I Was Michelangelo in My Past Life

Michelangelo's talent reached the heavens. That was what the gossips of his era would always say.

Even in the realm of the divine, his talent was so extraordinary that people dared to call it godlike. His genius was universally praised.

Furthermore, the citizens of Florence did not hesitate to proclaim Michelangelo as the greatest artist in history—one who reigned supreme in sculpture, painting, and architecture, far above his competitors.

And when Michelangelo heard all this praise, he grumbled with his characteristic scowl.

"If people knew how much effort I put into this painting, they would never call me a genius."

It was just like Michelangelo to say that.

A deep night.

Jo Dongbeom turned away from the yellow moon, which he'd been staring at to cool himself down.

A glass workshop was too dangerous a place to leave someone working alone. It was time to go back inside. Jo Dongbeom quickened his pace.

As soon as he entered the workshop, a wave of hot air crashed into him as if it meant to devour him. Gasp. A stark contrast to the cold winter air outside. Jo Dongbeom inhaled sharply.

The furnace temperature had already reached 1,500 degrees Celsius. The color of the furnace, glowing even brighter than the dim workshop lights, resembled a sun-like orange.

Jo Dongbeom stared at the boiling furnace with dazed eyes. More accurately, he was staring at Kang Seok, who was shaping glass in front of it.

— "My name is Kang Seok."— "I'm a second-year high school student."— "I attend Chunghwa Art High."

After spending just a few hours with him, Jo Dongbeom had come to learn quite a bit from those short exchanges. And now, he found himself wishing he could go back to not knowing. How can a high school student be like that?

Eighteen-year-old Kang Seok was extraordinary—too extraordinary.

Watching him sculpt glass made Jo Dongbeom question whether continuing on the path of art was the right choice. This was already the eighth time today he had spiraled into an existential crisis.

How can someone concentrate like that? It had already been hours.

Kang Seok hadn't moved from the furnace as he shaped flower after flower. Even students taking college entrance exams take breaks, but Kang Seok worked tirelessly, as if the concept of rest had been erased from his brain.

Is human concentration even capable of that? Jo Dongbeom stared at Kang Seok's delicate work with tweezers, awestruck.

The glass was starting to cool, glowing with a pink hue.

It was originally supposed to be a purplish-pink because of the added gold dust, but perhaps because the glass had been stretched so thin, the purple had all but vanished.

This was unmistakably divine talent. His technique, his focus, his passion.

More terrifying than the furnace's raging heat were Kang Seok's eyes as he stared at the glass—burning hotter, more intensely.

How does he do that? That same question haunted Jo Dongbeom over and over.

Isn't he hot? What if he collapses? Should I get him water? Doesn't he need the bathroom? Isn't he afraid of the fire behind him? Are all high schoolers like this these days? Can I even survive in this field?

It was a grim monologue.

At Kang Seok's feet, the rubber tub was already filled with discarded glass. All of it looked like delicate, multicolored flower petals.

— "Is it okay if I pay 1 million won upfront first?"

All of these had been shaped by Kang Seok over the course of just a few hours, immediately after receiving that payment. The sheer number of pieces was hard to believe.

To Jo Dongbeom, each looked like a flawless glass peony, perfect from every angle. But Kang Seok, dissatisfied, kept discarding them and starting over.

What was truly terrifying was that this eighteen-year-old was constantly improving.

He would create a peony so perfect it couldn't be more perfect, declare it unsatisfactory, throw it out, and make another—even more perfect than the last—only to do it all over again.

This relentless, terrifying medley of perfection drove Jo Dongbeom to the brink. Stop! he screamed silently.

But even this time, it didn't reach him.

Kang Seok, seemingly unsatisfied, began jotting notes down on paper. There's still room for improvement? Jo Dongbeom gave up trying to understand.

Despite having hunched over for hours, Kang Seok showed no signs of pain as he scribbled.

Mumbling to himself as he stared at the glass, Kang Seok looked practically possessed.

Jo Dongbeom began rationalizing. With that kind of mental strength, he could've succeeded in anything. He's simply a different breed from me. He whispered this to himself like a mantra.

Just then, Kang Seok reheated the glass and started shaping it again with tweezers.

Jo Dongbeom watched in awe, barely able to breathe in the heat. How much time had passed? He didn't even notice.

Kang Seok slowly straightened his back.

It was the first time he'd stood up straight in 3 hours and 49 minutes.

At the tip of the pipe was yet another flawless peony.

So real was the craftsmanship that one wouldn't be able to tell it apart from a real flower placed beside it. The most shocking part was the texture.

