I Became A Playwright In Medieval Fantasy

Chapter 23

“Hmph.”

Diana chuckled softly as she read through the response she had received a few days prior.

The letter from Phantom covered his well-being, the challenges he faced in his creative work, and a myriad of other topics. As her eyes followed the neatly written script, Diana murmured to herself.

“He’s quite the charming man, isn’t he?”

The letters they exchanged had begun as a casual, almost playful correspondence after that cosplay event. But now, she found herself genuinely enjoying their exchanges, to the point where she eagerly anticipated each reply, counting the days until the next one would arrive.

Of course, there was another, more subtle reason for her interest in reading Phantom's letters in detail.

“Who would have thought? For someone from a family of warriors, his writing is incredibly delicate. Does writing beautifully make you better at creating plays?”

Diana’s sharp, lime-colored eyes scanned the graceful, rounded letters on the page. As she examined the handwriting, a thought crossed her mind. Those who primarily trained in martial skills often lacked refinement when it came to writing. Even the royal knights didn’t bother much with neat handwriting, as long as their writing was legible.

Given that detail, the pool of potential candidates for the identity of the great playwright Phantom narrowed further in her mind. A first or second-year student with hands hardened from physical training, yet skilled enough to write with such elegance—there weren’t many who fit that description.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better, Your Highness. You seemed rather unsettled by the recent news from the capital,” said her attendant, Franz, cautiously inquiring by her side. Diana responded with a playful, sarcastic smile, setting the letter down on the table.

“Unsettled? That’s an exaggeration. ‘Mildly irritated’ is more like it, Franz.”

“Is that so? You did seem rather displeased at the time—”

“Quiet.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Once again, Diana swiftly silenced her attendant’s remark with a smirk. In her mind, the headline from the recent newspaper flashed again: “Saint Beatrice Recommends Great Playwright Phantom as ‘Hero of the Pen’ Candidate!”

Of course, who Saint Beatrice nominated as a Hero Candidate wasn’t her concern. Choosing Hero candidates was a privilege reserved for high-ranking members of the Church.

However, the fact that Phantom—a man who was special to Diana in his own way—had been chosen? That didn’t sit well with her for some reason.

‘When did I last feel like this?’

It was an unfamiliar yet oddly familiar feeling. Diana pondered for a moment, then finally remembered where this emotion had come from.

It was the same feeling she had experienced as a child when she had reluctantly given her favorite doll to her newborn brother. The feeling of having something she cherished taken from her.

“Hmph.”

Saint Beatrice, huh?

On that day, for reasons she couldn’t quite explain, Diana found herself annoyed with the Saint.

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“Done! It’s finished!”

After several days of squeezing in whatever time I could to work on it, I finally completed the first draft of my Lesedrama. Wiping the sweat from my forehead, I placed the manuscript down with a satisfied sigh.

The reason I chose to write about Socrates for this project was simple.

Plato, Socrates’ student, had recorded his master’s life and philosophical dialogues, and these writings were often considered the origin of the Lesedrama genre in the literary world.

‘Besides, Socrates himself never left behind any writings.’

Socrates believed that relying on written words diminished one's ability to think critically. He feared that once words were written down, their context would be lost, and with it, their true meaning.

Thus, Socrates’ ideas and legacy had only survived through the words of his disciples—particularly in Plato’s Dialogues, which resembled a form of dramatic literature.

“Here, Maurice. Take a look. I’ll revise it before publication, but tell me what you think.”

“Oh? Another ancient setting, like your Julius Caesar piece? I see Athens is mentioned, along with references to primitive polytheism. Looks interesting,” Maurice remarked, flipping through the pages, his eyes gleaming with interest.

“Well, something like that.”

I adapted the parts that might make people in this world uncomfortable. Where that wasn’t possible, I simply attributed it to “ancient culture” and moved on.

“...?”

Even as I set my alarm and turned off the lights, Maurice remained in deep thought. I decided not to worry about it too much.

‘He’ll pass out eventually,’ I thought, burying my head in the pillow and drifting into a sweet, well-deserved sleep.

✧❅✦❅✧

Ringgggg—!

“Ugh, so sleepy...”

Morning came, and the blaring sound of my alarm dragged me from my slumber. Rubbing my eyes, I opened the window to let in the first light of dawn.

And there he was—Maurice, still sitting in the same spot, lost in thought.

“Hey, Maurice? Did you stay up all night?”

“Ah, you’re awake. My dear friend, Balthazar.”

I blinked in confusion as Maurice slowly broke his statue-like posture, turning to face me.

“I’ve been pondering. As a noble, as the second son of the Marquis of Laval, as Julian’s lover, and as a man—have I truly been living a virtuous life?”

“Uh...what?”

“The scales have fallen from my eyes. I now realize that true value doesn’t come from outward appearance or material wealth, but from the beauty of the soul. Striving to cultivate a better soul is my life’s mission now.”

With a contemplative look that seemed out of place on his dark-ringed eyes, Maurice quoted a line straight from Phaedo.

“Thanks to you, I’ve finally realized how ignorant I’ve been. Thank you, Balthazar, my most honorable, just, and wise friend.”

I could only offer one response to Maurice, who was now quoting from Plato and acting as though he’d reached some great epiphany.

“What the hell did you take last night?”

<><><><><><>

...Surprisingly, it wasn’t just Maurice who seemed to have lost his senses.

Two days after I had connected with the publisher through Maurice’s contacts and officially published The Dialogues...

Professor Frunel, known for starting his lectures at the exact minute, suddenly made a surprising announcement in our Imperial Political History class.

“Today, I, Frunel Rabize, have something to confess to all of you.”

“A confession?”

“Out of nowhere?”

The students stirred in confusion, completely caught off guard. Frunel, who had always been strict and inflexible, had never shown a side like this before.

Without caring for the murmurs, Professor Frunel let out a deep, emotional sigh and began to speak to us.

“All my life, I’ve believed that I was a wise and intelligent man. Because of that, I’ve easily looked down on others and never doubted my own excellence. In every way, I was the very picture of an arrogant so-called intellectual.”

Well, that part I already knew.

Frunel was infamous in Bronde Academy for being a strict, old-fashioned professor, despite his outstanding achievements in his field of study.

But why was he bringing all of this up now?

“But then, this one book! It has broadened my narrow mind and reprimanded me for my ignorance, transforming me into a new man!”

With a dramatic declaration of repentance, he raised...

"Huh?!"

...a shockingly familiar sight—The Dialogues in its first edition, with the image of a bald philosopher on the cover.