Chapter 69
After the premiere of "The Saint of Orléans" came to a triumphant close.
Along with the trivial side effect of handkerchief sales around the theater multiplying severalfold, praise for the play quickly began spreading by word of mouth.
After all, it wasn't just an ordinary play—it was a magical play.
There may have been people who never saw it even once.
There were supposedly no people who saw that magical play only twice.
With dazzling effects.
And sound effects that felt like actual magic exploding.
Of course, there was behind-the-scenes work about actually detonating real magic and collecting it in something close to a recording, but in any case, this cutting-edge cultural product, fully armed with those effects, dealt a proper culture shock to the empire's cultural scene.
It had planted its flag in the empire as the tragic tale of a noble saint, coated in restraint, solemnity, and sublimity.
And at the center of that popularity.
“The Holy Kingdom is very concerned about this work's box office performance, Saint.”
“What am I supposed to do about that?”
The woman who, at the premiere, cried tears of emotion so hard she ground the handle of the supposedly expensive mahogany chair into powder.
Roseline tossed the Holy Kingdom's message a dismissive “So what?”
“There are concerns that the way the church is portrayed in the work is somewhat irreverent and unfaithful, which could strengthen negative images of the Holy Kingdom.”
The bishop dispatched from the Holy Kingdom tried to persuade Roseline with an awkward expression.
Just as he said.
- Is that what happens when people go mad over religion...?
- I hear the Holy Kingdom really does burn heretics at the stake. Especially black mages—they show them absolutely no mercy.
- Burning those black-magic bastards is only natural, but, hmm, there are rumors it's a little over the top.
Even if one must separate fiction from reality.
The message contained in The Saint of Orléans.
Even to ordinary people, it clearly carried the intent of criticizing religious fanaticism.
Of course, that wasn't the author's true intention.
In the creative-work world, “What does canon know?” gets wrapped up as truth and providence, so Kim Yul had nothing to say either.
For that reason.
Public opinion toward the Holy Kingdom within the empire was plummeting vertically.
Of course, that result wasn't achieved by the play's power alone.
If you couldn't exploit a situation like this, you could hardly call yourself a politician.
The schemers were subtly stoking anti-Holy-Kingdom sentiment, and the synergy effect was exploding all over the place.
For that reason.
In a situation where mishandling things could shake faith in the Goddess to the core across the empire, the only saint currently active in the empire answered:
“So?”
“Since there is a public tendency to identify the saint with the protagonist in the work, if you would directly comment on the play...”
“Me?”
“Wouldn't it be a little more effective if you did it yourself?”
“Why?”
If the handkerchief had originally been stained, dirt wouldn't have stood out much.
But once a single drop of Kim Yul had fallen onto a handkerchief that had been nearly pure white, Roseline was living proof of that saying.
Looking at the bishop, who had been left speechless.
Roseline smiled with a saintly innocence and brightness.
“If voices of criticism are coming out, it's because there was behavior worth criticizing. If you try to suppress art over something as petty as that, wouldn't it lower the Holy Kingdom's prestige even more instead of raising it? Why not prepare something like a Clean Holy Kingdom campaign—'We are different from them' or whatever?”
Leaving the speechless bishop behind, the saint walked out of the bishop's office and through the church.
It had been quite a while since she had heard the voice of the Goddess.
If she could hear that voice right now, wouldn't it have said something like this?
- Well done, my daughter.
Or.
At the very least, maybe go make a confession and get it over with, huh.
* * *
“To live while preserving historical accuracy is this hard...”
“Still, isn't it better than Yi Sun-sin?”
A week had passed since the release of the magical play The Saint of Orléans and the novel of the same name.
[Title: The Saint of Orléans]
[Historical accuracy: Matches] [Completion quality: Masterpiece]
[Public evaluation: Mixed] [Sales: 2,871 copies]
A report card I'd never received before.
It had ended up being judged as “mixed.”
Well...
I suppose it can't be helped.
No matter how much print stimulates the imagination, most of the novel's buyers would have already watched the magical play,
and after feeling that overwhelming immersion once, how could the exact same story—especially one that followed the historical record to the letter and even stripped out dramatic exaggeration—possibly satisfy them?
At least with Yi Sun-sin, I had leaned a little more toward the historical accuracy of the war itself, so I could give it some differentiation from the action-heavy play.
“The actress's performance was amazing. And the villain looked incredibly wicked, so the cackling was impressive too.”
