I Became A Playwright In Medieval Fantasy

The House of Confession, a charity center visited on the recommendation of Renoir, the operator of the Killgrewber Theater Company.

In this shabby place that looks worn down at a glance, I was able to meet the old priest, Pierre.

If a distinguished guest like a great author had come, one would expect to be welcomed with fine cups and drinks.

But all Pierre could offer was a chipped cup and plain water.

“I’m sorry for the poor hospitality, esteemed writer. Unfortunately, the facilities are in bad condition, and I have little to offer,” he said politely while looking at me blankly.

“Anyway, it’s an honor to meet you. I’ve heard much about the great deeds of the hero candidate,” he continued.

“It’s an honor for me to meet you as well. Aren’t you renowned as an activist practicing the love of the Heavenly Church, Father?” I replied.

“Too kind. I’m just doing what I ought to do as a member of the Heavenly Church,” he said humbly.

“Heh, you are so modest. There are plenty of people believing in the same deity but acting very differently, you know?”

Pierre’s smile was somewhat bitter, as if he knew too well, from all his life experiences, that my words held truth.

‘I understand that these charity centers mostly rely on relief funds to stay afloat…’

Looking at the surroundings, it was evident that money was not coming in.

One could tell that even the priest himself was wearing a threadbare robe patched together out of necessity.

Although Saint Beatrice supposedly donates every month to improve the conditions in the charity center, it seems her money alone wasn’t enough to support all the facilities in the capital.

“So, what brings you to our House of Confession?”

Clink! Pierre placed his cup down earnestly.

“This is a place where the disabled, abandoned by the world, gather. I wouldn’t think someone like a great author would have any interest here.”

“Is that so? I am a hero candidate myself. You’re not trying to solicit donations from me or anything, are you?”

“Haha, what audacity would I have to do that? It’s all my shortcomings, based on my own deficiencies. I would gratefully accept just your kindness, Phantom.”

Even an outsider could easily see that the charity center was in dire straits; it was laughable that he felt too embarrassed to ask for help.

In truth, it’s likely not that he feared being shameless; he’s probably had too many rejections and has somewhat given up.

This world still lacks modern concepts of human rights in a medieval-like setting.

Nobles or the rich, who might show off their generosity, aren’t likely to open their wallets for the disabled.

“…Father Pierre, you have plenty of experience caring for the disabled, right?”

I asked with a knowing smile hidden beneath my mask.

“So, you must also be well-versed in their thought processes, what they feel and think?”

“Of course. This is a space where the love of the Heavenly Church is bestowed upon the disabled. I live and share meals with them,” he replied.

“Heh, that’s great. I came here upon the recommendation of Mr. Renoir, the manager of the Killgrewber Theater Company.”

“Recommendation, you say?”

“Actually, I’m preparing a new work. I would like you to take on the advisory role for this piece.”

“Pardon? You mentioned an advisory role?”

Pierre made a puzzled expression at my words. After a moment of silence, he asked with curiosity.

“I’m sorry, but I’m an amateur when it comes to playwriting. I don’t understand how I could offer any advice…”

“It’s simple. The theme of this new work is about the disabled.”

“The disabled? Are you saying you’re writing a play about the disabled?”

“Yes. And for this, I need your help in creating something.”

I handed him a few crumpled sheets of paper. As the old priest read the content with a perplexed expression, he asked, “Is this… some sort of sign language? And what are these 6 dots beside it?”

It was a concise idea memo outlining the principles and usage of fingerspelling and Braille.

My goal was to discuss with Father Pierre and adapt this to the language of this other world.

“They’re called fingerspelling and Braille. They could be considered props that appear in my upcoming play, Miracle Worker.”

“Props… you say?”

“The essence of Miracle Worker lies within the disabled. Particularly, it focuses on educating those who are visually and hearing impaired. I’ve been working on this idea for quite some time.”

“Uh, um…”

Pierre had no immediate response, staring intently at the piece of paper.

