked.
Yuan chuckled, unbothered. “Are you that eager to see me go?”
“Your scenes are all wrapped up,” Zeno deadpanned.
“True, but I chose to stick around and watch the first episode with you all,” Yuan replied cheerily.
“Congratulations!” Yuan exclaimed. “How does it feel to land roles in three notable projects in just a matter of months? It hasn’t even been half a year yet!”
“You’re on the same path as Daniel,” he added, glancing over at the sulking actor seated nearby. “Let’s see—one box office film, a drama boasting an average rating beyond 20%. And now this. If this keeps up, you only need ten acting awards to qualify for the Rookie Class!”
Yuan’s loud proclamation sent the other actors into introspection.
Shin shook his head, a knowing smile crossing his face. “I managed to break into the Rookie Class after two years,” he said to Risa. “Can he really achieve it in just six months?”
“Daniel hasn’t even entered the Rookie Class yet,” Yuan continued, a playful challenge in his tone. “He only has two awards.”
Oska’s brow furrowed, frustration bubbling to the surface. It took him more than a year to earn that distinction, and he had the backing of his company. That fact only amplified his annoyance at the situation.
“I don’t care about the classes,” Zeno muttered.
Ryeo Wang approached him next, giving him a friendly clap on the back before silently retreating to his hut.
The others turned to Zeno, their eyes questioning. “Are you and him close?”
A small smirk danced on Zeno’s lips. “No,” he denied, crossing his arms defensively.
Just then, Suho walked over. “Congrats,” he muttered, sounding noticeably lighter than their previous conversation.
“Congrats, Zeno!” various voices chimed in unison.
“Zeno, you did a fantastic job!”
“You’re the best!”
The compliments bombarded him, and although he didn’t want to admit it out loud, he wasn’t too good at receiving compliments.
He sighed, searching the group’s faces. “Why is everyone only congratulating me?” he questioned. “You should all give yourselves a pat on the back too; this drama didn’t become a success solely because of my acting.”
Knowing looks passed between the crew. Daeshim’s lips curled into a smile as he strode over to where Zeno stood, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
“Indeed,” Daeshim said warmly. “Congratulations to everyone,” he began, his voice rising as he addressed the entire group.
“However, we firmly believe the cornerstone of this drama’s success lies with you,” he continued. “The hate you faced, the stigma you rose above—it’s remarkable that a rookie actor was able to tackle such a significant role. Because of you, we have soared to great heights.”
A flush of warmth surged through Zeno. He recognized the feelings stirred within him.
He was flattered. He didn’t like it.
Why would he feel flattered over something he perceived as trivial?
He cleared his throat, stepping back to assert some distance.
“Zeno’s shy!” Yuan interjected playfully, poking at his cheek.
Zeno pushed him away, shaking his head to deflect the teasing.
With that, he walked off, unable to hide the small smile that threatened to break free as he left them behind.
***
Mr. Kim didn’t scream. He didn’t flip the table or shatter the wineglass perched by his elbow. Instead, he sat there, as still as stone.
The blinds were drawn tight, preventing even the faintest sliver of light from breaking through. The ceiling light above him blazed too brightly, piercing through the dimness of the room and amplifying the pounding ache in his head. This was his third overtime of the week, and calling his mood “bad” felt like an understatement. A single pulse throbbed insistently at his temple, visible beneath the skin.
The silence in the room stretched until it was shattered by two soft, measured knocks at the door.
“Come,” he replied.
With a gentle creak, the door eased open. Assistant Byun stepped in, eyes cast down as he approached. He carried a black folder tucked under one arm and cradled a tablet against his chest.
Mr. Kim kept his gaze fixed forward. Without a word, Assistant Byun placed the folder and tablet on the table before stepping back.
“They’re in,” he reported.
The tablet sprang to life the moment his finger brushed its surface. Two numbers blinked on the screen.
The Forsaken Prince – 23%
Backstreet Fighters – 11%
An uncomfortable silence settled over the room. Mr. Kim locked onto the glowing digits. It felt like an eternity before he finally spoke.
“We pulled out some of the stocks, right?” he inquired.
Assistant Byun adjusted his glasses. “Yes, sir. We did so when Oska threw the tantrum, just as you ordered.”
A thin smile tugged at the corners of Mr. Kim’s lips, but it failed to reach the depths of his eyes.
“That was my gift to him,” he said. “A token for following my directions. Oh, and to calm down his tantrums.”
Assistant Byun fell silent. Mr. Kim’s hand hovered over the folder but remained unopened. Instead, his attention returned to the tablet, the digits taunting him.
Deep down, Mr. Kim knew Oska’s tantrum hadn’t been the real reason for their stock withdrawal. Rather, it had been a strategic plan designed to manipulate Oska into compliance, and perhaps, influence him again. The truth ran deeper. He had redirected the funds into a new acquisition—an effort to snatch up the channel broadcasting Backstreet Fighters.
They had leaned too heavily on the SK Channel for far too long. In return, they had allowed it to grow too formidable. Daebak had invested in a rising channel, one they were eager to completely acquire, meant to rival SK.
Yet, the plan had backfired. Now, the stocks for SK had soared in value and he wasn’t even certain he could reacquire the shares he so brazenly sold off.
With a tightening grip, Mr. Kim’s fingers curled around the edges of the tablet.
23%. For that overly designed, woefully dramatic piece of art known as The Forsaken Prince.
“Zeno Han.”
The name escaped his lips like an incantation. And in that instant, the screen of the tablet cracked under his grip, a thin, glassy shriek echoing through the room.