Chapter 124: A Mock Play
Chapter 124: A Mock Play
The Volsk Diplomatic District.
Hannah Usar had just received the schedule and location of an enemy arms deal from her informant, and she met with Leon immediately afterward.
"Well, well."
Leon let out a dry laugh as he stepped into the office and surveyed the interior.
"A knight setting up an office in a dump like this?"
The wallpaper was new, but the rest of the furnishings were decrepit. It was a pathetic sight for a Knight of the Empire to be stationed in.
"…It couldn't be helped. The budget ran dry."
Hannah gave an awkward smile as she sipped her coffee.
"I see. Since when did knights become so starved for funds?"
A knight’s annual salary was high, of course. However, the budget and the salary were two different things.
They couldn't simply pick and choose profitable missions like mercenaries, and any personnel costs exceeding the budget came directly out of the knight’s own pocket. It was a mission structure that forced them to bleed themselves dry.
"It’s been this way ever since the Imperial Guard rose to power…"
Leon trailed off. As the palace budget shifted toward the Imperial Guard, the Knight Orders saw nothing but cuts and freezes.
"I burned through the maximum budget ages ago. Right now, I’m paying the informants out of my own savings."
Information fees were essential. If you didn't pay them, informants would eventually turn up dead or defect.
Leon looked at Hannah for a moment before pulling a piece of paper from his inner pocket.
"…Try asking Max."
"Pardon?"
"Max has been running a program within the Knight Orders lately. Use this and submit it."
Hannah took the paper.
[ Maximilian Foundation: Application for Knight Operational Activity Support ]
The Maximilian Foundation. It was a program that had been the talk of the town among Hannah’s commoner juniors lately.
"…I heard rumors that he started a foundation. That he was handing out scholarships even at Empire Point."
"Yeah. I heard the scale is enormous. Something about tax benefits for scholarship donations? Well, I’m sure that’s not the only reason. Tell your clerk to fill it out and send it by mail. The funds will be deposited in no time."
"Ah… so it applies to fellow knights as well?"
"Not all knights are rich, after all. In fact, there are quite a few who live with a leash around their necks because of their bankrupt families."
There were many—no, a staggering number of—families whose businesses had failed, leaving the title of 'Knight' as their only pillar of support. Leon’s classmate and friend, Tiana, was one of them.
"I see. Then…"
Hannah placed the application on the desk of the clerk, who had already left for the day, and stood up.
"Shall we get going?"
"Yeah. Grab your gear."
She opened the wardrobe. Inside hung a suit of charcoal-colored leather armor. It was the equipment Maximilian had bestowed upon them as supplies back in Zerpa.
For the record, Leon was already wearing his.
"We’re matching."
"…We are participating in the same operation, after all."
The two shared a faint smile and left the office.
The night in Volsk was deep, and the fog was thick. Hiding themselves in the darkness, they moved to the rooftop of an abandoned building.
"Remember. More than the Gentra remnants, we have to catch the mastermind selling them the goods. We have to cut off the supply line to pull this out by the roots."
"Yes. Is the principle to capture them alive?"
"I wonder."
Leon’s voice dropped low. His playful smile vanished, replaced by a shadow of cold, detached lethality.
"Personally, I’d prefer to just kill them all."
Hannah felt a chill run down her spine.
This was the kind of person Leon was. On the surface, he seemed warm and gentle, but his inner self was colder than anyone else’s. It was as if his cruelty had been condensed into a solid crystal.
"Well, I suppose it depends on the situation?"
"…Yes."
However, compared to Maximilian, he was relatively easy to read.
Maximilian never revealed his inner thoughts. Because of that, one could never gauge the depth of his mind. He was like an abyss. It made sense why the world called him the 'Monster of Ebenholtz'…
"These Volsk bastards have a foul stench. I suppose it can't be helped."
At the very least, Leon was transparent about his racial and ethnic prejudices. He didn't show it on his face, but his occasional slips in word and action made it perfectly clear. If she had to guess, he loathed the Sled people of the East the most and despised half-bloods.
"…They’re here."
"Yes."
At Leon’s signal, Hannah shook off her stray thoughts.
