14. Recruiting the Hero's Party
14. Recruiting the Hero's Party
Four days had passed since the duel.
"Now it's time to save the Sage."
"What?"
"We're in the Hero Department, so we've got to form a Hero party. I've already secured a wizard, so now we need a Sage, don't we?"
At Allen's sudden declaration, Leon's head sprouted a question mark.
It took him about three seconds to understand what Allen meant.
Since Allen spouting nonsense was nothing new, he quickly grasped the meaning.
"You're trying to shoot a movie at the academy?"
"Bingo."
A Sanctuary? YES
Actors? YES
Capital? YES
Demand? YES
This was a film angle. Absolutely an angle.
Leon could never get used to Allen's obsession with filmmaking, an obsession that occupied 50 percent of his thoughts—no, if you excluded physiological functions, over 80 percent.
"No, even so, the only one who can actually make a movie is a Priest... ah, right."
As the impact of John Armstrong had demonstrated, the medium of film wielded the power to shape public perception.
The state therefore granted exclusive film-production rights to state-appointed clergy, then controlled culture by controlling appointments to the priesthood.
Forming a Hero party, planning a film, contracting with trading companies or magic towers for distribution—all of it fell under the Priest's exclusive authority.
Normally, a mere student couldn't simply decide to make a film.
Normally.
A few years ago, Allen, in recognition of his service in elevating the Empire's prestige by making John Armstrong a blockbuster hit, had been appointed as a Priest.
It had been the pretext to assign him a protection detail, but that didn't make the post an empty shell, so Allen was legally entitled to make films in Sanctuaries.
"And the shooting location?"
"Got one."
Hetairo Academy was fundamentally an institution for training soldiers and other elite professions, but at the same time, it was also a place for training actors.
Of course, a Hero's essence was that of a soldier.
But in an age where the gods had imposed restraints on full-scale warfare, proxy wars through Sanctuaries were a crucial factor in diplomatic dominance between nations.
And as it happened, soldiers, in peacetime, were to a nation nothing more than money-devouring hippos.
So the state tended to dispatch them frequently, telling them to stop gobbling up money at home and go out and earn either diplomatic advantage or, well, something.
Naturally, nations favored Heroes who were useful for propaganda over those who were simply and ignorantly strong.
And this was not limited to Heroes alone.
Magic Tower Apostles, Knight Apostles, Court Wizard Apostles, even civil officials—those useful as performers for propaganda found their personnel evaluations positively affected in reality.
In that respect, it wasn't strange for the academy to rent out sets to students.
Perhaps Hetairo Academy might be the world's greatest military academy and the world's greatest arts and athletics academy at the same time.
Allen brandished a sheet of paper in front of Leon.
It was a club application form.
"The Dean said there's no issue with filming inside the academy. But there's another problem. They can't rent out the sets to an individual. He said something about a criminal, but anyway, he told me I didn't know, so if I made a club and came back, he'd grant permission."
"Aha."
Leon somehow deciphered Allen's crude explanation perfectly.
The Dean probably hadn't meant 'criminal' but 'legal entity.'
The Sanctuaries used as sets could never just be leased out to anyone.
They were sacred grounds that took three or more Archbishop-level figures months of prayer just to barely create.
Loaning such a place to an individual as he pleased was beyond the Dean's authority.
To begin with, the temple had created the Sanctuary at Hetairo Academy for the education of future talents, so even if Allen was the top-ranked student in the Hero Department, it couldn't be rented out so easily.
Therefore, while it was standard practice to film under the name of some organization—a trading company, a religious order—could a mere student readily set up such a thing?
If he established the club as a legal entity, however, there was a possibility.
'Wait. Even making the club wouldn't be the end of it... An advising professor, a sponsor, a priest...'
In the mind of Leon, an excellent administrator, the administrative procedures flashed by rapidly.
As he massaged his brow at the headache-inducing number of steps, he found Allen before him, wearing a sly grin.
"...What?"
"Do it for me."
They had lived together like brothers for over twenty years.
For two people who could read each other's thoughts as easily as flipping over a palm, there was no need for many words.
"No."
"Ah, why not."
"Too much hassle."
"I'll make you a work like the John Series. You enjoyed that, didn't you?"
"..."
During the production of the John Series, it was Leon who had recommended Allen for the priesthood.
When the John Series became a worldwide box office hit, the standing of Leon, its recommender, rose as well.
Thanks to that, a few administrative duties had been added, but even accounting for that, the benefit Leon had reaped was substantial.
In his heart, he weighed his right to sleep against his future approval ratings.
He was still an ambitious young man, and his heart leaned toward the future.
"Ha... Fine. Will I be the sponsor again this time?"
"Yes."
"And I suppose you're the Priest."
"Yep. And the professor in charge of the club will be the instructor I sparred with on entrance day—he said he'd do it. As for the priest, our affiliated temple says they'll find us a suitable priest candidate."
"You did all that in three days? I have to give it to you for sheer drive."
"Heh."
Leon signed the club application form.
