Revenge Begins: Reincarnated as a Hated Idol!-Chapter 47: Mercenaries

"Chris!"

The boss’s voice cracked across the office like a whip.

Aren flinched—quick, instinctive. His neck tightened. His eyes widened before immediately lowering to the floor.

The file was snatched from his trembling hands.

Papers flew.

They struck his face—light, harmless sheets—but he reacted as if they carried real weight.

One page brushed his cheek and slid down.

He didn’t move to stop it.

He just stood there, absorbing it.

"I told you to fix this! What is this?!" the boss barked.

Chris opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

His throat bobbed.

"S-s-sir... I—I... I th-thought..."

He swallowed mid-sentence, words crumbling before they could form.

His fingers twitched at his sides, wanting to gather the fallen papers, wanting to defend himself—but lacking the courage to do either.

His gaze darted up for a fraction of a second—only to retreat instantly when the boss glared back.

"Thought? You thought?" the boss scoffed. "Do you even read what you submit?"

Chris bent down immediately.

Too fast.

Almost apologetically.

He crouched to gather the papers, movements clumsy, stacking them unevenly. One sheet slipped from his grip. He fumbled to catch it, nearly losing balance.

"I-I’m s-sorry, sir... I’ll fix it. I’ll st-stay late..."

His voice wasn’t loud enough to defend himself.

It was just loud enough to sound pitiful.

There was no anger in his eyes.

No resentment.

Only fear.

And something worse—

Acceptance.

As if this wasn’t new.

As if this was routine.

As he stood back up, papers pressed to his chest protectively, his shoulders drooped even lower than before.

The boss waved him off dismissively.

"Get out of my sight."

Chris nodded quickly.

Too quickly.

"Y-yes, sir."

He turned.

His walk back to his desk.

On his way, two coworkers glanced at him.

Aren made sure his character Chris noticed.

His ears reddened slightly.

His grip tightened.

His steps faltered for just a second—

Then he resumed.

When he finally reached his desk, he didn’t sit immediately.

He stood there.

Staring at the report in his hands.

For a brief moment—

Just one—

Something flickered in his eyes.

Not rebellion.

Not yet.

But exhaustion.

A question.

A silent, wordless ache.

Then he blinked.

And it was gone.

He lowered himself into the chair carefully, back curving forward as he hunched over the desk, already shrinking into the glow of the computer screen.

"Cut!"

The director’s voice broke the silence.

The office staff—actors playing employees—relaxed.

But for a second longer—

Aren didn’t.

Chris remained seated.

Still hunched.

Still small.

Only when Fin called his name did Aren straighten, rolling his shoulders back slightly as he returned to himself.

The set was quiet.

The director exchanged a glance with the writer as if they had struck gold.

First impressions mattered.

And Chris—

Fragile, stammering, painfully ordinary Chris—

Had just stepped into existence.

...

After shooting a few more scenes of Chris in the office, Aren finally met the mercenaries brought in from overseas.

They were a mentor-student pair. The older one, in his fifties, built like a tank; the younger one, in his thirties, lean and quick.

They were currently standing in an empty training room, specially designed according to the mercenaries’ instructions.

Cushioned mats blanketed the floor to absorb impacts, enabling combatants to grapple without sustaining harm.

Wooden staffs, rubber daggers, and assorted equipment lined the walls. Aren spotted a couple of locked cases—probably packed with guns. Punching bags swung heavy, boxing gloves sat stacked, and resistance bands coiled nearby.

"Greetings, Mr. Aren. Name’s Kendrick." The older one stuck out a hand.

As Aren clasped it, Kendrick jerked his thumb toward the younger man. "He is Corbin."

Aren could feel Kendrick’s strength through the vise-like grip.

"We are instructed to train you like a mercenary." Kendrick crossed his arms and sharpened his gaze. "So let me ask you—how severe are you looking to go?"

Aren remained silent for a while, then met his eyes with grave resolve. "I don’t want to merely look like a mercenary. Make me one."

Hearing his words, Kendrick’s lips curved in wry amusement. "You might regret those words. Are you sure?"

Aren nodded firmly, without a flicker of doubt.

"Very well then." Kendrick’s smile broadened with approval. "I’m told there are two weeks till your shooting begins. Until then, your world narrows to this room. If you agree, nod."

Aren did.

"Perfect. Starting today, till two weeks are over, you’ll report here daily, training for eight hours straight with us. And I promise: you’ll be a changed man."

The reason for the two-week delay in shooting wasn’t Aren; instead, it stemmed from To Your Heart’s season finale.

Once To Your Heart finished, the production team could ask for an offer according to the drama’s success.

If To Your Heart’s popularity score increased, the production team would benefit, and if it dipped, it would be at a loss.

Even then, they were willing to gamble.

Since Aren was taking the risk alongside them—opting for a ten percent profit slice over a flat fee—the crew could afford to play the long game without undue pressure.

This delay also allowed Aren to have his training in peace with the mercenaries, unburdened by shooting demands.

As for the scenes of Chris that he had shot today, they were for the platforms, letting them get a glimpse of the performance quality of Aren.

Since the series hinged on his performance as the lead, the streaming platforms harbored skepticism about his ability to carry a thriller solo.

Today’s scenes would silence the doubters.

As for Aren, he would be busy in training with the mercenaries.

"Let’s start with hand-to-hand combat." Kendrick announced, beckoning Aren to the mat.

Meanwhile, Corbin stepped up to be his sparring partner.

"Try to land a hit on Corbin." Kendrick instructed in a neutral tone.

Aren took a fighting stance, honed under the action coordinator of To Your Heart, the one who had choreographed the fighting scenes of him as Shin.

Taking a deep breath, Aren lunged forward, gaze locked on Corbin’s shoulders.

As soon as he noticed Corbin’s shoulder move towards the right, he threw a straight punch just a little to the right of Corbin.

Corbin revealed an astonished expression for a brief moment.

However, he reacted almost instantly.

Dodging, Corbin grabbed Aren’s wrist in a crushing hold, his free arm hooking over the elbow.

He pressed down hard on the joint and yanked the wrist up, twisting the arm into a savage lock.

The growing strain threw Aren off balance, forcing him to stumble forward in desperate pain.

Corbin pinned the bent arm tight against his chest, crushing any chance of escape or counterattack.

"Hmm, your basics are not bad." Kendrick observed, a glint of approval in his eye as he signaled Corbin to release.

"Let’s teach you advanced techniques then."

And then commenced the training that made John’s training look like child’s play in comparison.

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(A/N - Thanks for reading. ^..^)