He seemed immensely focused on digesting and sorting out the information it contained.

After a long silence, his gaze slowly returned to my masked face.

“Did you really… devise this merely for a single play? The concept of this fingerspelling and that Braille with just 6 dots representing all letters?”

“Of course. I am the great author Phantom, after all.”

“…”

With that cheerful response, Pierre’s arms dropped down helplessly.

And the next moment…

“Cough.”

“F-Father?”

Suddenly, he covered his face and began to cry.

I panicked, wondering if I had made some mistake.

“Indeed…the insight of Saint Beatrice was not wrong after all,” he said while abruptly rising from his seat, grabbing my hand with fervent gratitude.

“You are the hero candidate Phantom, who wields a pen to change the world for the better. I had no idea that you held a deep interest in improving the treatment of the disabled.”

Huh?

“Uh, did you say improving the treatment of the disabled…?”

“Yes! This concept of fingerspelling and Braille is something that can only be crafted by stepping into their shoes. In other words, looking at the disabled, whom everyone despises and mocks, as equal beings.”

At my startled question, Pierre wiped his tears and replied.

“Those who pity disabled people often don’t see them as equals. Instead, they view them as inferior, as creatures that need sympathy and charity. But you regard them as equals and even think of ways to educate and guide them to a better path.”

“Uh, um…”

“The rumors were not wrong. You truly seem to be an angel sent by the Heavenly Church. You asked me to advise you to complete your play, right? Don’t worry.”

With his enthusiasm glowing and a look of agape love in his eyes, Pierre promised.

“I will do my utmost to help within my capabilities. The new work you’re creating, Miracle Worker, clearly shows the compassion of the Heavenly Church towards the abandoned and neglected.”

…I sense a huge misunderstanding here.

I just came after listening to Renoir’s advice. I’m not particularly interested in the disabled rights movement of this world.

‘Well, I can understand why he might misinterpret it like that.’

In fact, fingerspelling and Braille-like systems do exist in this world.

However, the difference lies in the fact that they were not crafted with a focus on proper education for the disabled.

The fingerspelling of this world is merely a cipher used by mute monks for secret communication among themselves.

And the Braille doesn’t consider the convenience of visually impaired people who rely solely on touch, as it simply emphasizes the letters as they are.

In that sense, the modern concept of fingerspelling and the Braille that can represent all letters and numbers with just 6 dots must seem like a groundbreaking invention.

For those with physical disabilities who can’t easily acquire knowledge.

This is a result of continuous improvements developed specifically for their convenience.

—–

Weeks passed after Phantom met Father Pierre and began preparing for Miracle Worker.

“Hmm, a new work dealing with the blind? Is this going to be a concept for some kind of Salvation Army?”

Princess Diana, who returned from the Academy to the palace after a bath, muttered to herself.

Phantom’s new work, Miracle Worker, is set to premiere on the upcoming Teacher’s Day.

She glanced at the flyer featuring a home tutor embracing a disabled girl as she said, “But compared to previous works, the scale seems unusually small. Isn’t this the guy who always wrote stories of great heroes or exceptional individuals?”

“It must be some sort of experiment, I suppose. I heard the Cthulhu Mythos was also written in that spirit,” replied a nearby aide, shrugging.

He pointed out the specific performance date marked in red on the calendar and added, “They even recruited a priest who operates a charity center to accurately express the behavior of the disabled. He seems to be putting quite an effort into this, just like with Hegemon-King Li’s Consort or Cthulhu Mythos.”

“Heh, really? Now I’m rather looking forward to it,” Diana said.

I don’t know how they’ll tackle the controversial topic of the disabled, but I’m certain they will handle it skillfully since Phantom is the one at the helm.

From Admiral Lee, Julius Caesar, Chaplin’s Comedy, Exodus, Dialogues, Hegemon-King Li’s Consort, to the Cthulhu Mythos, Phantom has never disappointed the public with past works.

“Alright then. So it means they’ll have the first performance sometime next week?”

