104. Romantic Dreams and Romance
104. Romantic Dreams and Romance
To react to the provocation, I first needed to examine exactly what kind of provocation it was.
I squeezed my eyes shut and opened the newspaper again.
Ah. I couldn’t see with my eyes closed.
Correction.
I barely managed to open my eyes and looked at the paper.
- A passable narrative and excellent supporting characters. But an awkward lead, laughable glorification of the supporting cast, and a charmless villain ruin it all. In the end, I set down my utensils at the crude attempt to mask the meat's flavor with sauce.
It was a review of Liam Walker, and at the very least I could tell this person knew nothing about film.
Shouldn't I accept criticism humbly?
No matter how humble a person should be, that doesn't mean you have to be so suggestible you let yourself get gaslit.
When someone is the only one trashing a work everyone else is praising, the normal train of thought is to assume that person is the problem.
In other words, that person simply disliked me.
As I'd suspected, when I looked into the critic's background, he was a jury member for the Parma Film Festival.
That gathering of conservative old men who hate blockbusters and adrenaline, in other words.
One thing puzzled me, though: why were guys who hadn't acted this way about the first film suddenly doing it with the second?
Could giving me an award for the first one have wounded their pride that badly?
Or had they gone senile in the meantime and forgotten that Leon was participating in this film?
Just as I was wondering if these old men had grown tired of living, I reread the review and grasped the situation.
'So what they learned with age wasn't wisdom, but political games.'
Unfortunately, he wasn't senile.
On the contrary, he was working his brain quite shrewdly.
Looking closely, the review had cleverly given the imperial side an out.
- Excellent supporting performances.
In short, that meant Leon had acted well.
- A passable narrative,
This gave the public an excuse to accept that Nikolai’s script was decent.
- But a wooden lead, laughable shilling of the supporting cast, and a charmless villain squander it all.
These referred to Liam, Colson, and Morse, and he said it knowing all the actors who played them were of common birth.
Lastly—
I set down my utensils at the crude attempt to mask the taste of meat with sauce.
That was trashing my direction.
He was taking a shot at the final Gunblade sequence, calling it the sort of sensationalist direction I often use.
Why these people disliked me this much, I didn't know myself.
Maybe they'd only encountered my exploits through rumors or newspapers and thought I was a madman throwing his family's weight around,
or maybe they were so steeped in elitism they wanted to emphasize that the noble eyes of esteemed critics saw differently from the masses,
Or maybe they hated that an impudent youngster hadn’t slipped any bribes to his industry elders.
Still, seeing them openly discriminate like this while publicly professing not to discriminate against works by genre, I couldn't help but laugh.
'Were they really that bitter about giving me an award last time?'
When the dislike was this blatant, I didn't even feel offended—I just grew detached.
But even if I could stomach them insulting me, I couldn't overlook them insulting the rookie Heroes who had trusted and followed me.
Especially since those bastards thought that being commoners meant they had no one backing them.
'You never know if it's a cat or a lion cub until it takes a bite out of you.'
*
Instead of moving personally, Allen summoned a lion who could immediately tear out the throat of whoever had messed with her cubs.
"Mmm~ Didn't you say last time you didn't need my help?"
It was the Puppet Duchess.
He sat her down beside him—she looked rather pleased for some reason—and explained the situation.
Once the explanation was over, the Puppet Duchess also understood why he was making this request.
"So, you want this handled without your fellow Heroes learning about it, correct, Allen?"
"Yeah. If it's too much trouble for you, I could handle it myself, but then the Emperor might clutch his neck and collapse again. I hear he's been taking blood-pressure potions lately."
"My, how considerate. You’re even worried about Father."
Perhaps because he'd gone too long without blowing something up lately, no wholesome options were surfacing in his mind.
In particular, having been thinking of nothing but heavy machine guns right before this, the option of spraying a minigun at the jury member's house was on the verge of being adopted with a 78% vote.
The one saving grace was that he still retained enough reason to recognize his own state wasn't normal.
And so, judging that things would not be contained if he moved personally, he'd decided to outsource this job.