It was hard to believe it was glass—so soft, so opaque, it looked like it would collapse if touched.

Jo Dongbeom stared, speechless.

"The petals are still too thick."

But once again, Kang Seok seemed dissatisfied.

If they were any thinner, the petals wouldn't hold that elegant curl and would shatter instantly. Jo Dongbeom didn't even know how it was staying together now. Yet Kang Seok pressed a heated wooden board against the glass surface, as if this still wasn't it.

Every tool in the studio seemed like an extension of Kang Seok's own body. The way he used the sander and grinder was beyond skilled.

For a moment, Jo Dongbeom felt like he was visiting Kang Seok's studio instead of the other way around. And still, Kang Seok showed no signs of satisfaction.

Jo Dongbeom didn't understand what flaw he saw in that perfect glass flower—but one thing was certain.

"Can I try just one more time?"

Kang Seok was a relentless hard worker—to the point of being sickeningly intense.

Handling hot materials for so long had turned his face red, his back was soaked with sweat, and his lips were parched. And yet, his eyes burned with fire.

Passion. A desire for perfection. An obsession that knew no surrender. Endless challenge.

It was overwhelming. Jo Dongbeom couldn't help but feel reverence for the high schooler before him.

"Use whatever you need."

Despite being nearly twice his age, the honorifics came naturally. It wasn't about age—it was about respect for a true artist.

Jo Dongbeom didn't know how this strange genius had ended up at his workshop, but one thing was clear—he was witnessing a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

"Thank you."

Without hesitation, Kang Seok knocked the just-finished glass off with the jack. It spun and dropped into the tub with a clink. Crash. The sound of glass shattering echoed.

Jo Dongbeom winced at the sound of such beauty breaking, but Kang Seok was already moving to start his next flower.

Ah.

Watching someone use his studio with more passion than he ever had—it stirred something inside Jo Dongbeom. Why had he just been watching for over half a day? He was disappointed in himself.

There was no time for this. Jo Dongbeom hurried over to the furnace and grabbed a pipe. He couldn't just watch. He had to learn beside him.

This was a gift from the heavens. Jo Dongbeom, once the teacher, had humbly become the student.

Kang Seok was already on his way to get molten glass. Jo Dongbeom followed close behind, the weight of the pipe in both hands. His palms were slick with sweat—maybe from the heat, maybe not. A chuckle escaped him.

His heart was pounding like a drum. Haha. Just today alone, Jo Dongbeom had wrestled with the idea of quitting glass art no less than eight times, and yet a bright smile lit up his face.

It was fun.

It had been fun.

He couldn't hold it in. Jo Dongbeom shouted.

"Master!"

"Huh?"

Startled by the sudden shout, Kang Seok turned around with a surprised look. His face was characteristically stern and unyielding. But Jo Dongbeom, as if flowers were blooming in his mind, laughed heartily and inserted the pipe alongside him.

"Let's do this together!"

"What? Why would you call me your mas—"

"Hahaha!"

As he thrust the pipe into a sunlit furnace, Jo Dongbeom laughed. Ah. It was fun. Art, after all, was fun.

...

'He was a strange man.'

At dawn.

Riding through the pitch-dark streets on his bicycle, Kang Seok shook his head. The cold wind caressed his cheeks with a rough hand.

As he felt the heat fading from his flushed face, Kang Seok recalled what had happened just a short while ago.

— "Master! Please! Please take me as your student!"

— "I mean… today was literally my first time touching glass. I don't know how I could teach anyone…"

— "Maaasteer!"

— "No, I—"

— "You don't even have to teach me. Just let me stay by your side! I won't tell anyone I'm your student. Oh! And if I ever become famous, I'll tell everyone it's all thanks to you—no, thanks to Master Kang Seok! I won't even take money!"

— "That's fine, I'm not paying you anyway—"

— "Aaaaah! Master!"

The image of a fully grown man clinging to him, pleading that he just had to learn, played vividly in his mind. Kang Seok let out a dry laugh.

It reminded him of someone from a very long time ago, someone who used to knock incessantly on the studio door.

Kang Seok knew he couldn't harshly reject a man with such clumsy skills but towering passion. Maybe it was the side effect of being a reincarnation of Michelangelo—hard on the strong, soft on the weak.

He had no mercy for rude fools trying to leech off his reputation, but he was infinitely soft on hardworking and kind disciples—even if they never rose to his level.

Of course, he was still a grumpy Michelangelo, all things considered.