As Diana rose from the sofa, looking at the red circle drawn by her aide, she instructed the maids to prepare her outfits for her outing and smiled subtly.

“I’ll see how outstanding the play is with my own eyes, side by side with the original author.”

Reflecting on the day her brother Wolfgang fainted while watching the horror play, Princess Diana held both seriousness and mischievousness in her thoughts regarding Phantom.

In the meantime, she had been exchanging letters, gradually building her interest in the great author.

At first, it was merely to deduce his identity, but soon her mindset shifted.

Now, interacting with this man, Phantom, has become significantly enjoyable.

Living without a flaw as a princess, Diana von Clausewitz naturally reigned over everything, and apart from her father and brother, she had never shown this level of interest in another man.

It’s no wonder the rumors about the mysterious atmosphere between her and Phantom circulated even among the palace maids daily.

“Uh, um. Your Highness?”

Just then, one of the princess’s aides called her carefully.

It was a rather deflating piece of news for Diana.

“I regret to inform you, but it seems playwriter Phantom has a prior engagement on the day of the premiere.”

She froze.

Standing before the grand mirror contemplating her attire, Diana’s actions halted suddenly.

“…A prior engagement?”

“That is correct. However, if Your Highness wishes, I can request that he break his prior engagement, as writer Phantom has greatly benefited from the royal family and would not dare refuse…”

“Enough. Don’t speak nonsense, Franz. I’m not a child who would throw a tantrum over such things.”

Princess Diana brushed aside her aide’s remark lightly while tossing her golden locks behind her.

She turned around with her usual smile and added, “Well, if there’s a prior engagement, there’s nothing to be done. It’s my fault for not making prior arrangements, so I shouldn’t be upset about it. It’s a disappointment, but all I can do is look forward to the next time.”

“Ah, understood.”

“But what type of prior engagement could he possibly have? Isn’t he that mysterious man who conceals his identity and hardly interacts with others?”

Diana’s heightened attention toward Phantom was also influenced by his air of mystery.

A man who remains shrouded in secrecy while consistently penning grand works with a pen, it’s no wonder most women would find it hard not to fall for him.

It’s no surprise that fan clubs for noblewomen fiercely infatuated with Phantom exist, and Diana had also become an object of envy simply for exchanging letters with him.

“Well, it seems that Saint Beatrice has come to the capital on this occasion?”

The aide explained Diana’s reasonable query, referring to the whereabouts of the elusive saint.

“Thus, it appears writer Phantom has a prior engagement with her. They agreed to watch Miracle Worker’s premiere together…”

“Hmm.”

Diana let out a cold snort.

She was still smiling, but her lime-colored eyes had noticeably sharpened.

Then she muttered in a tone that seemed almost amiable, “Saint Beatrice. Of all people, that woman?”

…Oh no.

The aides beside the princess gulped nervously, sensing the sudden, obvious tension in the air.

“She has already harbored a strong dislike for the saint since the hasty appointment of the hero candidate.”

Having served the princess for a long time, he was fairly familiar with her emotions.

He could deduce her feelings simply by interpreting the subtle changes in her facial expressions.

At the present moment, her emotions could be likened to a kind of irritation.

Like a fly landing on a delicious steak she had prepared for herself.

Or coffee spilling on the exquisite dress she had carefully chosen for the ball.

In simpler terms, it was the typical expression one wear’s when someone ruins what they had longed for.

—–

As time passed, at last, the premiere of Miracle Worker arrived.

Dressed slightly flamboyantly in my Phantom guise, I stood in front of Ethel’s Cathedral.

It was late afternoon, just after the sun had set.

Although many people were walking around the cathedral, almost no one was heading inside.

And after waiting for a while, I was warmly greeted by…

“I’m sorry, Phantom. Did it take a while?”

“Not at all, Saint.”

…None other than the current saint, Beatrice, dressed elegantly like an ordinary noblewoman, having shed her usual nun attire.

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