1. Patronage Should Go to the Nobodies
How dull. The thought struck me out of nowhere as I sat in my armchair, as always, bundled in a blanket and working through another volume of classic literature by the fireplace.
Of course, even I knew it was the height of spoiled indulgence. Had I not had the luck to be born the second son of a noble house, had the house not been wealthy enough for a spare to idle his days away, had our family—unlike most noble houses—not actually gotten along, this kind of pampered whining would have been impossible.
But what was I supposed to do about being bored?
This damned book—I've lost count of how many times I've read it.
Calling it "classic literature" flattered it; these works were closer to memoirs, or outright philosophy tracts, than novels. Stories you couldn't even follow without a grounding in philosophy, mathematics, and magic.
They had their own charm, I'll grant that, but set against my life before reincarnation—steeped in internet communities, every video platform imaginable, endless games and comics—the entertainment on offer here fell short. Far, far too short.
Setting the books aside, my options amounted to spectating magic and duels, enjoying fine dining, and attending the occasional ball.
What these all had in common was that, unlike a smartphone or the internet, I couldn't enjoy them whenever the mood struck—and above all, they were starved of dopamine.
Duels were the one thing that got the dopamine flowing, and I couldn't even watch those often. The family knights sparred on a regular schedule, certainly, but combat training that resembled actual fighting and a staged spectacle of flashy magic and swordsmanship were two entirely different animals. The difference between a street brawl and professional wrestling, I suppose.
In the end, save for those special amusements—duels, fine dining, balls—most of my time went to aimless strolls, sleeping, and reading. My older brother was so absurdly competent that the spare squandering his life caused no problems whatsoever. Long live my brother.
Only, even that had palled by now. Perhaps it had palled a long time ago.
Seriously, though. What am I supposed to do with myself?
It might have been cured if I'd simply never known my past life. Having already tasted the amusements of that other world, this one couldn't help but feel that much duller by comparison.
My motivation gone in an instant, I put back the book I'd pulled out to read and turned my head with a sigh.
"Claire."
"Yes, young master."
"Isn't there something new I could take up? Something that wouldn't look like a challenge to my brother's standing, and wouldn't make Father furrow his brow either."
"Perhaps some form of mana training..."
"Is that really something to suggest to me, the officially certified no-talent as acknowledged by both Father and my brother?"
"A slip of the tongue. My sincerest apologies."
"If they were sincere, you'd have managed to hold in that laugh."
"I'm sorr...pfft."
So this was what years of serving as my guard since childhood had bought us—she was laughing at me openly now.
The sheer gall of mocking one's own master was impressive, but she was still my bodyguard, so I let it slide. Absolutely not because a fight with Claire would end in my unconditional defeat. And not because childhood memories of her tormenting me in exactly this fashion piled up too high, either.
I simply kept staring at her, curious how long the laughing would last, and before long she cleared her throat and offered another idea.
"Then how about securing some new books? The owner of the shop you frequent has, in fact, been dropping hints that a fresh shipment has arrived."
"I'm over books. They'll all be more or less the same anyway. Above all, I wouldn't say I even like reading—I only did it because there was nothing else to do."
"If the Lord of the house heard that—him, so delighted that you were cultivating literary refinement—he would surely shed tears, my lord."
"I know perfectly well Father isn't the type. Quit the weird sympathy-baiting routine."
"A pity. It was worth a try."
"Anyway, anything at all—suggest something else. You're practically a retainer of this house yourself, and of quasi-noble standing at that. Surely you've had some cultural pursuits of your own?"
"Are you expecting refinement from me at this very moment? This may come across as a touch rude, but do you genuinely believe I possess anything of the sort?"
"It's less expectation and more a drowning man clutching at a rotten rope, just in case it holds."
"Hmm..."
With what she herself would concede was a modest intellect, Claire applied herself to the problem in earnest. Whether she was genuinely pondering or merely pantomiming thought, I couldn't tell, but I waited. Frittering away time on this pointless banter with Claire was, after all, far more entertaining than reading.
Unexpectedly, however, she soon produced a new answer. A fairly decent one, at that.
"Then how about patronage?"
"Patronage? Patronizing what, exactly?"
It wasn't as though I were some viewer fawning over streamers or internet broadcasts—what was there for me to patronize?
Despite the rather curt response, Claire answered with a smile.
"I'm told that among the capital's nobility, patronizing famous painters and sculptors has lately become the fashion. Perhaps the young master might follow the trend for once and try showering someone with money?"