"Right. You've secured a priest, a sponsor, and a professor. So what's left is a Sage, a Prophet, and a wizard to handle the filming."
"Karl says he'll do the filming."
"..."
Leon clutched his throbbing forehead.
Seriously. Should I fire that guy from the guard detail?
"My head... Fine. So what about the Sage and the Prophet?"
"I was planning to get them here."
Allen spread out a bundle of papers on the desk.
It didn't take Leon long to recognize that the papers were self-introduction forms from the Faculty of Foresight.
"Hey, where did you get these?"
"After the entrance ceremony, I snuck over and got them from the trash bin next to the faculty office."
"They would've been put through a shredder...?"
"I reconstituted them."
Transmutation was about altering form, not restoring it.
In other words, he meant he'd picked out the pieces one by one, pieced them together, and then used transmutation.
Confronted with a madness that went beyond mere persistence, Leon smacked his forehead.
'To think this lunatic was my sworn friend.'
"You crazy bastard. Keep that up and you'll end up with a red line drawn through your name."
Whenever he spoke with Allen, Leon's dignity crumbled.
"Haha. It was drawn through my name a long time ago. Now even if the red lines multiply, no one would notice."
Leaving Leon to clutch his forehead and mutter, Allen began rifling through the self-introduction forms from the Faculty of Foresight.
The Faculty of Foresight was where Prophets were trained.
The methods of prophecy were diverse.
Whether it meant inferring the future through history, using foresight magic, or practicing astrology.
The faculty trained people to predict the future by whatever method suited them.
And another name for the Faculty of Foresight was the Ink Department.
A faculty that reeked of ink more strongly than the Political Science Department, where twenty out of every twenty-four hours were spent with documents.
And it was exactly here that Allen would find the screenwriter and director—that is, the Prophet and the Sage—he needed.
"Is this the Disciplinary Committee? Yes. I'd like to report something."
Oops. It looked like I didn't have much time.
It was common knowledge that apprehending criminals on academy grounds was the Disciplinary Committee's job.
Hearing Leon's voluntary report, Allen hurriedly began rifling through the self-introduction forms.
Every single one was filled with boasts about their own merits and specifications bordering on fantasy—the same everywhere in the world, it seemed.
'This was why people called personal statements personal novels.'
Well, in any case, vivid imaginations were all the better for people who made films, so it was actually preferable.
Then, amid the parade of countless novels, Allen's gaze was caught by a single passage.
- Do you know the taxidermied fool?
No sooner had Allen spotted that paper than a knock sounded at the door of the hotel room.
"Disciplinary Committee."
"Coming out~"
Before Leon could open the door for the committee members, Allen committed the owner of that paper to memory, then transmuted a single sheet until it was folded into a cube and coated it with a film.
And then he slipped that one sheet's worth of paper under his tongue.
Until the very moment he was seized by the hair and dragged off by the Disciplinary Committee, Allen repeated the name of the paper's owner inside his head.
*
Nikolai Cervantes
He was the third son of a baronial house that held a modest small city as its territory.
His looks, physical ability, and mana were all thoroughly average.
His hair color was green, but in a world where multicolored hair was the norm, that too fell within the average.
Born with nothing particularly special, living a life of no particular note, he had never once doubted that his peaceful days would continue until the very end of his life.
Although at age eight he had tumbled down the stairs and realized that the Empire he lived in was the setting of a romance novel he'd read in a past life, he didn't consider himself special.
After all, the original work was, as the name implied, a pure romance, a heartwarming romance story with no world-shattering disasters or state-shaking power struggles to worry about.
There was no Status Window explaining why he had transmigrated into this world, nor any system or oracle compelling him to act. His only assigned task was to enjoy a slow life in another world.
Being a baron's third son meant he didn't have to risk his life in a succession struggle. He could have lived a perfectly satisfying life by using his father's connections to become a butler in another noble household.
But fortune had a way of changing. By sheer chance, he possessed the talent of a Prophet.
His decent writing ability and his knack for predicting the future from history were exceptional talents for a Prophet.
In truth, he'd merely been interested in history in his previous life and used the principle that history repeats itself to predict this world's future from his old world's history. Regardless, he had genuine talent as a Prophet.
The Faculty of Foresight was a department of infinite possibilities: after graduation one could become a prophet, a strategist, or an archaeologist.
Nikolai, while professing a desire for a slow life, was not a man to refuse a path of advancement, so he promptly entered the Faculty of Foresight at Hetairo Academy.
Once there, he maintained a position exactly in the middle—elite among ordinary people but average among elites—and enjoyed academy life.
That day, too, he sat in the classroom, chatting idly with friends he'd made in a single week.
- Did you hear? Some guy named Allen in the Hero Department got dragged off by the Disciplinary Committee.
- What? In just one week since admission?
- Whoa. The first jailbird of the year.
- Come to think of it, wasn't the first duel the other day fought by a guy named Allen too?
- Probably the same guy?
- Whoa. A real Madman of the Price Family after all. So why'd he get hauled off this time?
