ch-4

Chapter 4: Awakening the Mind

---

In 1985

The room was filled with a gentle hum of activity, the sunlight streaming through the window casting a warm glow on the wooden floor. Five-year-old Kim Jihoon sat cross-legged on a soft mat, his tiny fingers tracing the Hangul characters carefully inscribed on the page in front of him. Around him, a few other children played with toys, while some scribbled random shapes and drawings in their notebooks. But Jihoon's focus never wavered. He had a purpose—one that far exceeded the expectations of his age.

"Jihoon-ah, do you want to take a break?" his mother, Min-ah, asked gently, peering over his shoulder. She noticed his intense concentration, something far too serious for a child of five.

Jihoon looked up, offering her a polite smile. "Not yet, eomma. I want to finish this page."

Min-ah chuckled softly, patting his head. "Alright, but remember to rest your eyes. You'll get tired."

He nodded obediently, but as soon as she walked away, his gaze returned to the book. Each Hangul character was like a puzzle piece, a key that opened doors to knowledge and understanding in this new world. Learning to read and write in Korean had been his first major hurdle. It took months of painstaking practice, repeating syllables and phrases until they rolled off his tongue naturally. But once he broke through that barrier, he devoured every piece of text he could get his hands on.

Being able to read meant understanding more about this world. The newspapers Dong-hoon brought home, the old books tucked away in their modest bookshelf, even the labels on everyday products—all of them provided insight into the culture, the history, and the peculiarities of 1990s South Korea. Yet, despite the world's advancements in technology—more advanced than anything he remembered from his past—the entertainment industry, specifically Korean drama and cinema, lagged far behind.

One day, as Jihoon sat on the living room floor watching television, he noticed something peculiar. The dramas aired lacked the depth, emotional resonance, and storytelling finesse that he was familiar with in his previous life's Bollywood and, most notably, the Korean entertainment industry he admired. The storylines were overly simplistic, the characters one-dimensional, and there was a distinct lack of creativity in their execution.

"What is this?" Jihoon mumbled under his breath, his tiny fingers tapping rhythmically on the wooden floor. The show on screen, a typical family drama, failed to evoke any real emotions. It felt like a relic of the past, out of place in a world where holographic devices and AI assistants were becoming common.

The technology in this version of South Korea had evolved in leaps and bounds, but culturally, it seemed stuck. There was no sign of the vibrant Hallyu wave that he remembered from his past life. No groundbreaking films, no emotional rollercoaster of dramas like Winter Sonata or My Sassy Girl. The film industry lacked the respect and attention it deserved, much like the treatment of scriptwriters in Bollywood.

The more Jihoon delved into books and newspapers, the clearer the picture became. In this world, South Korea's economic growth had propelled it to the forefront of technological innovation, but the arts and entertainment sectors were neglected. Scriptwriters, in particular, were given little credit. They were viewed as mere support staff to the directors and producers, with no real voice or influence over the final product.

"Is this why I was brought here?" Jihoon wondered aloud one day, sitting by the window as he watched children play in the neighborhood. His neighborhood in this life, Guro District, was an industrial area of Seoul known for its dense population and busy streets. It was a place where people worked tirelessly to make ends meet, striving for a better future. Yet, despite the advancements, culture and creative arts seemed secondary.

Jihoon's parents, Min-ah and Dong-hoon, were supportive of his intellectual pursuits, encouraging him to read and learn as much as he wanted. Though they were a typical middle-class family, they made efforts to provide him with books and educational material, recognizing his keen interest and curiosity. Dong-hoon, in particular, would often bring home articles and magazines related to new technological advancements and science, hoping to inspire Jihoon's young mind.

"What do you want to be when you grow up, Jihoon-ah?" Dong-hoon asked one evening as he flipped through a magazine filled with images of futuristic gadgets.

Jihoon paused, contemplating his answer carefully. He knew he couldn't explain his real ambitions to his father—not yet. "I want to… create something new," he said slowly, choosing his words with care. "Something that people will remember."

Dong-hoon smiled, ruffling Jihoon's hair. "That's a big dream. I'm sure you'll do it."

But Jihoon knew it was more than just a dream. He had to be strategic, patient. He had to understand this world fully before making his move. He had to learn the nuances of this society and find the right moment to introduce something truly revolutionary.

As he grew more comfortable with the language, Jihoon began seeking out more complex books. One afternoon, Min-ah took him to the local library, a modest building with a surprising number of books on technology and science. While Min-ah browsed through the cooking section, Jihoon wandered off, his eyes scanning the shelves eagerly. He found books on mathematics, physics, and engineering. He saw titles dedicated to explaining the intricacies of microchips and computers—things that would've been considered groundbreaking in his past life but were commonplace here.

Yet, there was one section that caught his eye—the Arts and Humanities. The shelves were sparse, with only a few books on literature, some on traditional Korean folklore, and a couple on basic filmmaking techniques. Jihoon picked up one of the film books, flipping through its pages. The information was elementary, barely scratching the surface of what a true storyteller would need.

He sighed, putting the book back. This world doesn't understand the power of a well-written story, he thought. But that's why I'm here, isn't it?

Determined, Jihoon made a silent vow to himself. He would not only master the art of storytelling in this new language and culture but would also change the very fabric of the Korean entertainment industry. He would show them the power of narrative, the depth of characters, and the emotional weight a script could carry. He would bring this stagnant industry to life, just as he had tried to do in Bollywood.

And perhaps, in doing so, he would finally receive the recognition he had been denied before.

With each passing day, Jihoon's resolve grew stronger. He practiced writing, slowly constructing short stories in Hangul. He paid attention to the people around him—the way they spoke, their gestures, the subtle differences in their expressions. He started incorporating these nuances into his characters, creating fictional scenarios in his mind that reflected the world he now lived in.

By the time he turned six, Jihoon was no longer just a curious child. He was a budding storyteller with a mission—a mission to reshape an entire industry.