In Jihoon's mind, the Assassin's Creed Universe or ACU — wasn't just a film franchise.
It was the next great evolution of storytelling — a seamless crossover between cinema and interactive gaming, where audiences didn't just watch a story unfold, they lived inside it.
He'd been thinking about this concept for months.
Most people thought of gaming and film as two separate worlds — one passive, one active — but Jihoon saw something deeper.
Both, at their core, were about immersion: about crafting experiences that made you forget who you were for a while.
What if both worlds could meet halfway?
What if the same story could live in two mediums, feeding off each other, one expanding the other?
That was his dream for ACU — a living universe, not confined to a screen, but alive across games, series, and films.
From a storytelling standpoint, Jihoon always admired Assassin's Creed.
Even in his previous life, long before he became the youngest mogul in Hollywood, he'd been fascinated by how the series wove history, mythology, and morality into a single thread.
The game's unique structure — jumping between past and present — was already cinematic's creativity.
It had depth, conflict, and an emotional center that felt timeless.
The past and the present concept are just mirrors reflecting each other.
That's what storytelling really is — showing people who they were, so they understand who they are.
In the original game, the player followed Altair Ibn-La'Ahad, a master assassin during the Third Crusade.
The setting — the Holy Land in 1191 — gave the story a mythic weight, full of sand, stone, and secrets buried under centuries.
Jihoon loved that world, but he didn't want to merely recreate it.
He wanted to expand it.
In his version, the story wouldn't stop in the 12th century. It would breathe, evolve, and reach into the modern age — connected to the characters and worlds audiences already knew.
That was where Jihoon's creative spark truly ignited.
What if the modern-day connection wasn't some random descendant or anonymous scientist trapped in a machine, but someone iconic?
Someone audiences already recognized, but whose past no one truly understood?
Enter John Wick.
To most, John Wick was the ultimate action antihero — a man who once belonged to the High Table, the shadowy organization ruling the world's assassins, only to abandon it for love.
But in Jihoon's reimagined ACU, John's story went far deeper than revenge or grief.
In Jihoon's script, Wick's connection to the assassin world wasn't just professional — it was ancestral.
The reason he could fight the way he did, the reason he could survive what no man should, was because he was the descendant of Altair, the original founder of the Assassin Brotherhood.
The idea was bold, almost blasphemous to fans of both series — but to Jihoon, it was perfect.
In Jihoon's draft outline, the story began with the familiar world of The Departed — gritty, grounded, steeped in crime and corruption.
From there, the ACU would expand, with John Wick acting as the bridge between the modern assassin underworld and the ancient assassin creed.
The transition would be gradual.
In the early Wick films, audiences would see hints — symbols carved into walls, phrases whispered in Latin, relics that didn't belong to the present.
By the second or third film, during the desert scene with the Elder, Wick would finally learn the truth:
The High Table was merely a shadow of the ancient Templar Order, and he himself — unknowingly — was the last living descendant of Altair Ibn-La'Ahad.
That revelation would change everything.
From there, the ACU would sprawl across cities and centuries — from the neon streets of New York to the rooftops of Paris, from the deserts of Syria to the temples of Kyoto.
Each film, each series, and even each game expansion would tie into the same overarching story: the eternal war between freedom and control, between the Brotherhood and the Templars.
Unlike Marvel's endless superhero spectacle or DC's gloomy mythologies, Jihoon's universe would be grounded in history, philosophy, and the elegance of choreography.
And yet, the ACU wouldn't be confined to films alone.
Jihoon envisioned a complete entertainment ecosystem — where the Assassin's Creed game being developed by his studio in Korea would tie directly into the events of the films and dramas.
Players could explore missions hinted at in the movies, unlock cinematic scenes, and even influence spin-off stories through interactive campaigns.
It wasn't just transmedia storytelling — it was total immersion.
For the first time, a player could watch a film, then pick up a controller and continue that story within the same canon.
Choices made in the game could unlock content in the film universe.
A fan could literally live in Jihoon's world.
But Jihoon also understood something most western producers didn't: if the ACU was to be global, it had to feel authentically Asian at its core.
After all, the spirit of the Assassin — discipline, philosophy, balance — was closer to Eastern thought than anything else.
When Western audiences thought of Asia, they often pictured kung fu, sushi, or temples — but Jihoon wanted to dig deeper.
He wanted to extract the essence of Asia's visual identity — its rhythm, movement, silence, and poetry — and weave it into every frame.
He saw martial arts choreography not just as physical combat, but as storytelling through motion.
Every fight would reflect ideology — the chaos of the Templars versus the harmony of the Assassins.
Every fall, every strike, every parry would have meaning.
It was an ambitious goal, but Jihoon knew where to start.
He planned to hire the Hong Kong stunt teams responsible for training Keanu Reeves in The Matrix — the same legendary action choreographers who had once shaped the golden age of Chinese cinema.
People often forgot that the groundbreaking fight scenes of The Matrix were the brainchild of Yuen Wooping and his Hong Kong stunt crew.
He is a men who had risked their bones for the sake of cinema.
They'd choreographed films for Jackie Chan, Jet Li, and Donnie Yen, and their reputation was legendary.
Jihoon respected that kind of dedication.
They didn't rely on green screens or CGI — their fights were real.
Their jumps were real.
Even the bone fractures were real.
That's why audiences felt something genuine watching them. It wasn't spectacle. It was truth.
He wanted that truth in ACU.
If the West could bring the technology, Asia would bring the soul.
Of course, all of this required an absurd amount of money.
The Assassin's Creed Universe would easily become one of the most expensive entertainment projects ever conceived.
But Jihoon wasn't afraid of that.
He'd already calculated the production costs, marketing potential, and long-term IP valuation.
He understood that, unlike one-off blockbusters, universes generated continuity revenue — merchandise, spin-offs, online DLCs, theme parks, even VR experiences.
And if he could anchor ACU in both Hollywood's structure and Asia's cultural appeal, he would dominate not just the box office, but the cultural conversation itself.
To Jihoon, this wasn't just about making films — it was about reshaping how the world consumed stories.
Still, there was one piece missing: China.
When Han Sanping approached him with an offer to collaborate with CFGC, Jihoon understood the subtext immediately.
China didn't just want a movie.
They wanted a movement.
And Jihoon's ACU, with its blend of history, action, and Eastern philosophy, was exactly the kind of soft power project that could redefine Asia's global image.
He knew the risks — censorship, politics, creative interference — but he also knew the opportunity.
If he could plant ACU's roots in Asia, the West would have to follow.
The more Jihoon thought about it, the clearer it became: his Assassin's Creed Universe wasn't just a franchise.
It was a statement — that Asia didn't need to imitate Hollywood anymore. It could outgrow it.
In a few months, The Departed would begin filming — the first domino to fall in his grand vision.
After that would come John Wick, and then the first official ACU title — Assassin's Creed: The Baba Yaga.
It was a long road ahead — full of challenges, politics, and doubt — but Jihoon thrived on that.
He didn't just want to tell stories.
He wanted to build worlds.
And perhaps, in that moment, as the California breeze brushed against his face, Jihoon realized something deeper:
The true power of cinema wasn't just to entertain.
It was to connect — across cultures, across generations, across realities.
The Assassin's Creed Universe wasn't just his next project.
It was his legacy.