- Rumor has it he was caught sneaking into the faculty office and stealing confidential materials. They say when he was dragged off, he was shouting that he had to find Chunsik.
- Who's Chunsik?
- No idea. So the Disciplinary Committee is looking for him.
Hearing his friends' conversation, Nikolai had to muster all his strength not to spray the milk he was drinking.
As far as he could tell, Allen had to be one of those reincarnator, transmigrator, or regressor types.
With Allen advertising himself as one of those types so blatantly, failing to notice would have been stranger.
If, by some one-in-a-million chance, that man truly was a native of this world, then he could only be the result of accumulated errors erupting from tens of thousands of years of human gene coding.
Either way, from the perspective of Nikolai, a survivalist, he was not the kind of existence one wanted to get close to.
Listening to his friends' stories, Nikolai added the name 'Allen' to his interpersonal blacklist, underlined it, and even starred it for the sake of his peaceful life plan.
He intended never to get entangled with the man called Allen until the final moment of this life.
*
Nikolai flinched at the light suddenly shining in his face.
His last memory was definitely of finishing classes and grasping the doorknob to his rented room.
When he came to, he found himself tied up in his own room.
'Ah.'
Seeing Allen holding some scrap of paper before his eyes, his first thought was self-reproach and regret.
'Why did I have to go and raise that flag?'
"Oh, you finally wake up."
Noticing that he had awakened, Allen delivered a familiar line.
Nikolai strained every nerve not to react to that line.
For one thing, he didn't yet know why Allen had kidnapped him, but that line alone seemed to be aimed at his past life.
So whatever questions came his way, he composed himself, intent on playing dumb.
Unfortunately, however, Nikolai was an ordinary person.
In his past life, in his current life, he was no soldier, no agent, no actor, no official.
No matter how he tried to compose his expression, it was impossible to hide it before a veteran.
Allen placed a finger against Nikolai's wrist and questioned him.
"Are you a reincarnator?"
"Huh? What do you mean by that?"
Words and body didn't match.
A flat voice, but a pulse that was anything but.
Right. A lie.
"Congratulations. From now on, you are the <Prophet> of our film production club. Since you're a reincarnator, you can double as <Sage>."
"What?"
"Ah, maybe this sounds more familiar to a modern person. You're now the director and screenwriter."
"Excuse me???"
At this unilateral declaration without context or explanation, Nikolai fell into a state of confusion.
Whether or not he was confused, Allen took a photo of Nikolai and filled out the club application form.
Nikolai racked his brain for any way out of this situation.
What could be the reason that Allen would resort to such heavy-handed measures to make a film?
In a reincarnation/possession story, when someone took actions inexplicable by common sense, there was a high probability that forces like a system or an oracle were at work.
And the typical system imposed quests with penalties of death or its equivalent.
'Good. That's it.'
That would explain this irrational drive.
And this fact was also a card to bring Nikolai and Allen to the negotiating table.
He moistened his dry lips and began to move his tongue.
"You said your name was Allen. Is there perhaps a reason I must serve as Sage?"
"Because without you, I can't make the film I want."
Good.
Allen's answer gave Nikolai certainty.
He quickly began to weigh the scales.
On one side of the scale, Nikolai's script. On the other, Allen's penalty.
"Is filmmaking that precious to you?"
"Of course. It's something I'd trade my life for."
He placed Allen's life on the penalty side.
The scale tipped toward life.
For any person, life outranks all values.
In other words, Nikolai now held Allen's lifeline in his hands.
Now it was time to balance the scale.
No matter what conditions he set on the other side of life, he could pile on as much as he wanted, so long as it didn't reach the level of taking that life.
His first thought was lifelong assets or the equivalent level of wealth, but he quickly dismissed the idea.
Allen was the milk-brother of a prince of the Parma Empire.
And the Parma Empire was the dominant power right up to the moment the original romance reached its conclusion, and Leon Parma, barring unforeseen events, ascended to the throne.
In other words, Allen was a Bitcoin-level moonshot asset.
Demanding too much from such an Allen this early on meant having to account for the possibility of suffering a reversal instead.
Calculating the future value, it was far more advantageous to leave it now as a form of intangible debt and collect later.
Still, even to call in a debt, the two parties needed to be on equal footing, or Nikolai needed to hold a slight edge.
Nikolai sought to elevate his value slightly in this relationship.
A slight advantage, but only to the point of avoiding hostility.
"What would happen if I refused? You don't intend to kill me, do you?"
"No, why would I do that? It would simply be disappointing, and that's all."
"Then, in return, could you provide what I want, Allen?"
"Well, it depends on what you do, but I am certainly willing to provide."
"Is that so? Then what kind of compensation might there be for solving your penalty?"
"???"
"...??"
An awkward silence hung between the two.
The one to break the silence was Nikolai's question.
"Uh... wasn't it because of a system?"
"What's that?"
"..."
Perhaps he couldn't bear Allen's gaze, which looked at him as if he were a pitiful person.
Tied to the chair, Nikolai writhed with his entire body.