I Became A Playwright In Medieval Fantasy

“How is it? Does it suit me well?”

The Saint gently touched her braided hair with a soft smile.

“Living as a clergyman, I rarely get a chance to wear clothes like this. I thought about it and decided to dress up a bit, but is it okay?”

Although she acted natural as always, she couldn’t help but seem anxious about my evaluation.

The lovely dress with a wave pattern woven with gold thread, silver hair intricately braided with a daffodil-shaped hairpin, the elegantly revealed shoulder line, and the tightly cinched corset created a sight that could easily pass her off as a young lady from an upper-class family, not the Saint of the Papacy.

I grinned and replied, “You look surprisingly beautiful. If you weren’t the Saint, I might have genuinely asked you out on a date.”

“Pih, so this is a fake date then? I’m a bit sad about that.”

“Aha ha…”

Right after the premiere date for Miracle Worker was set, the Saint and I promised to go watch it together side by side.

To avoid drawing unnecessary attention, we reserved the entire balcony seat on the second floor with a great view.

Especially, the Saint was dressed in a typical noble gown instead of her nun attire.

The reason behind this sudden ‘date’ wasn’t anything significant.

“It’s the first time the Saint is properly watching Phantom’s play.”

She had seen Exodus at the northern fortress, but that was more of a formal engagement.

Today is her first time heading to the theater to laugh and chat like the other patrons.

Moreover, the Saint had indirectly provided the material for this Miracle Worker.

Doesn’t she deserve to enjoy the premiere alongside the original author?

“Now, let’s go.”

A grand carriage awaited us at the back gate of the cathedral to take us.

I extended my arm as if guiding Cinderella in a fairy tale.

The Saint smiled and slipped her hand between my armpit.

It seemed she noticed my move thanks to her ability to read energies.

“Gentleman manners are really ingrained in you, Phantom. You seem familiar with escorting a lady?”

“Well, a little bit.”

“Oh? So, you really are a flirt? Once I heard you’re a genius playwright hiding behind a mask, I expected you’d have many women around you.”

Well, it’s not that ‘gentleman manners’ are ingrained in me in a romantic sense. I haven’t been close to women enough to be a flirt.

It’s just that I learned some as a noble, and recently I’ve been going around with Rosalyn.

…Speaking of which, I actually stood up my senior to go on this date with the Saint. Phantom usually goes to premieres with Balthazar every time.

“Hehe, being a flirt isn’t such a bad thing.”

The Saint stepped closer and whispered, she pressed her chest against my arm as if truly like a lover.

“Today, I’m taking full advantage of Phantom, the lover of all. Thinking that way makes me a bit proud.”

“Oh my. Is it alright for someone involved in the clergy to say such things?”

“Really? Why not?”

I asked jokingly, thinking her optimism might be excessive, and the Saint turned her blindfolded face toward me and replied.

“Long ago, warriors and saints used to formalize engagements, you know? To solidify their bond and connection through marriage.”

“Is that so?”

This was news to me. Has my tendency to doze off during history class come back to haunt me?

Noticing my embarrassment, the Saint gently caressed my arm and added.

“Of course, that’s a story before the great demon king was sealed. So, you don’t have to worry too much. Got it?”

“Ah, yes…”

…How can I not worry? If you hadn’t brought it up in the first place.

Anyway, seeing her make me shy like this makes it seem like she’s subtly a princess too.

The difference is that while the princess feels like a mischievous fox, the Saint gives off the vibe of someone who enjoys a calculated tease.

It’s more like she understands human psychology well rather than having actually dated.

—

About an hour later, we took the carriage to sit in the balcony of the Killgrewber Theater Company.

In the spacious area prepared solely for us, we sat shoulder to shoulder.

“Is your seat comfortable? If it’s not, we can switch to another reserved seat.”

“Of course, compared to the stiff wooden chair I sit on every day, this feels like a bed.”

“Hmm, that’s a relief.”

A cozy space perfectly isolated from the murmuring audience below.

Feeling embarrassed, I realized I hadn’t been this close with even Rosalyn.

Now dressed properly, the Saint was truly dazzlingly beautiful.

Though she might be shorter than the princess, her body proportions were artistically pleasing, matching the beauty of the princess without any doubt?

Moreover, a sweet scent of acacia wafted in, making it feel somewhat hypnotic.

Is this the perfume she normally uses, or is it her natural scent?

Lost in somewhat shallow yet blasphemous curiosity, a voice suddenly rang out.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for visiting the Killgrewber Theater Company today!”

The curtains parted, and Renoir, the leading actor of Killgrewber, walked onto the stage.

Then, with a deep bow and exaggerated gestures, he gave a brief explanation.

“Today’s performance, Miracle Worker, tells the tale of a woman and a girl who brought miracles to the world through loving kindness and devotion! The curtain rises on a story that will guide you into a realm of gentle emotion and tears!”

A middle-aged actor, lively and energetic as always, perhaps even more enthusiastically introducing the performance than when he plays the lead himself.

It seemed he was more sensitive, considering this is the stage where his nurtured successors become the main leads.

Additionally, there was also an effort to lighten the uniquely special nature of Miracle Worker.

…However, the responses from below the balcony were dull at best.

“Hmm, it’s an era where Phantom’s works equate to sophistication, so I came on the premiere day, but…”

“This theme selection is really hard to grasp. A puppet show is fine, but what story can you tell with a disabled person?”

So far, the memories people have of Phantom’s works roughly divide into two lines.

The genealogy of classic hero narratives starting from Admiral Lee and moving to The Hegemon-King Li’s Consort.