Kang Seok pedaled on.

He revisited Jo Dongbeom's abilities with ruthless objectivity. In his own judgment, the man's skill was trash. Even if you sprinkled gold dust on trash, trash was still trash.

Could that guy really learn anything from me?

Most likely, like the others before him, he'd just end up being a glorified assistant and then give up. What a pity. Kang Seok clicked his tongue and pushed down on the pedals. He simply wasn't gifted at teaching.

Skeptical as he was, he admitted this much: he wouldn't be bored for a while.

His pedaling picked up speed.

Inside his bag was a glass peony—wrapped tightly with Jo Dongbeom's help. He'd been working with glass from noon till dawn, and at last, he had a result he could feel satisfied with: his first proper glass peony.

Kang Seok thought of the frosted bloom with its greenish glass stem and let a crooked smile tug at his lips.

It was now past midnight—February 9th.

The birthday of Baek Myeonghee, the woman who gave birth to and raised him.

"Mom, are you looking at that again?"

Kang Chaeyoung entered the master bedroom, towel-drying her hair. Her mother, Baek Myeonghee, smiled as she rested her chin on her hand. On the vanity stood a vase holding a white peony—gifted to her by Kang Seok on February 9th, along with a cake.

"It's so beautiful."

She remembered Kang Seok's bashful face as he told her the white peony symbolized a happy marriage.

It wasn't just the flower—it was the thought of her son giving it to her that filled her with joy.

Seeing her mother smile, Kang Chaeyoung chuckled too.

"It really is pretty."

When she first realized that the soft, snow-white petals were actually made of glass, Kang Chaeyoung had nearly fainted. Even after touching it, she couldn't quite believe it. Only the sound it made when the flower bumped the vase convinced her it was real.

"No way that's glass."

Shaking her head, she walked off to her room. She had a point. Even after staring at the flower for three straight days, Baek Myeonghee still found it hard to believe.

She stared a little longer before finally pulling herself away. As beautiful as it was, she couldn't gaze at it all day.

Putting on her coat, Baek Myeonghee stepped into the living room. At the same moment, Kang Chaeyoung emerged to throw her towel in the laundry basket. Their eyes met.

"Where are you going?"

"To the furniture shop."

"Don't tell me—oppa slept there again?"

Chaeyoung's jaw dropped. It had been three days.

If he hadn't come home again last night, that meant Kang Seok had spent three days shuttling between the furniture shop and the glass studio, working day and night without even stepping into the house.

"I thought he always said health was the most important thing. Why is he like this?"

Even if his recent checkup results were fine, maybe he needed another one at this rate. Chaeyoung grumbled with concern in her eyes.

"You know how your brother gets when he's focused."

He hadn't always been like this, but lately, something had changed.

Once he locked himself in that workshop, his focus and obsession became borderline frightening. She didn't even know he had this side to him.

This time, it was that stupid burdock owl sculpture again.

"Anyway, I'm going to bring him breakfast. Want to come with me?"

Myeonghee asked casually. Chaeyoung's eyes went wide, and she bolted to her room.

"Wait for me a sec!" she shouted. A chorus of "Just a moment!" came through the door. Myeonghee laughed out loud.

It was an ordinary morning at the tail end of winter.

Room 5103. Professor's Office.

Lee Minhyuk, Department of Linguistics, Korea University.

His eyes lingered for a moment on the nameplate—old, but pristine.

As he opened the door, beige curtains fluttered in the window, sunlight pouring through.

Spring must be coming already.

Lee Minhyuk closed his eyes against the sudden brightness. The sunlight through his lenses was dazzling. He rubbed the lines near his eyes with thumb and forefinger as he walked in.

The room was chilly from the open window, draining the warmth from his body—but he welcomed the cold that even seemed to snatch away his fatigue.

He looked exhausted.

— "Why don't you take a break?"

His wife, Choi Mijeong, had said that to him this morning before he left. Maybe he had been pushing himself too hard lately. Maybe it was time to rest.

He recalled his father's worn-out face from last weekend and shut his eyes. In that moment—bzzz—his long-silent phone vibrated.

"…!"

Creak! The chair groaned as it snapped back into place. Lee Minhyuk groped around the desk for his phone. His other hand fumbled for his glasses.

Where… where is it?

It might be the news he'd been waiting for.

Buzz—another vibration. Beneath a copy of a Goethe original, his phone flashed with a new message.

[The sculpture is complete.]

[Please visit the furniture shop at your convenience.]

Lee Minhyuk clutched the phone.

Finally!