Chapter 9
Chapter 9
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 9
Chapter Title: Pitching Broadcast Rights
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In the heart of Ispellia's bustling commercial district stood 'Blue Moon'.
This teahouse, usually brimming with the subtle aroma of tea and elegant conversations, was now shrouded in a heavy tension.
The wide hall's tables had all been cleared away, and some twenty men sat encircling a long table in the center.
Each one bore the look of a man who handled serious money—the owners of the capital's most thriving large taverns and restaurants.
"Master BlackStone. Just what monumental words do you have for us that you've summoned us here?"
"We've got evening business to prep for. Need to head back soon."
Murmurs of veiled discontent bubbled up here and there.
It was only natural.
From their perspective,
a fresh-faced young noble had abruptly called in busy folk with promises of striking it rich.
Unable to refuse outright, they sat with sullen expressions, one and all.
"Please calm down, gentlemen. I've borrowed your precious time to repay it manifold in value."
"Value?"
"This."
I pulled the fully edited magic crystal orb from my bag and set it on the table.
"Since you're all busy, straight to the point. I'm selling the broadcast rights to the [Royal Chef Survival] videos I produced."
"Eh..."
Before my words could even finish, the eldest-looking owner of the 'Red Whale' tavern waved dismissively.
"Young master, I heard crowds of gawkers showed up... but how fun can watching folks cook be? Enough to pull drinkers from their mugs?"
"Right? Chefs wielding knives—what's thrilling about that? No smells, no tastes to savor."
As some owners voiced distaste, the rest nodded gravely, dismissing me as a worldly-naive young master.
"Master BlackStone. You nobles wouldn't grasp the lowly life... but drinkers crave pretty dancers swaying or gladiators spilling blood. This? Frankly, it holds no appeal."
Well, I'd foreseen this.
Video media was a scant concept in this world.
Their spectacles topped out at theater or circus, so my pitch rang like grasping at clouds.
But I felt no fluster.
Just picturing those deadpan faces transforming kept my smile fixed.
"A hundred words won't convince like one look. I'll show you."
I snapped my fingers.
"Set it up."
At the cue, waiting servants mobilized.
Whoosh!
A vast white sheet unfurled, blanketing one teahouse wall.
Smooth and glossy, custom-made fabric.
That would play the screen.
Meanwhile, other servants placed a enigmatic black box at the table's heart.
A small front hole fitted with a bulging lens—an odd device.
"Wh-what's all this?"
"Why drape a bedsheet on the wall...?"
As owners buzzed, I rose and approached the central black box.
"Eyes wide, everyone. Watch close. This magic multiplies your shop sales several-fold."
Click.
I gestured; all room lights extinguished.
Thick blackout curtains ensured instant pitch black.
"Huh? What's this!"
"Why kill the lights!"
Owners panicked in murmurs, but I flicked the switch linked to the black box undeterred.
Flash-!
Instantly, a fierce light beam erupted from the box's aperture.
The instant it sliced darkness to strike the facing white sheet...
"Wh-what's that!"
"Gods above...!"
The rowdy owners' jaws dropped.
Overwhelming presence dwarfed palm-sized orb peeking.
Wall-spanning footage immersion—a first-time shock for them.
- "We will now begin the first preliminary round of Royal Chef Survival!"
My brother's voice thundered through the dim teahouse.
The grumblers of moments prior vanished; all sat mute, eyes screen-locked like statues.
I savored the sight with deep satisfaction.
This: magitech's zenith, mana-amplified beam projector!
Basic design—boosted orb brightness, lensed box.
Not crisp, sync slips here and there... yet ample to stun the assembly.
Onscreen, 100 entrants slashing and stir-frying potatoes rivaled a warzone.
Knife clashes merged in torrent; each flame surge flickered the dark room bright.
"That's... cooking?"
Arm-crossed, slouched owners leaned forward bit by bit.
Deep immersion.
Then the frame shifted, Sir James's face dominating the screen.
- "You plan to feed that floor-dropped potato to the judges?!"
James's fiery rage hurled a toque; one owner startled into hiccups.
- "Out—now!"
Vicious barbs.
Tear-streaked drag-outs.
Amid chaos, dazzling dish spectacles bloomed.
Owners fully ensnared, unblinking, video-mesmerized.
Natural enough.
My two-night edit crammed peak thrills—this trailer sizzled.
K-variety's spicy kick.
And climax:
Meylin's moment.
- "What is this?"
- "Potatoes!"
Screen brimmed: Meylin's rags, charred potato lump.
"Serving that slop?"
"That kid... what could she cook?"
"Obvious flop!"
All concurred—till Meylin forked the lump.
And...
Crack!
My painstakingly perfected crunch resounded through the teahouse.
Golden innards burst free; steam clouds billowed, screen-filling.
Vivid as savory potato scent bleeding into reality.
The toil for this shot!
"...Gulp."
Worth it—owners swallowed as one.
Sir James's eyes bulged, potato bite incoming!
Click.
I ruthlessly powered down the orb.
Light died; darkness reclaimed.
"......"
Silence hung...
"N-no!!"
"Young master! Cutting here?!"
"Just a tad more... Sir James's verdict! Please!"
Servants snapped alert, chairs scraping in frenzy.
In the din, I lit the room leisurely, clapped sharp—spotlight seized.
Lit faces transformed utterly.
Raw curiosity, thrill... greed.
"Customers still skip this?"
I grinned at their stares.
"Ahem, well... more fun than thought, young master."
"Itching for the rest?"
"Naturally! Th-that final girl—passed? Spoil it?"
The cue awaited.
Hook set firm.
I thumped the contract down beaming.
"Curious? Buy."
Silence blanketed the teahouse.
'Shop this... curiosity drags 'em in.'
'Drinks enhanced. Matching potato bites? Irresistible.'
Thoughts crystal.
Merchants scent value.
Eyes wheeling—haggling primed.
"So... price?"
I thrust three fingers boldly.
"Rights plus screen install interiors. Total... 300 gold."
"Wh-what?!"
"Steep, young master! Novelty aside, that for videos?!"
"Aye! 100 gold maybe... that fortune on demand?!"
Outcries everywhere.
Some poised to bolt.
Even top owners... 300 gold hefty.
Past-life math: ~600 chickens.
"Too dear? Skip it. No arm-twist."
As bidden, some wheeled for doors.
I let 'em.
Just appended one barb.
"But note: rivals play this dawn to dusk."
"......!"
Owners blanched as one.