Chapter 1
Chapter 1
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 1
Chapter Title: Plagiarizing Biographies of Great Men to Become a Playwright
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When people don't like a story in a work, they leave malicious comments.
Criticism that can be a lengthy takedown or just a light jab.
And in those cases, one of the responses you'll get nine times out of ten is this:
"If you don't like it, write it yourself."
That was exactly the situation I was in right now.
"These fu..."
Balthazar Arture.
My name in my past life was Ha Eun-seong.
The youngest son of the prestigious martial noble house of Arture, and a second-year at the academy, I was trembling with rage alone, holding a reply from one of the capital's famous theater troupes.
Twenty years had passed since I died in an accident at the ripe age of thirty and reincarnated into this other world.
I'd never once complained about the new life I'd been given here.
Born into a wealthy noble family, I'd never known material want.
And as the pampered youngest, I was never entangled in the family's complicated political affairs.
But that was only true until today.
I'd sent a complaint letter as an anonymous noble's son, as politely as possible.
And their reply was basically on the level of "If you don't like it, write it yourself?"
"These bastards really know how to piss a guy off."
My greatest hobby in my past life as Ha Eun-seong was watching movies and dramas.
I absolutely loved visual media that delivered fresh experiences through the fusion of acting and direction.
And in this medieval fantasy other world, the equivalent of movies and dramas was theater.
Naturally, whenever I had some pocket money to spare, I'd treat my friends to shows at theaters around town.
But that only lasted a day or two.
'Your scripts are fucking trash, you wall-hanging amateurs!'
I wasn't talking about the direction or the actors' performances. Those were actually on par with modern works, if not better.
The actors made their living purely on talent, so in some ways, they delivered more vivid method acting than modern stars.
And in a world where magic and sorcery breathed life, their stage effects were sometimes so masterful they could pass for CG.
But the scripts? The exact opposite.
So stale they bordered on archaic, recycling the same old patterns like beef bone soup boiled ten or twenty times over.
Plots that were one-trick ponies riding on blind faith like "The Lord will sort it all out."
Or endless political satire with no fun or emotion to be found.
Every theater I went to hammered the same nail into my brain until I was on the verge of exploding.
In vulgar terms, total snoozefest. No flavor even if you choked it down.
So I politely suggested they try some fresh stories—not threatening them with a knife or anything—and asked why every play they put on was so formulaic. And they bitched me out like dogs.
"Balthazar. Got a reply?"
The voice of the man approaching from behind as I fumed alone.
My best friend since childhood, Morris.
Compared to our moderately wealthy house, Morris's family was one of the capital's renowned noble houses.
His father was even my father's direct superior, so we'd been close since we were kids.
He peeked over my shoulder at the letter and spoke.
"I told you. What'd you expect? They're not gonna take criticism from some outsider seriously."
"Even so!"
Crumple! I balled up the letter, channeling the resentment of all theatergoers, and vented my frustration.
"Doesn't it get boring for you? The same damn stories repeating at the theater every day?"
"Not really? The story's not that important to begin with. As long as it's flashy eye candy, I'm good."
"Argh!"
I pounded my innocent chest at my infuriating friend's words.
In playwriting, a solid scenario is the alpha and omega.
That's why greats like Shakespeare and Goethe were praised as master wits.
But to say the story doesn't matter because magic and tech dazzle the eyes? Unacceptable!
'This is bullshit!'
This world was so fantastically romantic, yet the scripts were hopelessly stagnant.
And even when I pointed out the issues, they plugged their ears and turned away—no room for growth.
That grated on me as a visual media fanatic.
"Fine. 'If you don't like it, write it yourself?'"
Then I'll really write one and mail it back.
C.O.D., no less.
With that resolve, I quickly cleared the papers and books from my desk.
Then I pulled out manuscript paper from the drawer and laid it out in a row.
As a modern man, I'd devoured movies, dramas, and plays galore.
I figured I could whip up something better than this world's garbage stories, no problem.
...But it didn't go so smoothly.
"Damn it."
I admit it. I lack the talent for writing.
More precisely, for crafting stories.
The talents of a viewer and a writer are worlds apart.
I thought it was just talk, but gripping the pen made it real.
Sure, I might've managed a trashy soap opera script.
Those follow such rigid formulas there's even manuals for them.
The problem was the era's constraints throwing up unexpected hurdles.
'Gotta spice it up without straying too far from medieval values...'
Always consider the audience's perspective when writing.
Modern stories flourished because broad thinking was allowed.
In a narrow-minded medieval age, that was tough.
It wouldn't suit the audience, and it'd spark doubts about the playwright's character.
"Sigh."
No sharp ideas forthcoming, I set down the pen and sighed.
'These conditions are too harsh.'
A thrilling biography with solid structure and punch that excites modern tastes, without clashing with this world's stuffy values?
Not even real historical greats had it that easy. Where would such a perfect story...
"...Huh?"
Historical greats' lives?
Suddenly, images flooded my mind.
From my days in modern Korea, biographies of world figures I'd skimmed for culture class.
Scenes of their lives unfolding as a single play, panoramic visions.
"Wait. This could actually work."
Scribble scribble. I muttered as I listed great men from memory.
This world's history isn't real-world history.
Obviously, otherworlders don't know real history.
So I could pass real history off as my creation, no issues.
Plus, I knew exactly how to tweak fixed stories for maximum appeal.
I had the know-how on where to vary, where to adapt for peak fun.
'Remake historical heroes' biographies into plays?'
Mix in some audience-friendly morals to fit medieval theater?
"This'll work!"
"Work what?"
Morris, peeking over my shoulder at the desk.
He yawned lazily and chided me indifferently.
"Vacation's almost over and you're scribbling? You'll have plenty of reports to write when academy starts. Not sick of it?"
"Shut up."
I didn't particularly want to become a playwright in this world.
I was a noble's son who could live cushy without it.
My plan was to idle nobly, chasing modest joys.
But there's one insult no Korean man tolerates: "You suck at this game."
The troupe mocked me like "You? Lower tier than me, giving advice? Lol."
When my tier was actually way higher.
I had to 'retaliate' or I wasn't a Korean man.
"Alright. If I'm writing it, to really crush their egos, I need a cheat key."
Muttering that, I underlined one name on my rough list of great men.
Korea's pride, the holy warrior acknowledged worldwide as an unparalleled general.
The name of Lord Yi Sun-sin.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ Some time later, inside Brond Academy after vacation ended.
"...Goddamn it."
I clutched my forehead, lost in anguish at a campus café.
The reason was simple.
"Those who seek death shall live, those who seek life shall die!"
"I still have twelve ships left to offer the gods! Kyaa!"
"I swear upon my three-span sword: mountains and rivers tremble, one swing sweeps all, blood dyes the land!"
Academy students excitedly spouting Admiral Yi Sun-sin's iconic lines among themselves.
Seniors, juniors, classmates—regardless, everyone who opened their mouth was obsessed with the newly premiered play.
I'd only meant to humble the troupe.
But unexpectedly, the play that eagerly accepted my script became a massive hit.
...A bit too much so.