Pia tapped her fingers as if calculating an estimate, fell into thought for a moment, then spoke again.
"To what extent would you like them dealt with?"
"Don't leave any trace that we were involved, but make sure they understand the message we're sending. Even better if it gives them a good scare."
"All right. I happen to have just the thing. And my compensation?"
"Hmm... good question."
Normally, he would have settled it by offering to sit her on his lap and pat her head, but that would not work here.
Even Allen wasn't sure if he could offer something like that as compensation to the Puppet Duchess.
Nor did he think she would want money.
He couldn't immediately think of anything among his own possessions that she'd want, either.
In the end, Allen passed the decision to her.
"Make an offer."
"My, my. Do you know what might happen if you leave that decision to the Puppet Duchess?"
"Putting on an act for me is useless. I know perfectly well how kind you are."
"...That's so unfair. You always leave me unable to say a word this way."
She lowered her head and muttered, so the last words didn't reach Allen.
The Puppet Duchess raised her head again and, with a bright smile, presented her compensation.
"Then, once the Liam Walker series is finished, may I ask you for a film with me? <Beauty and the Beast>, I mean."
"That?"
The compensation the Puppet Duchess—no, Pia—proposed was enough to baffle him.
Beauty and the Beast.
It was a fairy tale he'd sat her on his lap and read to her back when Pia was at her villa.
A story that hadn't existed in this world, which Allen had painstakingly reconstructed from his memory.
Though the Beast had some rather intense combat scenes, the conclusion was ultimately about the two marrying, transcending appearance and species.
"I can do that if that's what you want... but does that really count as compensation?"
"Of course. If someone offered you a film as payment, you’d accept the job, wouldn’t you, Allen?"
"Well, that is true."
Allen could accept that.
If someone offered to let him make a movie, he was willing to accept pretty much anything short of cutting off a dragon's head.
Pia smiled gently.
"The same goes for me."
"In that case..."
In the end, Allen accepted Pia's proposal.
After the deal was struck and Allen left the office, Pia remained alone and pumped her fist.
Ever since the secret that Pia was the Puppet Duchess had come to light, Allen had oddly stopped protecting her.
Whereas before he had genuinely tried to shield Pia from all threats, lately it felt as though he assumed she'd handle herself and was only going through the motions of protection and leaving her be.
Naturally, this wasn't a particularly pleasant situation for Pia.
She grumbled about it to Zeke.
"Don't you think it's too much?"
Nod.
The slime, lacking vocal cords, gave its reaction through body language instead.
But while Zeke lacked only vocal cords, it did not lack for thoughts.
Outwardly it sympathized enthusiastically with Pia's words, but inside its head, Zeke was sympathizing with Allen.
'She doesn't even need protecting. This is purely her own preference.'
The reason she was grumbling now wasn't really that Allen's treatment had grown neglectful; it was just that she couldn't feel the sense of being protected.
And her reason for proposing Beauty and the Beast as compensation this time was related to that.
'She's my master, but she's really sly.'
It was a slime harboring impious thoughts about its master, but there were no means to read the thoughts of a slime that had no concept of facial expression.
The slime felt grateful for its racial traits, even as it offered its condolences to the jury member whose fate had been sealed for the price of a single film, merely to satisfy Pia's tastes.
*
Morning came to the grand mansion located in the imperial capital.
The mansion's owner, Defoe, was a man called an elder even among Sages.
He was a symbol of effort, overlooked for hundreds of years before finally being recognized for his abilities only in the last few decades.
In the last few decades, how many films had he turned into hits, how many people had he moved?
He now considered himself the very history of cinema.
And if one had to name the greatest of his achievements, it would certainly be ending the era of hero-demon-king stories and ushering in the age of religion and romance.
Violent hero-demon-king tales that merely incited fighting might have been necessary when film had only just appeared in the world, but no longer.
Cinema could no longer be like that.
Naturally, cinema ought to be a thing of refinement, moral instruction, and peace.