The experimental lineage that includes Chaplin’s Comedy, Dialogues, and the Cthulhu Mythos.

No matter which type of work emerged, the audience was busy consuming the products enthusiastically.

The nobility of Yi Sun-sin, the charisma of Julius Caesar, the slapstick antics of Charlie Chaplin, the faith of Moses, the curiosity of Socrates, the flamboyance of Xiang Yu, and the cosmic horror of Lovecraft.

The threads running through Phantom’s works fundamentally resonated well with the medieval fantasy sentiments of this world.

However, when Miracle Worker was advertised, most who saw the posters were left with ambiguous expressions.

“It’s quite different from before. This seems quite modest for a Killgrewber work.”

“The theme selection is completely off the mark. A blind and deaf disabled girl. Are they really telling the story of her devoted teacher?”

In European society, the concept of ‘human rights’ began to properly emerge around the 18th century.

Even in pre-modern times, similar discussions were had led by the church, but they were very minimal compared to modern times.

Let alone the human rights of those with disabilities caused by illnesses or accidents; for the great playwright Phantom to showcase such downtrodden beings as the protagonist in a play?

In a way, it felt even more unpleasant than when he cast a barbaric orc as Vercingetorix.

To liken it to web novels, it’s like an author who only wrote pure love suddenly adding a harem tag and presenting a hybrid genre.

“Is he suddenly trying to start a charity? Who would choose such a topic to see?”

“Did the former bishops pressure him because of the lack of donations? They have already given enough to the poverty alleviation office.”

“Now they want to take care of those pitiful half-handicapped folks too? They say if you do a good deed, you think it’s a right; it seems they’re beginning to take our charity for granted.”

Guests visiting the private theater Killgrewber were mostly nobles or wealthy bourgeois.

Thanks to the doctrine of the Heavenly Church that promotes charity as virtue, donations were frequent, but even they were extremely stingy about helping persons with disabilities.

Helping the poor may contribute to maintaining order in the long run, but assisting those who are disabled was generally seen as a waste of money, akin to pouring water into a bottomless pit.

“Ahem, Saint? Please don’t take it to heart. Those prejudiced reactions in the world…”

Fearing I might’ve touched a sore spot, I casually tossed out the question.

Surely if those people had known the Saint was here, they wouldn’t throw around those words carelessly.

Her status was kept secret, making it unavoidable for her to visit discreetly, but still.

“I don’t mind. If I were hurt by every word, I’d have died of frustration long ago!”

Contrary to my expectations, the Saint responded not with displeasure but with a bright smile.

Then she winked cutely, tossing aside some stray strands of hair, throwing a joke my way.

“Besides, they say if you’re cursed, you live longer, don’t they? So it’s not bad; I might be increasing my lifespan day by day. Maybe I should complain to the Heavenly Church that you want to keep me alive forever.”

“…”

“Why are you suddenly quiet?”

“It’s nothing.”

I almost unconsciously reached for her white hand but quickly caught myself.

While she appeared merely indifferent and tough at first glance, it felt like a deep sorrow I couldn’t even imagine lay beneath.

Bababam~

Suddenly, a loud trumpet sounded, and the stage curtain finally rose.

And then she appeared.

“Huh?”

“Why is an old hag coming out?”

A finely aged grandmother draping a red shawl over her shoulders and dressed in a black old lady dress.

She was sitting at a table placed in the center of the stage and writing away with a scratch-scratch sound.

[…My life has been surrounded by darkness and silence from the very beginning.]

With a smile, the old lady continued to move her pen as a soft voice was heard from the side.

This served as both a monologue from the narrator conveying her inner thoughts and a means for the character on stage to communicate indirectly with the audience.

[From the moment I can remember, I could see nothing and hear nothing. Trapped in a body imperfectly shaped by God, all that remained in my life was impossibility.]

“What’s this? Is the old lady getting her writing read out loud?”

“But she can’t see or hear anything? In simple terms, isn’t that saying she’s blind and deaf?”

“Puhaha, Phantom the writer really exaggerates. If one of them was just distant, that’d be one thing. How’s she merely writing all by herself when both her eyes and ears are messed up?”

“Oh my, if realism is lost like this, it’ll be impossible to get immersed in the story right from the start.”

Indeed, a negative atmosphere permeated the audience, reminiscent of the angry comments that flood in when historical or factual accuracy goes awry.

Helen Keller, a prominent writer and social activist who overcame her disabilities.

In this world, such cases are rarely seen, except for those like the Saint who have received the call of the Heavenly.

However, I didn’t mind.

[…But there was someone who never gave up on me and guided me into the light of civilization.]

Whether it’s a play, drama, or movie, true evaluation only comes after seeing it to the end.

[In a life where light turned into complete darkness and sound into silence, there was a miracle teacher who led me to the realm of possibility despite having learned only impossibilities.]

Scratch scratch. The old lady’s quill continued to move in time with the narration.

Just as she dipped her pen into the ink and stood up, her voice was heard once more.

[This is a story of both myself and the teacher who guided me. A record showing how a small thing you can do alone can become immense when done together.]

It imitated the opening of the Indian film Black, which adapted the true story of Helen Keller.

As if to conclude, the stage plunged into darkness, and everything faded into obscurity.

After a few moments of cold silence, the lights on stage flickered back on, revealing…

[Get away! Don’t touch me-!!]

Wahjangchang!

The interior of a poverty alleviation office inscribed with elements suited to the fantasy world unfolded in a dreadful scene.

And in anger, a girl violently swung against the workers of the relief office.

This was none other than Anne Sullivan’s childhood, long before she became the home tutor we know.

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