Chapter 23
Chapter 23
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 23
Chapter Title: Dialoghi's Awakening
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"Hehe."
Diana quietly chuckled as she read the reply that had arrived a few days ago.
It covered Phantom's well-being, the challenges he faced in his writing, and all sorts of other trifles.
She murmured softly, her eyes tracing the densely packed words on the paper.
"He has quite a cute side to him."
The letters between them had started sporadically after the cosplay contest.
What began as a joke had now become a source of genuine pleasure.
She'd even made a habit of counting the days until his next reply after finishing her daily routine.
...Of course, she had another purpose entirely in scrutinizing Phantom's letters so closely.
"I thought he was just some sturdy young heir from a martial house, but his writing style is so delicate? Is he good at playwriting because he's a man who writes such pretty handwriting?"
The playwright's letter was penned in a neat, rounded, yet meticulous script.
Diana narrowed her lilac eyes, poring over every single word.
Those who primarily trained in martial arts tended to neglect the finer details of literature.
Even the imperial knights didn't bother prettifying their handwriting as long as it was legible, right?
Taking that into account narrowed the pool of candidates for the great author Phantom even further.
A first- or second-year student who trained so earnestly in the sword that calluses scarred his palms, yet wrote with such elegant prose that his identity could potentially be pinpointed.
"I'm glad you're feeling better, Your Highness. Weren't you a bit down in the dumps because of that bombshell news stirring up the capital?"
Her ever-reliable aide, who always delivered the letters, asked cautiously from her side.
Diana set the letter down on the table with a sly, mocking smile.
"Down in the dumps? That's an exaggeration. I'd call it 'slightly annoyed,' Franz."
"Is that so? From what I saw, your mood seemed quite foul at the time..."
"Hush."
"Yes, ma'am."
Diana had once again cheekily shut down her aide's mouth.
Her mind flashed back to the newspaper headline one of her subordinates had brought her recently.
The massive article about Saintess Beatrice nominating the great author Phantom as a candidate for 'Hero of the Pen.'
Of course, whom the saintess nominated as a hero candidate was none of her business.
Scouting potential heroes was a privilege reserved exclusively for high-ranking Papal Court officials.
Still, the fact that her pick was the playwright Phantom—the special man she herself hadn't fully claimed yet—left a subtly unpleasant aftertaste.
'When was the last time I felt like this?'
It was a strange yet somehow familiar emotion.
After pondering for a while, Diana finally recalled its origin.
Back in her immature childhood, when she'd reluctantly handed her favorite doll to her newborn little brother.
It was that sense of deprivation she hadn't felt since growing up—the feeling of someone brazenly taking what she wanted.
"Hmph."
Saintess Beatrice, huh.
That day, Princess Diana inexplicably took a dislike to the saintess.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ "Alright! That's a wrap!"
I wiped the sweat from my forehead with a sigh of relief as I set down the first draft I'd pieced together in stolen moments over the past few days.
The reason I'd chosen Socrates for a lese drama was simple.
His disciple Plato had recorded his master's life and philosophical musings in dialogue form—widely regarded in literary circles as the origin of the lese drama genre.
'Socrates never left behind any writings of his own anyway.'
He believed relying on writing dulled the mind and quick wits.
He thought that the moment words were committed to paper, their situational context vanished, stripping away their true meaning.
Thus, Socrates' deeds and ideas could only be preserved through his disciples.
Known as the Dialoghi.
Verbatim records of his exchanges with countless notables of the era, formatted in a style strikingly similar to dramatic literature.
"Give it a read first, Morris. I'll revise it more before publishing."
"Oh? Another ancient setting like Julius Caesar? Athens, the democratic city-state, and primitive polytheism mistaking spirits for gods."
"Yeah, something like that."
I'd adapted uncomfortable elements for this world's people as much as possible, glossing over the rest as 'ancient customs.'
Socrates was a philosopher born in Athens who lived to reform it.
Without that democratic, polytheistic backdrop, his essence couldn't be captured.
Like the opening scene of the Dialoghi, for instance.
"Whoa! The intro's pretty intriguing, Balthazar?"
Morris's eyes sparkled as he flipped through the pages.
He shot me a sidelong glance and probed slyly.
"He gets an oracle from the Delphic Temple saying no one in Athens is wiser than the protagonist Socrates? Heh heh, is this hero a strategic genius who outsmarts his enemies?"
"Who knows."
I wasn't big on philosophy, but I'd read and reread Socrates' records out of pure fascination.
Unlike dry, stodgy philosophy tomes, Plato's works read like a gripping play.
...Even so, reproducing all 25 of Plato's dialogues verbatim was impossible.
'Philosophy texts hold profound, subtle depths in their own right.'
I wasn't Plato himself, let alone a professional philosopher.
So cramming in 100% of the records or perfectly reviving them was out of the question.
Instead of straightforward plagiarism, I chose a better alternative.