And so he had snuffed out the fading hero-versus-demon-king genre and ushered in an era of peace.
In recognition of that achievement, he had received a medal from the Imperial Household and even earned a seat on the judging panel of the Parma Film Festival.
He was proud of everything he had accomplished so far.
But lately, an irksome presence had emerged to trouble him.
Allen Price.
John Armstrong, who had burst onto the scene like a comet, had displeased Defoe from the very start.
Beginning with how he seduced the public with violent works devoid of moral lessons that glorified murder, he was now trying to reignite an era of violence.
For Defoe, it was hardly a difficult deduction that dirty power and capital lurked behind the instant, adversity-free success of his debut.
Naturally, Defoe had not stayed idle.
Using his influence, he had dug into this John character's background, intent on driving him out of the sacred film industry.
But once he discovered that John's true identity was the son of the Guardian Duke, his power alone proved insufficient to expel Allen.
The best he could do was wield his influence to keep Allen's works from winning awards at the festival.
And so, as the ill-fated relationship between Defoe and Allen dragged on, Allen began producing yet another new work.
Magical girls...
They were truly worthless trash, violent beyond measure.
Judging by his lack of respect or sincerity toward an industry veteran, he doubted Nikolai would last.
Yet the ignorant masses, drunk on stimulation, went wild for such lowbrow films and brought a magical-girl craze to the industry.
Another year passed in the midst of this, and then Liam Walker was announced.
Packing the cast and crew full of wet-behind-the-ears children and launching into the film world like that—it was sheer insolence.
Did they think this was some children's playground? Honestly.
Those commoners, who had succeeded without adversity by riding on Allen's power, looked filthy and loathsome in his eyes.
But that was where the problem arose.
According to the rules of the film festival, an award had to be given to those who discovered the most new talent.
This time, even Defoe's influence could not stop it.
Because the other side had a prince as an actor, and wielding his power against that would have made the aftermath difficult to manage.
In the end, he had no choice but to grit his teeth and hand over the Rookie Discovery Award.
'I'll have to change the rules or something. Honestly.'
He scowled as he gulped down his daily morning green-juice.
Normally, the drink made him feel healthier and let him greet the morning with a refreshing smile, but not lately.
Because this entire situation infuriated him.
The ignorant masses who saw no artistic merit and wallowed in violence and stimulation,
the Imperial Household that dared to thrust power into art,
the commoners who styled themselves as heroes without knowing their place,
The Sage who showed no courtesy to his elders in the industry.
and above all, the madman running wild backed by power and capital.
But this grim reality did not take the side of an upright and devoted prophet such as himself.
A prophet was ever solitary and afflicted.
Yet Defoe could never give up.
For in the end, the world was changed by a righteous few, prophets like him.
After emptying the last drop into his mouth, he set off for his next task.
Knock, knock.
Just then, a visitor arrived at his home.
Since he had no prior engagement, he instructed a servant to confirm who had called at this early hour.
Moments later, the servant rushed back, face drained of all color.
"Master! It’s the Tax Collection Bureau!"
"What?!"
Before his panicked mind could even recover from the servant's words, the visitors had already forced their way inside.
The group in black suits kicked the door open and strode straight toward Defoe.
"Are you Mr. Defoe?"
"Th-that... y-yes..."
"We are from Tax Collection Bureau Section 2. A report has been filed regarding an unpaid tax matter, and we would like to briefly inspect the residence. Is that acceptable?"
The word 'no' had nearly risen to the tip of his tongue before he barely forced it back down.
The Tax Collection Bureau was one of the Empire's three institutions that operated beyond the reach of the law.
Because the moment he told these people no, they would simply cut off one of Defoe's arms and conduct a forced search anyway.
(For reference, the other two institutions were the Imperial Guard and the Counterintelligence Department.)
Defoe nodded, cold sweat beading on his skin.
His tongue could not bring itself to voice consent; his opponent was simply far too powerful.
The Tax Collection Bureau Section 2 chief nodded, satisfied, and jerked his chin toward his subordinates.
The black-suited group scattered throughout the mansion as if they had already decided where to search.
