Fortunately, Qi Huai had already gone through the briefing materials, so he knew The Witch’s Law even though it was a mini-series of under 10 episodes, was packed with all the trendy web-drama elements—supernatural powers, revenge, and even a demonic contract.

The story followed reporter Oh Seung-ah, whose younger brother Oh Seung-hwan—a boy born with powers—suddenly disappeared. For ten years, she and her family hunted tirelessly for answers, until nearly all threads pointed to a certain biotech corporation.

Just as she was preparing to probe further, she and her parents were caught in a staged chain accident.

On the verge of death, Seung-ah accidentally summoned a demon, Jung Seong-ha, and struck a contract: in exchange for her soul, she would receive both three years of life and the power of a witch.

Granted supernatural abilities, she drew the unwavering gaze of the biotech company hunting her. During repeated attempts to capture her, she encountered three other youths like her brother and formed an alliance.

They revealed: Seung-hwan, her brother whose powers once surpassed theirs all, had already been turned—memories wiped clean, mind washed, made into the company’s loyal pawn.

And so began a saga of vengeance, sibling bonds, and infiltration.

---

Before auditions began, Woosan Entertainment had already settled the lead roles.

Park Seok-jin, the powerhouse actor, would play Jung Seong-ha—the tender but cruel demon, utterly ignorant of the human world.

Choo Min-young, another star actress, would take on the role of resilient, sharp-witted reporter Seung-ah—the “witch heroine.”

But the question of who would play the younger brother, Oh Seung-hwan, had everyone troubled.

Requirements:

Young—20 or close.

Skilled—though not on screen constantly, he’d have to portray three highly distinct personas.

The despairing, helpless Seung-hwan captured for experiments.

The remorseless Seung-hwan, memory-wiped, turned into a killing machine.

The reborn Seung-hwan, memory restored, returning as a spy bent on revenge with his sister.

And the ultimate intangible—charisma.

Seung-hwan was the soul behind the heroine’s every act of vengeance. If audiences failed to be moved by him, they’d fail to sympathize with her too. The revenge arc would collapse emotionally.

Director Lee Seung-woo and Writer Kim Soon-ok had never imagined what kind of actor could even embody such complexity.

Until Qi Huai stood up.

He wore only a black hoodie and jeans. His face betrayed no nerves despite being unexpectedly called out. Instead, his aura carried a steady maturity beyond his years—like a young man shaped by storms.

And his face.

Clean, sculpted bone structure. Deep eyes. Full lips. The first glance screamed “younger brother.” The next scream: Daddy.

“Waaah…”

Writer Kim Soon-ok, with her scholarly round specs, let slip an “omo”:
“As expected… President Yoon’s ‘luck’ is unbelievable.”

Yoon Nam-hyuk’s brow arched. He stole a glance at Qi Huai—and accidentally locked eyes with those bottomless pupils, unflinching and unreadable.

His face stiffened. He snapped his head aside.

What are you looking at, huh? Rude jerk.

Qi Huai: …
Already mad? At this?

Under everyone’s gaze, Qi Huai walked steadily to the stage.

The system squealed in his ear:
【Go get it, Oppa! Act well! Park Seok-jin is already the male lead! If the protagonist shou, Baek Soo-kyung, lands his role while you fail—those two could progress from “acquainted”… to “close”… to “in love”… to “married”! Our whole mission, saving the protagonist shou, will collapse!】

Qi Huai thought: …he’d already provoked Nam-hyuk’s temper with just one glance. Whether he passed here or not might no longer be his choice.

“Qi Huai, I see on your profile you have a pending film? The Fox Spirit’s Promise… ah! That’s Director Ahn Long-ha’s work, right?” Director Lee adjusted his glasses, eyes narrowing with interest.

Qi Huai nodded, smiling gently:
“Yes, Director.”

Gentle. Polished. Well-mannered.

Nam-hyuk huffed.

Playing obedient again, aren’t you.

Director Lee chuckled:
“Now that I think about it, I’ve heard him sing your praises multiple times. Something about meeting his ‘muse’ on a flight… how you’re a gifted natural, born for the camera… child of the spotlight, visual genius…”

The system whispered:
【Director Ahn’s tongue is pure honey, haha.】

Qi Huai: …

“Ahem.” Yoon Nam-hyuk coughed, interrupting the gushing.

Exaggerated.

Director Lee quickly steered back:
“You’ve read through the test script, correct? I’d like you to perform Scene Three. That’s where Seung-hwan, tortured by ten years of experimentation, hears they mean to erase his memory. He resists desperately but fails—his world sliding from panic into numb emptiness.”

The toughest audition cut. Emotionally grueling, physically demanding.

“Wow… so difficult,” murmured actors below.

Baek Soo-kyung stared blankly at Qi Huai. If it were me, standing up there, I’d already be drenched in sweat, pale as paper. Never as calm as him.

This must be the difference between the poor and the rich.
Money is confidence, Soo-kyung thought.

The assistant director barked:
“Quiet! Supporting actors, ready—action!”

---

Qi Huai took the stage.

The lab assistants rushed him instantly.

Starved, broken, weakened from ten years, Seung-hwan staggered, reflex snapping when hands reached for him. Memory of his family was the only straw he clung to—soon to be stripped away as well.

His eyes filled with despair, trembling with horror.

No tears—already all shed.
No screams—his strength depleted.

Pinned to the table, bound in chains, he rasped:
“Wh… why?”

Silence.

“I… I’ve done… everything you asked… please… don’t take… my memories—please…”

Empty plea.

His words faltered, childish from ten years behind bars. They gave him anesthetic instead, slowing mind and speech until he was reduced to ragged gasps.

Memories stolen one by one. His breath rasping, fighting with sound alone—until the final moment he even forgot his own name. His once beautiful eyes froze, hollow and lifeless, an arctic field barren of life.

---

Spectacular.

He added unspoken details even the script never suggested. Improvisation beyond a rookie.

Lee and Kim exchanged astonished looks, whispering if they should test another scene, perhaps Seung-hwan’s “white cut black”③ phase—pure façade outside, black within, torn by conscience.

“Excuse me, I need to step out,” Yoon Nam-hyuk interrupted suddenly.

Director Lee blinked:
“President Yoon, urgent business? We can wait—”

“No need, continue without me.” His lips pressed thin, voice low, unreadable.
“I’ll check the footage after. Decide as you see fit.”

His face looked calm but voice carried urgency. The director assumed it was business matters, let him pass.

Back rigid, Nam-hyuk strode out. Staff exchanged confused glances. The rookies, however, secretly exhaled—fewer eyes meant less pressure.

Still sitting on the stage floor, Qi Huai tilted his head, watching Nam-hyuk leave, gaze catching on the bright-red ears and flushed neck.

His lips curled faintly.

The system sputtered:
【What’s wrong? He got desperate to pee?】

Qi Huai thought: Yeah, urgent for sure…

But not necessarily that kind of urgent.

---

TL Note:

“White cut black” (白切黑): Chinese web idiom—someone appearing pure/innocent (white) but actually holding deep darkness inside (black).