“Stahp.”
“Heeheehee. I am already a grown-up Historie Mk2. No more kill words will work, kyaah?!”
As the data piled up, maybe some kind of prompt pollution had occurred, because lately the Tinny had gotten more and more into teasing me, so I firmly pressed its reset button.
Tinny, having been hit in the side with a jigen, was desperately trying to hold back laughter.
Today, I'd once again succeeded in crushing Skynet's ambitions.
That's the kind of person I am, contributing to human peace like this.
Savoring the feel of Tinny's vengeful hands kneading my shoulders, I turned my gaze back to the laptop screen.
Now then...
It was almost time to close the final chapter of Romance of the Three Kingdoms.
The Nanman conquest arc had been fairly well received, but in various ways I had also received all sorts of reader feedback.
...well, sort of.
I never imagined that after depicting a jungle-dwelling barbarian tribe, the Goblin Rights Association would voice its disappointment.
Even Mr. Grodek, the half-goblin who had played the role of Gunwon, had.
- Writer! I'm enjoying Two Heroes a lot. Haha, um, perhaps.
When I ran into him at the troupe, he had even cautiously checked whether I was a racist.
Of course, I wasn't racist, so I firmly denied it.
Such is the way of the world.
All races are equal.
But some races are more equal than others.
Glory to George Orwell.
“Just from how you treat Lady Chloe, you look like an elf-hater no matter how I look at it.”
“That was the knife-ears' fault first. Anyway, how is it?”
I switched places with Tinny, allowing Historie to savor my writing.
Of course, life is give and take.
As I massaged Tinny's soft, muscleless shoulders.
“Mm, the Chu Shi Biao really does strike the heart no matter when I read it. Not bad.”
Tinny, who had only been born a few months ago, had gotten emotional like some old Three Kingdoms boomer, but, well.
Even if it was a fake Three Kingdoms boomer, if it could stir the soul with Three Kingdoms hype, that manuscript was good enough to pass, wasn't it?
I immediately sent it to print, then waited a moment for the output.
“Then, I'm off.”
I left the house right away.
I should hurry back and make fried chicken tonight.
* * *
Kim Yul had been walking straight toward the Novelpia headquarters, but.
Unfortunately, his steps were blocked by someone.
“Ahem!”
“Oh, it's you, Pup.”
“Don't treat me like a dog!”
Looking at the wild Esthea bursting out and growling, Kim Yul let out a sigh.
Kim Yul handed the precious manuscript over to the tyrant Esthea, who had brazenly held out both hands.
Before long, once Esthea was absorbed in reading the manuscript, I hoisted her onto my back and started walking.
Esthea blinked as she began digesting the text.
— Your humble servant was originally nothing more than a lowly commoner, content to plow the fields of Nanyang and keep myself alive through the chaos of the age, with no thought of seeking personal glory by attaching myself to a prince. Yet His Late Majesty graciously did not disdain my humble station and, lowering himself three times, came in person to my humble thatched hut to ask me about the affairs of the day. Moved by this, I finally resolved to spare no effort for His Late Majesty and answered his summons.
“Heeheehee...!”
“Aah, hot, hot—hey, hey!”
Kim Yul winced, nearly getting singed by the breath of admiration, but Esthea paid him no mind and kept flipping pages, slurping and chomping her way through.
Before long, a Zhuge Liang cap had appeared on her head.
And a white feather fan had popped into existence in the hand holding the manuscript.
.
.
.
“Give me theater tickets! Why is everything sold out?”
“Sigh.”
“Yay!”
After seeing off the Zhuge-Doggo, which had achieved its original purpose and was skipping away in high spirits with its tail swishing and its rear wiggling.
With the manuscript whose edge had been slightly singed by the breath in hand, I ignored the disgraceful sight of the knife-ears once again staging their regular environmental-protection protest.
Kim Yul entered through the back door of the Novelpia headquarters building.
After walking a bit along the VIP corridor directly connected to the president's office.
“I'm here.”
The moment I let out a sigh and announced my arrival.
Kim Yul froze.
“……Greetings?”
“You've arrived.”
“Oh! They said it was about time you'd arrive, and you really did come. Come in.”
Along with Chloe, who was sitting demurely with an awkward yet thoroughly proper expression.
The man who fell in love with the Cheonja Chongtong.
Aizen, the Empire's second prince, was waiting for Kim Yul.