The Second Choice

Following Marie’s introduction, the pleasant dinner carried on in high spirits.

With a little liquid courage coursing through their veins, the twelve men and women gradually shed their initial awkwardness. Conversations flowed freely, and the tension in the dining hall melted away into easy laughter. Nothing breathed life into a gathering of young suitors quite like a touch of alcohol.

Once the drinks started flowing, the dark horses made their move.

Lucas, whom everyone had written off as handsome background decoration, emerged as an unexpected mood-maker with his arsenal of deadpan witticisms and harmless quips. Chloe, meanwhile, charmed viewers with her eccentric, delightfully offbeat way of speaking. Both were already forging fierce personal followings.

"Ahahaha! Oh, Male Three is hilarious! I don't think I've laughed this hard in my entire life!"

Watching the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠female contestants dissolve into breathless giggles, Lucas's profile shot straight through the ceiling. A man who could make people laugh was always surprisingly popular, and the ability to hold an effortless, entertaining conversation was a formidable talent. To top it all off, the man was undeniably handsome.

Enchanted, the viewers could not tear their eyes from the screen as the twelve singles engaged in such candid, unvarnished banter. Even I felt myself getting swept up in that intoxicating youthful energy. Nobles and commoners sat side by side, conversing without hesitation, trading jabs, and swapping jokes without a single thought spared for rank.

I watched the scene unfold with deep satisfaction.

All men are created equal?

Hardly. Even back on Earth, that was an empty platitude.

Yet the spectacle unfolding before me proved that nobles and commoners were, at their core, the exact same species. When sitting down to share a warm meal or chasing romance, their lives were fundamentally identical. I had no intention of abolishing the Empire's caste system overnight—that would trigger a societal collapse far too violent and abrupt to manage. Still, my desire to see nobles and commoners strip away their mutual prejudices and grow closer was entirely genuine.

The Hundred Years' War had inflicted terrible scars, but paradoxically, it had cracked open an unprecedented opportunity to tear down the walls between classes. Through modern broadcasting, I was exploiting that opening to the absolute fullest.

Life was simply better when everyone got along, wasn't it?

The bulletin boards across the Forest of the Empire were already drowning beneath an avalanche of smitten viewers.

Wild theories, breathless arguments, and now hymns of praise directed straight at my administration flooded the boards. A smirk tugged at the corner of my lips.

"Having fun, you bastards? Just wait. It only gets better from here."

Right on cue, the producing director's voice crackled through the living room speakers.

"Did everyone enjoy their dinner?"

"Yes! Female Six's cooking was magnificent!" Drexler chimed in without hesitation. "I can hardly believe this is merely a hobby!"

He lavished praise upon Marie as if he had been waiting all evening for his cue. Instantly, the community boards caught fire once more.

Through a leap of collective deduction, Marie—an ordinary inn employee—was crowned the refined daughter of an imperial culinary lineage. Even better, behind the veil of anonymity, nobles and commoners stripped off their titles to banter like old friends.

As I observed these deepening misunderstandings with fond amusement, the producing director's voice echoed through the broadcast once more.

"Now that your meal is complete, it is time for the final mission of Day One."

The contestants stiffened, a ripple of nervous tension straightening their backs.

"Trusting that you have all engaged in fruitful conversation, we will now proceed with your second mission: the female contestants' First Impression Selection!"

The women gasped, voicing their objections almost as one.

"What? But the entire day has already passed! How ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠can this still be a first impression?!"

"Because it is the very first selection you will be making, it counts as a first impression. Because I say so."

The producing director's unabashed audacity drew uproarious laughter from the studio panelists.

"However, this mission will be conducted a little differently from the men's daytime selection."

Following the prompt, a magical display pedestal rose smoothly from the center of the living room table. Resting upon its surface were six polished wooden boxes, each bearing an engraved numeral from one through six.

"Please approach the numbered box corresponding to the male contestant who has captured your interest, and secretly place a single personal item currently in your possession inside."

Listening to the rules, Madame Verna’s eyes gleamed behind her fluttering fan.

"Oh my! An object instead of a letter? Then they won't even know for certain who chose them!"

"Naturally, the identity of the woman who selected each box will remain strictly confidential," the producing director clarified. "The male contestants must deduce who chose them using only the clues provided by the object itself."

While the contestants remained completely in the dark, our cameras would capture every step of the process and lay it bare for the audience. Classic information asymmetry between contestants and viewers—a variety television staple.

As if plucking the exact thought from my mind, Aedus leaned toward his studio camera and bellowed theatrically.

"Worry not for a single moment, ladies and gentlemen! Because we will know exactly who put what where! Hahahahaha!"

From their omniscient perch, viewers would watch the men grasp at straws and make catastrophic deductions, screaming in delightful agony at their screens: No, you idiot! That's not hers!

The women retreated to their private chambers, combing through their belongings for the item that best represented them. One traced the crystal stopper of a perfume bottle; another smoothed the folds of an embroidered handkerchief; another turned a delicate silver hairpin between her fingers.

Gradually, the screen dimmed to black.

With that final caption, the closing credits of Episode 1 began to roll. But before the audience could mourn the episode's conclusion, the rapid-fire preview for Episode 2 slammed into the screen like a gale.

The teaser flashed across the display.