"There's a barb buried somewhere in that, isn't there?"
"Frankly, from where I stand as a knight, spending money on unproductive paintings and sculptures that do nothing for the running of the domain—it looks precisely as I have described."
"...So you quietly dislike art, I see."
"In any case, since it is the capital's fashion, perhaps you might ask the young lady for the details? She is enrolled at the Academy now, after all."
"I hate writing letters to my sister, and I hate going anywhere near the Academy even more. Motion denied."
"And yet I recall a certain young master once shedding tears, confessing that truthfully, he had wanted to attend the Academy as well..."
"Let's forget that one, hmm? Please, forget it forever."
Claire's memory for precisely these sorts of details was truly something to resent. But what could I do? Unlike my sister, I had neither mana nor talent—I didn't even qualify to apply. An Academy that refused the talentless held no appeal for me regardless. Anyway. That's how it was.
The truth was that I had been the only one disappointed. From the standpoint of my father, a provincial lord, sending a spare like me to the Academy had been a burden, so he hadn't taken it too hard. Something about minding royal sensibilities and sending just one child from the family?
My brother? Naturally, he never went. As the heir he had to learn the affairs of the domain and earn the retainers' recognition—Academy, what Academy?
Which is why, in any case, I had never once left this domain. Never mind the Academy; I'd never even set foot in the capital.
...Hm? Hold on just a moment.
"Wait—how do you know what's fashionable among the capital's nobles?"
"Because I visited on leave recently, of course."
"Your own master has never seen the capital, and you went first?"
"Yes."
"You could have at least asked to go together!"
"What employee anywhere in this world spends their vacation with their boss?"
Claire wore a genuinely baffled expression, as if the very question were absurd. Come to think of it, fair. I wouldn't do it either.
More of this would only leave my jaw aching and my stomach knotted, so I let the matter drop. Man, I want to go to the capital too.
...Incidentally, this patronage business sounded better than I'd expected. Donations to streamers were one thing, but patronizing artists actually carried a certain class to it.
"So how exactly does one go about this patronage?"
"While it cannot rival the capital, this city is still counted among the great cities of the East. There will naturally be plenty of artists here—you patronize them and receive their works in return."
"Not bad. Father likely wouldn't call it wasted money, either."
"Understood. I shall compile a complete list of the domain's renowned artists at once."
"No—actually, no."
"Yes?"
"The famous ones would already be bankrolled by half the nobility, or else far too high on their horses to bother, wouldn't they?"
"They... would be."
"Then where's the reaction in that? They'd need, at minimum, to be spinning mid-air somersaults the instant the money lands."
"You cannot manage a somersault yourself, young master."
"Which is precisely why I'm saying I'll have to watch someone else do it."
Having burned through a respectable share of part-time wages on streamer donations in my previous life, I could state this with total confidence. In hindsight, those were days of perfectly senseless spending—but for once, the experience was proving useful.
Patronizing an already established artist and collecting their finished works would make a fine pastime in its own right, but the truth was that I had little real interest in the artworks themselves. To me, the artist's reaction mattered far more than the piece.
And the poorer the artist, the less renowned—the more of a nobody—the grander the reaction such patronage would draw.
"Find me one street artist who looks suitably hard up. Just one will do."
"Anyone at all? Surely you will still want to see their work in person?"
"It's a first patronage, so whatever. I'll only give what my allowance can spare without hurting. And the reaction matters more than the artwork anyway."
"Understood. I shall search according to your stated conditions."
Excellent. Now then—time to settle on my persona as a patron.
A stranger who happens upon a painting while walking and glimpses its promise? No, no—let's say a devoted fan from the start.
This kind of granular backstory was the heart of any good story. Patronage built on narrative struck home far harder than mindless cash ever could.
Opening with a huge sum is one option, but easing the amounts upward has its own charm. Blow a fortune on the first gift, and the threshold for their reactions afterward only falls.
Sponsor a starving artist, and the dreamer with grand ambitions who couldn't even afford his next meal would be moved to tears, serving up reaction after reaction.
Just imagining the development had dopamine flooding through me. I could hardly wait...!!
"We were refused."
"...You're joking."
"'Money that carries no sincerity behind it will be declined,' was the answer. I offered not only our family's name but yours as well, young master—declined on the spot."
"........"
Try patronizing an artist.
Failed at the very first step.