Within just a day or two, the casting for the mini‑series The Witch’s Law was finalized. Unsurprisingly, Qi Huai was chosen to play the heroine’s younger brother, Oh Seung‑hwan—a difficult yet highly coveted role.

Thanks to Park Seok‑jin’s maneuvering, Baek Soo‑kyung landed a fairly decent supporting part, one of the young people who form an alliance with the heroine. His character didn’t have heavy screen time, but he appeared in nearly every episode, an ideal way for a rookie to get his face recognized.

Because the project was meant to quickly test the feasibility of producing mini‑series, preparations for shooting moved at lightning speed. Aside from a few location scenes outside the city center, the vast majority of filming would take place at Wushan Entertainment’s Seoul studio lots.

With the set and cast all in place, the director and scriptwriter were especially pleased with newcomer Qi Huai. Even so, the director made one specific request.
“Qi Huai, you’re already doing great. There’s just one thing you should change—lose about fifteen pounds. Please?”

Although Qi Huai’s facial lines and build were nearly perfect for an actor, to convey the brooding stillness of someone traumatized by cruel laboratory experiments, his frame did look a touch too robust.

So Qi Huai cut out exercise altogether and limited himself to one meal a day for two weeks straight—boiled cabbage, chicken breast, eggs, and sweet potatoes.

Not only did he reach the goal of losing fifteen pounds perfectly, but his weight even kept trending downward. As the system put it: [Our Oppa host is about to starve himself into vanishing.]

Qi Huai’s dramatic transformation left everyone stunned.

When he put on a pure white lab coat and sat on the cold metal lab table, his dark green‑tinged eyes stared directly at the camera, lifeless and hollowed. The crew gasped in unison—“Oh!”

Director Lee clapped wildly:
“Wow, magnificent! He looks too beautiful to be human—this face is a miracle, an absolute miracle!”

The heroine, Choo Min‑young, also clapped, exclaiming:
“Oh my God, Director! With this kind of face playing my younger brother, won’t people accuse the heroine’s family of stealing an angel from Heaven? What do you think, ‘Devil’?”

She nudged Park Seok‑jin with her elbow. Pulling his ravenous gaze away from Qi Huai, he spoke half‑teasingly:
“If angels really looked like this, then perhaps the devil would want to steal one home too.”

The two child actors playing the younger versions of Seung‑hwan and his sister gasped in horror:
“Mommy! Do devils really steal children!?”

The crew erupted in laughter, the mood lighthearted and warm.

Only Qi Huai, still sitting on the metal table, murmured inwardly:
…Hungry.

The system wailed pitifully:
[Waaah, Host Oppa! You’ve suffered so much! Once filming ends, let’s go eat from that noona’s place downstairs—big tuna bibimbap, extra‑large pork cutlet, and an egg roll—]

“…Be quiet.”

Qi Huai pressed hard at his brow. “This is not the time for reading out menus.”

Not far away, Baek Soo‑kyung quietly observed Park Seok‑jin, whose eyes were fixed solely on Qi Huai. The boy thought to himself: An angel who dazzles everyone? …More like an angel with secrets.

To help Qi Huai expand his diet again after the drastic weight loss, the director scheduled all scenes requiring a gaunt appearance to be completed in sequence right away.

“Great work, Actor Qi,” Director Lee smiled. “From now on, you’re free to eat again. Just don’t overdo heavy foods for a few days, or you’ll bloat.”

Qi Huai nodded with a smile. “Got it. Thank you, Director.”

“Drink this too.”

Having watched Qi Huai steadily through every shot, Park Seok‑jin personally handed him a packet of red ginseng concentrate.
“It’s not tasty, but at least it’ll restore a bit of strength.”

Qi Huai accepted with an easy smile, squeezed the packet twice—it was tightly sealed, no sign of tampering—and downed it in one go. The rich ginseng bitterness slid down his throat, softened with a hint of honeyed sweetness.
“Thank you, Seok‑jin sunbae.”

“You can handle ginseng flavor pretty well,” Park noted, slightly surprised. “Do you drink it often?”

Qi Huai chuckled. “Sunbae, did you forget that I’m part Chinese?”