A dramatic recreation of the great man Socrates, as remembered and admired by my past life's self, 'Ha Eun-seong.'
"...Hey. Is this really it? The whole thing?"
My ball-sac buddy asked after flipping through for a while.
"Why? Not your cup of tea?"
"No, it's not that, but... how to put it..."
Morris fiddled with his jaw, struggling for words.
After much deliberation, he finally spoke.
"It's so ambiguous. Just people trading Q&A, and the protagonist nitpicking the whole time. Anyone could poke holes like that—who couldn't claim to know something properly?"
"Exactly. That's the point from the start."
"Huh?"
My reconstructed Dialoghi was closer to an edifying lecture than a play.
I'd selected early dialogues that best captured the master's living essence.
Weaving them into a single story like warp and weft.
While liberally using narration to add footnotes on his philosophy and character for better understanding.
And Socrates' philosophy didn't peddle specific 'doctrines.'
If anything, it was about prompting others to 'philosophize for themselves.'
"Read to the end and mull over the Socratic dialogues yourself. Something else will click."
Socrates never claimed to assert anything.
He never said he possessed knowledge or intended to teach.
What he pursued was the wisdom of ignorance.
The only truth he consistently preached was 'I know that I know nothing.'
It was all about guiding listeners away from superficial, subjective 'wisdom' toward genuine knowledge.
"Tch. Fine, got it."
Morris quirked his lip at my vague reply.
"I'll finish it anyway. It's a script by you, Balthazar, of all people."
And so, page after page.
Morris quietly devoured it, turning chapters steadily.
And as the content progressed...
"Hmm..."
His initially dissatisfied expression began to soften.
The debate with Protagoras, who proclaimed man as the measure of all things.
With Gorgias, who asserted the vanity of all existence.
With Charmides on the true meaning of temperance.
With Laches exploring the nature of courage.
With Euthyphro on the essence of piety...
...Culminating in the trial and death: Apology of Socrates, Crito, and Phaedo.
Thud!
"..."
Having finished, Morris closed the script and propped his chin.
He struck a pose reminiscent of Rodin's The Thinker, lost in deep contemplation.
I stretched languidly, set down my pen, and flopped onto the bed.
"Yawwn. It's late. If you're done, let's crash."
From dredging up knowledge to condensing it into writing...
The energy I'd poured into this rivaled three full scripts, easy.
"Hey. I'm sleeping, you coming or what? Morris, dude?"
"..."
Even as I set the alarm and killed the lights, Morris didn't budge.
Unusually solemn, but I shrugged it off.
'He'll conk out when fatigue hits.'
With that, I buried my head in the pillow and sank into sweet slumber for the first time in ages.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ Riiing-!!
"Urgh... sleepy..."
The alarm blared noisily, signaling the night had passed.
I forced my eyes open as usual and gazed at the faint dawn creeping through the window.
Then I spotted it.
...Morris, still seated in the exact same position all night, locked in self-reflection.
"Yo, Morris? Did you seriously pull an all-nighter?"
"Ah, you're awake, my dear friend Balthazar."
My question came out utterly baffled.
Morris slowly unfolded his thinker pose and turned to me.
"It suddenly hit me. Have I, as a noble, the second son of the Marquis de Lavalle, Julian's lover, and a man, truly pursued virtue rightly?"
"Uh, what?"
"My eyes have been opened anew. True human value lies not in externals or material things, but in the beauty of the soul within. Thus, striving to cultivate a better soul is the mission for the rest of my youth."
His face beamed like a sage who'd grasped some profound truth.
Dark circles be damned, his eyes sparkled like stars as he declared.
"Thanks to you, I've realized how ignorant I was. Thank you, Balthazar—my noblest, most just, and above all, wisest friend."
Morris recited a line straight from Plato's Phaedo.
The Dialoghi had clearly worked its magic on his thought process.
As the author, I had only one response.
"Did you eat some bad drugs or something?"
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ ...Surprisingly, Morris wasn't the only one who'd OD'd on weird stuff.
Two days after leveraging my friend's connections to rush Dialoghi into print.
Professor Prunel Rabije of Imperial Political History started class on time as always, then abruptly declared.
"Today, I, Prunel Rabije, have something to confess to you all."
"Confess?"
"Out of nowhere?"
The students buzzed in confusion.
It was the first time the usually strict, rigid Professor Prunel had acted this way.
Undeterred, he let out a watery sigh and addressed us.
"All my life, I've believed without doubt that I was wise and brilliant. Thus, I looked down on others easily and never questioned my own excellence. I was the epitome of an arrogant self-proclaimed intellectual."
Yeah, I knew that much.
Separate from his stellar achievements in his field, Prunel was infamous at Brond Academy as a know-it-all boomer.
But why bring it up now?
"Yet this one book expanded my narrow mind, chastised my folly, and remade me anew!"
With that heartfelt reflection, he pulled out...
"Gah?!"
...Shockingly, the first edition of Dialoghi, featuring a bald philosopher prominently on the cover.