*
The search itself was on the courteous side, by their standards.
They damaged no objects, nor did they tear open any walls.
It was limited to opening drawers and meticulously inspecting walls.
Yet despite that polite investigation, Defoe felt his throat burn.
In the Empire, there was a saying.
Not even death can evade taxes in the Empire.
True to those words, death provided no refuge from taxation in the Empire.
Following the dying injunctions of the Empire's First Emperor, the Tax Collection Bureau was vested with every extrajudicial authority, tasked with collecting taxes from evaders no matter what.
Tales of them brazenly marching into a dragon's lair on state land and collecting taxes,
the incident where a drug cartel that had shaken the Empire was annihilated within two hours of failing to pay,
and the story of a noble who evaded taxes for so long that he eventually committed suicide out of desperation, only to be resurrected via necromancy and made to work off his evaded share—all testified vividly to their tax-collecting madness.
It could be said without exaggeration: in the Empire, the Tax Collection Bureau was a natural disaster incarnate.
And now those very people were searching his mansion.
What was more, since Defoe had a guilty conscience, he could easily become the subject of a famous anecdote if things went wrong.
After what felt like an eternity, one hour passed, and the search concluded.
The Tax Collection Bureau took away an amount of gold coins that precisely matched the 'unpaid' taxes.
"It seems there was a misunderstanding in the tax filing process. Thank you for your cooperation."
"Haha, not at all."
Dealing with people who forcibly compelled cooperation when it wasn't given, the word 'cooperation' on their lips felt more like a threat.
Still, what came as a relief to Defoe was that they had classified this incident as a mere non-payment.
The Tax Collection Bureau might have been infamous as the nobles' reaper, but no one disputed the fairness with which it carried out its duties.
They met delinquency with a ruthlessness second to none, yet they remained infinitely lenient toward simple non-payment.
So, while the pile of gold coins was a painful loss, the fact that encountering a natural disaster had cost him only this much could be considered Defoe's heaven-sent fortune.
The chief addressed Defoe in a markedly different tone from when he had arrived.
"I apologize for troubling you so early in the morning."
His sudden shift in demeanor, as if paying taxes had instantly made Defoe an ally, offered a glimpse into their fanaticism.
Afterward, the chief exchanged a few brief words and bade Defoe farewell.
Just as they were shaking hands—a gesture that carried the sentiment 'it was disgusting meeting you, let's never meet again'—and were about to part, the chief glanced behind Defoe.
His gaze fell upon a portrait of Defoe's wife.
As the chief's eyes shifted between the portrait and Defoe and his expression abruptly hardened, the color drained from Defoe's face.
'Could he have figured out there's a secret safe behind the portrait?!'
Inside it was hidden an emergency fund.
And another word for an emergency fund was tax evasion.
Of course, compared to major delinquents, an emergency fund wasn't a huge sum, but evasion was evasion.
As he waited on pins and needles, fearing a death sentence from the chief's lips, words emerged that were different from what he had expected.
"I understand Mr. Defoe's circumstances, but I would advise you not to cross the line too far. This is a message from the Imperial Household."
With that, the chief departed.
Staring at the chief's retreating back, Defoe chewed over his words.
Why suddenly mention a line?
Several minutes passed before he grasped the meaning.
- This is a message from the Imperial Household.
The reason the Tax Collection Bureau had stormed in at the crack of dawn.
He didn't know whether it was because of Leon or because of Allen, but one thing was certain.
- Stay out of it.
It was a warning: cross the line one more time and face the consequences.
He couldn't tell whether the line they spoke of referred to taxes or to films.
But either way, he no longer had the courage to test that line.
Perhaps the experience of teetering on death's doorstep so early in the morning had been a bit too heavy a burden for an old man who had lived several centuries.
Even after they left, the racing in his chest would not calm, and the old man canceled all his engagements that day and went to find a priest.
There was a small incident after that day involving a previously healthy old man living somewhere in the Empire who suddenly needed heart medication, but the truth was that the film industry was growing healthier.