Nervous male contestants tentatively lifted the lids of their designated boxes.

A contestant stared down in pure dismay, clutching a mysterious trinket:

"What is this?! The owner of this item isn't [BEEP]?! What happens if I guess wrong?!"

A silhouette hopped up and down in sheer ecstasy:

"Yes! Ha! I knew it belonged to [BEEP]! I nailed ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it!!"

And finally, the post-credits stinger.

A male contestant—his face heavily blurred by magical distortion—slammed his forehead against the wooden table as he peered into a dead-empty box.

"Haah... I really thought I'd get at least one vote..."

With that whirlwind preview, the broadcast concluded. Across the continent, the night burned crimson with dopamine.

In the hours following the premiere, the Forest of the Empire practically ruptured at the seams.

Overloaded mana circuits burned cherry-red from the unprecedented traffic surge, forcing refrigeration mages to cast frost spells around the clock just to prevent the network cores from melting down. In taverns across the capital, patrons argued into the early morning hours over the backgrounds and psychology of the Signal House contestants.

Over at the Golden Crest Merchant Troupe, their newly launched magic space heaters sold out across every provincial branch before the episode had even finished airing. The merchant guildmaster was so overcome that he arrived at the IBS studio lobby at two in the morning, weeping tears of profound gratitude and bowing repeatedly to the marble floor.

Yet the most astonishing spectacle unfolded the next morning inside the imperial palace.

"Lord Prime Minister. I require your authorization for the supplementary budget regarding the southern monster subjugation... Ah, Your Grace. If I might ask a small personal question..."

The Minister of Finance, a man notorious throughout the bureaucracy for his penny-pinching rigor, pushed the document toward me while casting wary glances in every direction. Leaning in close, he whispered beneath his breath.

"That, ah... the perfume bottle in the preview. That belonged to Female One, didn't it? And the box belonged to Male One, correct?"

"...Lord Minister. Did you bring vital state paperwork to my desk merely to fish for dating show spoilers?"

"No, well! My wife was so consumed by curiosity that she couldn't sleep a wink, driving me half mad! A-And has the cast for Season Two been finalized yet? My eldest son is eager to apply..."

I pressed a hand to my brow, letting out a weary sigh. A program so addictive that even the highest dignitaries of the Imperial Family tossed their solemn dignity to the wind. It was absurd, but deeply gratifying.

"Bring me your son's portfolio. Since he takes after you, I assume he's handsome enough. Above all else, striking looks are an absolute requirement."

"Haha! Excellent! Thank you, Your Grace!! But still... haah... how on earth am I supposed to endure an entire week of waiting...?"

I chuckled under my breath. To think this austere gentleman could be reduced to such a state.

"Throw yourself into your work and the days will fly by. Speaking of which, are the monsters in the south truly so numerous that we require a supplementary budget of this scale?"

The Minister of Finance nodded with a grave set to his jaw.

"Yes. You are aware that the Gate to the Demon Realm remains unsealed, correct?"

"Hmm. Didn't the scouts report that demons can no longer cross? Most of their kind were wiped out during the war anyway."

"Demons cannot, but demonic beasts continue to breach the threshold. Word has it that even a Cyclops pushed through the perimeter recently."

"That one-eyed behemoth? Those brutes are exceptionally lethal."

"Indeed, though fortunately, our garrisons suppressed it without suffering a single casualty. Most of the Demon Kings have perished, so the residual beasts no longer possess their former ferocity."

"Is that so...? A Cyclops subdued without a single loss of life?"

A sudden, sharp producer's instinct flickered in my mind.

"Didn't they mention that our forces can also cross over into the Demon Realm from this side?"

"Yes, entirely feasible. In fact, reconnaissance units are deployed beyond the gate on a regular rotation."

"Ah, of course. I remember now. I've been buried under so much paperwork that it slipped my mind."

I turned to the Minister of Finance, a slow grin curving my lips.

"Wouldn't it be quite entertaining to broadcast an expedition like that? It might serve as a bracing wake-up call for citizens who have grown far too complacent."

"Pardon?"

"Barely five years have passed since the end of the Hundred Years' War, yet everyone acts as though peace is eternal."

"You intend to... film the Demon Realm...?"

"Precisely."

The corners of the Minister of Finance’s mouth slowly curled upward into an answering grin. Despite bearing the heavy mantle of the Empire's purse strings, the man was an unrepentant battle fanatic at heart—not to mention a Master-level swordsman who had hacked his way through the war.

"Now that... sounds magnificent."

A Real Action Survival Variety Show—a production impossible to mount back on Earth. A healthy broadcast network thrived on a wide variety of genres.

"Draft a formal plan. Calculate the necessary budget and determine if we can secure capable personnel."

The Minister of Finance beamed, practically vibrating with excitement.

"Yes! Understood!! But... might I ask if I may accompany the expedition as well?"

"And who, pray tell, will manage the treasury while you're hunting beasts?"

"Ah..."

His radiant expression instantly deflated like a pierced waterskin. Good grief, this man was worse than an overgrown child.

"If you can find an adequate proxy to oversee your duties in your absence, perhaps..."

In an instant, the color surged back into his cheeks.

"Truly?! Understood! I require no additional hazard pay whatsoever!! Bwahahahahaha!!"