I Became A Playwright In Medieval Fantasy

Chapter 17

“Hmm.”

“Is something the matter, Your Holiness?”

“It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

Beatrice, the Saint, was sitting in front of the roaring fireplace in the temporary lodging of the capital, where she was staying for the production of a play. The warmth chased away the chill of the night as she casually assuaged the concern of the knight who had been assigned to guard her.

“...Phantom.”

To herself, she silently recalled the masked man she’d met recently.

She’d promised a reward beyond monetary compensation if the play was successful, but in truth, she had already considered an option that she believed would be an excellent reward for Phantom.

She wanted him to use her priests to crack down on the production and consumption of unauthorized copies of her play.

Beatrice had already gathered information that the Geloroushina theater troupe was facing significant difficulties due to rampant plagiarism of , their masterpiece.

She was confident that this would be a valuable reward for Phantom.

The secular laws of the state could only prevent a thief from thieving, but the eternal laws of the church were meant to point fingers at thieves and to encourage public condemnation of thievery.

“.................”

However, the thoughts occupying Beatrice were not solely about this. From their first meeting, she had felt a strange curiosity and interest in Phantom.

‘How can such a color come from a soul?’

Saint Beatrice had lost her sight as a child and could not see anything. However, in return, her eyes were able to perceive what others could not—like the unique hues of a soul’s flame.

Phantom’s soul... its color seemed... unnatural.

This didn’t mean his soul was murky like that of an evil being, nor was it an extraordinary color she had never seen before. It was just that his soul seemed to induce an illusion, as if two different colors were blending together in real-time.

Saint Beatrice, who had interacted with countless people and peered into the depths of their souls, had never encountered such a strange and unsettling phenomenon.

“Phantom, Phantom, Phantom.”

She pondered the playwright’s name, lost in thought.

Just what is your true nature?

✧❅✦❅✧

“Uh, I’m truly sorry about the last time, Phantom.”

“Hmm.”

“A high reputation or not, I am merely an entertainer, am I not? And she’s... well, she’s a Saint sent from the Holy See. I had no choice in the matter. I’m truly sorry. If you want, I’ll even get down on my knees and...”

“Enough. I understand. I will forgive you, so just take this.”

“Oh, you’ll let it go? Thank you!”

I’d given Mr. Renoir a stern warning about revealing my location to Saint Beatrice. Now, I handed him the script I’d brought.

“Ah, so you’ve written a religious play this time?”

Mr. Renoir flipped through the pages, his eyes scanning the text. When he was done, he gave me a thumbs-up and declared,

“If it’s this kind of material, it’s right up the alley of the Killgrewber Theater Company! Before the great writer Phantom emerged, religious plays were our stronghold!”

“That’s good to hear. But you do realize that in order to perform it, you’ll have to go all the way to the northern front, right?”

I made sure to emphasize this point as I handed over the newly completed script of , which I’d finished as quickly as possible.

The Killgrewber Theater Company was going to perform a kind of morale-boosting show. The Saint had generously paid for the performance, and no tickets were sold beyond that – it wasn’t structured to be a profit-making endeavor.

I was a bit worried that Mr. Renoir, as the troupe’s leader, might have reservations about this arrangement.@@@@

“Ha, do you take me for a fool? There’s no need to worry, Phantom.”

“Creating new countries and costumes for every play is expensive and time-consuming. So, we’re reusing the Egyptian set because it has a strong exotic feel.”

“Hmm, is that so? That’s a shame. I was getting excited, thinking it was the same setting.”

“Hahaha...”

✧❅✦❅✧

And so, after a short while, the playwright known as Phantom along with the members of the Killgrewber Theater Company, stepped into a teleportation circle and were whisked away to the northern front lines.

“Balthazar Arture! Balthazar Arture? Is Balthazar not here?”

Meanwhile...

In a lecture hall at the Academy, a professor called out attendance, searching for a student who was nowhere to be seen.

The class was “The Political History of the Holy Empire,” taught by Professor Prunel Labise, a renowned scholar of humanities. The subject was notoriously dull and dry, and Professor Labise was infamous for his strict attendance policy.

But despite this, it was a mandatory subject for graduation, so students begrudgingly attended the classes, grinding their teeth all the while.

To be absent from Prunel Labise’s class... it was bold, to say the least.

Professor Prunel clucked his tongue disapprovingly and picked up the attendance sheet.

“Honestly, these young students... they’re always out playing, and now they’re skipping class to watch some play by... what’s his name... Phantom? When I was young, we’d have been grateful just to—“

The professor, a classic example of an old fogey, launched into a grumpy tirade about “the good old days.” He was about to mark Balthazar Arture, a second-year student, as ‘absent without leave’ and deduct a hefty chunk of his grade when...

“Excuse me, Professor?”

Someone raised their hand politely, a hesitant smile on their face.

It was Maurice Lavalle, a model student known for his diligence, even in the most mind-numbingly boring of classes and he was so earnest and diligent that he had even won the affection of the temperamentally difficult Professor Prunel.

“What is it, Lavalle? I’ve already marked your present.”

“Oh, it’s not about that. It’s just that... well...”

Scratching the back of his neck awkwardly, Maurice cautiously explained the situation.

“It’s about Balthazar. He’s not feeling well today. He’s been in bed in the dormitory all day. He asked me to apologize for not informing you about his health issues in advance.”

“Hmm, is that so?”

Professor Prunel, who would have typically dismissed such an excuse without a second thought from any other student, paused to consider Maurice’s words. If anyone else had made the excuse, Professor Prunel would have demanded proof and even a doctor’s note to verify the illness.

However, sometimes the identity of the speaker has a significant impact on the listener’s mindset.

“Very well. I’ll mark it as a medical absence.”

Professor Prunel nodded, stopping himself from drawing a red line through Balthazar’s name. He looked at Maurice Lavalle with approving eyes.

“Lavalle, see that Arthure gets today’s lesson notes and any announcements. We can’t have him falling behind.”

“Of course, Professor. Thank you.”

Maurice expressed his gratitude with a respectful nod and a slight bow, secretly relieved.

Using the image of the model student he had painstakingly built up to tell a lie—his conscience was pricked, but it was a lie worth telling. Thanks to this, he was able to safeguard the grades of the great writer ‘Phantom,’ also known as Balthazar.

‘Leave the minor stuff to me and focus solely on your writing, Balthazar. That way, you can keep producing masterpieces.’

Scratch—! Scratch—!

He diligently scribbled away in his notebook, making sure to write down everything so he could share it with his friend, who was busy up north. A slow, anticipatory smile spread across Maurice’s face.

‘That way, I can thoroughly enjoy your plays, my dear friend.’

After all, even a beast from the mountains knew how to repay a kindness.

He would make sure to remind Balthazar of his debt—make him into a human scenario factory, churning out a script a day.