Park Seok‑jin smacked his forehead. “Right! I keep thinking of you as a foreigner and forget you come from a culture that knows how to savor ginseng products.”

They chatted lightly for a bit. Then Park Seok‑jin, unable to suppress his admiration, said:
“Your acting is improving so quickly, especially in front of the camera. You already feel more seasoned than when we last worked together.”

“Last time sunbae taught me a lot, and the company assigned us courses. Practice naturally leads to progress.”

“You really are a born actor,” Park Seok‑jin said with genuine pathos. “I don’t know why, but since your very first audition…no, maybe even before that, I’ve always seen a reflection of my younger self in you. Of course, you’re too young to understand the kind of nostalgia I feel. Haha. Anyway, if you ever have any doubts about acting, don’t hesitate to message me on IG. I’ll be glad to help.”

“Thank you, sunbae. I truly appreciate it.”

After a few more polite exchanges—Seok‑jin showcasing his gentlemanly guidance and concern for a promising junior—he finally departed, content.

The system spat sarcastically:
[Attack Dog Number Three has such a strong dad vibe. He and Choi Min‑jun are truly two of a kind. Put you two together and you’d make a yin‑yang hotpot—our host Oppa the clear broth side, and him the extra‑spicy beef‑fat side.]

Qi Huai: …
I told you, stop listing food.

---

Meanwhile, Park Seok‑jin couldn’t settle himself even after leaving. Reclining in his chair with eyes half‑closed, he sipped iced coffee handed over by his assistant, mind replaying Qi Huai’s every expression during their talk.

The boy, weakened after starving off fifteen pounds for the lab scenes, had looked faintly drowsy while speaking. His naturally curled lashes blinked languidly, his smile carrying a kind of exhausted beauty, an almost intoxicating languor.

On top of that, his innate talent and ability to grasp nuance were nothing short of captivating—simply perfect.

I used to be like that too, when I was young, Park Seok‑jin thought.

The only difference was his background. Unlike Qi Huai, Park Seok‑jin had been born into a modest household: his father an electronics factory worker, his mother selling fishcakes and tteokbokki from a street stall.

But Park Seok‑jin’s looks had never been ordinary. Growing up admired and applauded, he naturally earned admission to the Seoul School of Performing Arts, then to Chung‑Ang University’s Theatre Department.

He had imagined his handsome résumé and wide acclaim would carry him smoothly all his life. But in university, he discovered just how many students across the country were equally good‑looking—and far more privileged.

They were wealthier, born with better genes, backed by stronger family power—yet they worked just as hard as he did. His vaunted talent was beaten down again and again. He could no longer claim first place. Not even second. Even the acting roles he prized most were taken by those well‑connected children.

At least as far as Park Seok‑jin was concerned, those roles should have been his.

In the middle of these frustrating years of mediocrity, fate handed him a turning point. During a college drama competition that included parental participation, he met one of his classmate’s mothers.

She was an elegant, well‑preserved lady who owned a famous fashion company and socialized with countless celebrities and directors. Unlike her arrogant, condescending son, she was gracious even toward a poor student like Park Seok‑jin, who had literally bumped into her by accident.

They exchanged KKT contacts, chatting casually at first, before growing much closer.

With her help, Park Seok‑jin landed his first role in film and television, and the director praised him as a genius actor. To thank her, Park Seok‑jin “repaid” her most thoroughly—in her own home, three times.

Humans, once they discover how to gain advantages, can hardly resist repeating the trick. Park Seok‑jin followed this path again and again until he became the shining star among his peers.

His fame snowballed, bringing him resources, recognition, and adoration. He was proud, exhilarated—convinced it was all rightfully his.

And yet, in the quiet of night, darker thoughts sprouted. Without these methods, would I still have risen? If only through pure talent—would I have? Was it really just my lack of background that cost me those roles?

There were no answers.

Taking another slow sip of coffee, Park Seok‑jin’s thoughts circled back to Qi Huai’s performance earlier.

A raw jade… like a pearl nestled inside an oyster shell. It needs to be discovered and polished, and then it will gleam before the world.

Everyone needs a mentor like that.

And if such uncut jade could not only be polished, but cherished and possessed in one’s own hand… what greater happiness could there be?