CHAPTER 110: CREATING THE PLAY

The playwright Harry Nidouhi received Lucen’s script for his play. He quickly started reading the script, and his first impression of it was that it was an incredible piece.

It was not a myth, a historical story, or one of the bard’s songs; it was something truly new. It was like those novels that were popular a few decades ago.

Harry’s eyes were focused as he raced down the page. Each line struck him with a clarity he had not felt in years.

His pulse quickened, the way it had when he first snuck into a theater as a boy and saw the stage come alive. His fingers trembled slightly as he turned each page, ink smudges clinging faintly to his skin.

This was not the distant echo of heroes long dead, nor the polished flattery nobles demanded. This was raw lightning captured in words. For the first time in years, he felt as though a script had seized him by the throat and refused to let go.

The scratch of quill against parchment, the faint scent of drying ink, even the uneven edges of Lucen’s handwriting, all of it seemed alive to him now. He leaned so close to the script that it was like he wanted to devour the very page.

Every line pulled him deeper, and with each turn of the page, he found himself whispering fragments aloud, just to hear how they tasted in the air.

A knight, laughed at by all, yet walking a path no one else dared. A man the world called mad, yet whose dream burned brighter than any other.

"Well, this is different..." Harry spoke to himself.

For a decade, the theaters of Caelhart had been drowning in recycled legends and overdone tales. Noble patrons wanted only glory, tragedy, and love. True innovation had long been stifled, replaced by formula.

Harry looked around his room. His desk was littered with half-finished drafts, each abandoned at the same place: when he realized he was writing the same old story in a new coat of paint.

For years, he had catered to fickle nobles who wanted yet another tale of doomed lovers or glorious warriors. He had almost forgotten what it felt like to believe in a play.

He remembered the first time he saw a play. He was but a young boy, the child of a humble merchant. At the time, he thought he too would become a merchant just like his father.

That was before he found the world of the play. In that world, small men could defeat giants. Stories of old could unfold before your very eyes. Myths and legends came to life. He saw the audience cry, laugh, and show different emotions. He had seen other boys like himself be inspired for greatness.

He could still see it clearly: the cramped wooden benches, the faint smell of sweat and roasted chestnuts clinging to the air.

The actors’ voices rang across the stage with such conviction that even a scrawny merchant’s son like him believed heroes could stride among mortals.

He remembered how the crowd gasped when the villain fell, how they wept when the heroine sang her farewell.

Harry, who was small, unnoticed, one coin short of dinner that night, had felt something ignite inside him.

It was not the play itself, but the way strangers’ hearts beat as one in that dark hall. That night, he swore he would live in that world of shared dreams, not in the dusty stalls of a market.

This play had reminded him of what he had long forgotten. The reason he became a playwright in the first place. He wanted to see a world beyond his own point of view. This script was something that could do that.

The story of a man chasing an impossible dream, mocked as a fool, yet refusing to surrender. Harry then couldn’t help but remember the old rumors about Lucen Thornehart, a Thornehart who had no talent with a sword, but who kept chasing the back of his Father.

"Are you trying to tell your own story in a different way?... Still, I must admit this kid can indeed write."

Harry continued reading the script. The more he read, the more convinced he was that Lucen was a true genius.

’Dreams are the guiding stars of fools and wise men alike. This whole story has a lot of focus on dreams. I wonder what kind of dreams Lucen Thornehart has.’

Harry found that there were many things in the script that had deeper meaning to them. It was truly a work of art.

Perhaps to be too practical is madness. To surrender dreams, this may be madness. But madness of all: to see life only as it is, and not as it ought to be. When Harry read this line, he started to wonder what kind of things Lucen thinks ought to be.

Harry leaned back in his chair, the script resting loosely in his hand. The candlelight flickered, and the moonlight shone across the ink, as though the words themselves breathed.

"What kind of boy writes like this?" he murmured.

Lucen’s reputation was already growing across Caelhart, dragon slayer, arena victor, and even the duel with the former heir of Count Vermont. But those were feats of strength. This... This was something else entirely. Not the sword, not the fist, but the pen. A weapon that was as mighty as the two.

"I heard he asked the Marquess Halbrecht to sponsor this play of his. Since he gave me this script, maybe he would use our theater group to perform this wonderful masterpiece." Harry started talking to himself.

The more he thought about it, the more a spark ignited in his chest. To stage this would be to step into uncharted waters. It was no safe love ballad or hollow patriotic tale. If done right, this could be something that no one would ever forget.

***

The following day, Lucen, with Harlik, Mark, and Robert, came to meet with Harry. The second they met the playwright, he spoke.

"Surely you’re going to allow our theater group to perform this play."

"Heh, it seems that you have become enamored by my script. So do you think I can write?" Lucen smiled as he looked Harry in the eye.

"Heh, are you perhaps one who holds a grudge?... Well, it is true, I must admit you can truly write. You are truly a genius like no other. Why waste your talents in brawls and useless alchemy? You should use your writing, your words to change Norvaegard, nay, the world." Harry was getting a bit too excited.

"I can’t ignore what you said. I do agree that Lucen’s talents are wasted by those barbaric brawls, but to call alchemy useless, now you’re going too far. Writing that changes the world? Bah!" Robert spat out. "What use are words that are merely a flight of fancy? Alchemy will unlock the truth of the world, the source of it, and we will harness its secrets to truly change the world."

"Hmph, as expected of a mage that has no understanding of culture or art. Words can inspire people to better themselves, but they can also drive one into endless madness. Wars can start through words, and peace can be achieved in the same way. Civilization started with words to communicate and move forward. A true intellectual understands the power of words. Even your Alchemy is nothing but a footnote in front of the power of words."

Robert’s eyes glinted with irritation as his voice rose. "Footnote, you say? Without alchemy, you wouldn’t even have the ink to write your precious words! Power lies in what can be proven, not what can only be imagined."

Harry slammed his hand on the desk, the script fluttering from the force. "Imagination is what drives men to discover in the first place! Without dreams, who would even think to search for your so-called truths?"

The two leaned toward each other, faces tense, sparks practically leaping between them. Lucen watched them in amusement. The debate continued for a while until Lucen stopped it.

"As much as I like to hear more about why your side is better than the other, how about we end this debate here and continue with our talk?"

"As you wish, I was not the one who started this senseless debate in the first place," Harry spoke with a shrug.

"Huh? The second you said that the written word was better than alchemy was the start of the debate!" Robert retorted that his mana started emanating outward.

"Oh, what’s this? Is the mage finally going to use force to prove his point? How unexpected... Not really, it’s a cliché that barbarians who can’t win arguments use," Harry shook his head.

Robert was already grinding his teeth in anger and was about to rebuke, but Lucen spoke first.

"Enough, you two. Both sides have merit; let’s leave it at that. Now, about the play I want to show. As you may have already heard, the Marquess Halbrecht gave me a nearly unlimited budget to create this play. How about it? Do you want to help me create a play that will be remembered forever?"

Harry straightened, eyes shining. "Of course. I would be honored."

"Good. Then I’ll speak with the theater’s owner about arrangements—"

Harry waved dismissively. "No need. I’m not just the playwright here. I own this theater troupe as well."

Lucen blinked, then let out a small laugh. "Well. That’s convenient." He rose from his seat, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Very well then. Let’s get started."

’Time to change the world while getting some coin from it.’