On the other side of the abandoned factory, figures in suits were spotted through the building's windows.
"There. See the guy with the blue tie?"
Leon pointed to a man. Slicked-back hair, blue tie, gray suit.
"Yes."
"He’s an arms broker, but he’s our informant."
With that, he handed her a small device that looked like a radio, along with a ballpoint pen and a notebook.
"It’s a wiretap, but it doesn't record. You have to write everything down."
"Understood. But it’s in the Imperial language, right?"
"Yeah. They all have different nationalities, so they can't communicate unless it’s in the Imperial tongue."
Hannah nodded and picked up the pen and notebook.
— I was a bit disappointed with this deal…
Scratch, scratch. In cursive, she began to scribble down every word of their conversation.
*
In the center of the Empire, I lifted the regulations on the Imperial Opera as I had promised Reynold.
The [Department of Culture and Arts]. This bureaucratic group, which would later be absorbed under the Propaganda Department, preached 'Aranian Purity' and rejected foreign culture on the surface, but in reality, they were just looking for a payout. I shoved enough money down their throats, and soon, translated versions of operas with good international reputations, as well as the genre of musicals, were being imported.
In addition, I tracked down a playwright who would rise to become a future master.
His name was Victor Heim.
"Why would a knight visit such a humble place as this…?"
As the owner of a mere small-scale theater, he seemed flustered by my sudden visit.
"I have read the play you wrote, Silence of the Square."
"…Pardon?"
At my words, Victor let out a hollow laugh.
"That work was banned from performance a week ago. I was hit with a heavy fine as well."
"I know. I obtained the script separately."
I shrugged.
It is not a crime for a knight to possess banned books. After all, enforcement is our duty.
"The reason for the ban was its criticism of Imperial politics."
Victor clicked his tongue.
"Sir Knight. I have neither the leisure nor the reason to discuss politics."
"So it seemed."
He was not someone who put politics into his plays. Not in the future before my regression, and not now after it.
"It was an interesting script. I imagine the setting of one of the villains being a noble of the Imperial Palace rubbed them the wrong way."
"Ha! The even bigger villain was a commoner."
"It can't be helped. A play changes depending on who interprets it and how, and that follows the logic of power."
The logic of power. At the very least, among those in the cultural sphere, no one held more power than an Ebenholtz.
Victor scratched his eyebrow and asked back.
"…And so?"
"I am telling you now. Your work has nothing to do with politics, and you are capable of creating even better works."
I leaned back into my chair. Victor quietly licked his lips.
"For example… what kind of theme do you want?"
"Fairy tales. Or love. How beautiful are they? Perhaps something with dogs as the subject."
In fact, those were the plays, operas, and musicals he had written before my regression. They were incredibly entertaining and had won several awards.
"I mean, well, I can write those easily enough, but why would a knight order… something like that?"
"Well… someone once told me this."
I wore a faint smile.
I had to watch my words. Almost everything I said in a public place would eventually flow back to the Imperial Palace.
"That a play allows one to forget reality for a moment."
I agreed with those words from Princess Justine.
In a world where war was not far off, the masses needed to forget reality. To accept the smell of blood, gunpowder, and death as they were was too cruel for the life that would follow. Behind the battlefield where people killed and were killed, there had to be a place of escape.
That was the role of culture. An anesthetic to soothe the Empire while it excised a disease more terrible than cancer just to survive.
"Consider this your commission fee."
I pulled out a checkbook and scribbled an amount.
"Don't happy stories come from a more abundant life?"
Victor was a man who had written fantasies and fairy-tale stories that had absolutely nothing to do with politics, even after the fall of the Empire.
He would surely create great works for humanity.
…
The [Arte Museum].
I met Director Verdi there once again. The interior was in the middle of a full-scale remodeling. This was entirely by my order.
"Sigh…"
Director Verdi himself let out a sigh as he watched the walls being torn down.
"It feels as if my own skin is being peeled off."
"It’s being repainted. To look younger."
I smiled. Verdi’s wrinkled hands trembled.
"…I have never seen a museum like this. The walls and ceilings are nothing but white, without a single decoration."
"It is proof that you have grown old, Director."
"But—"
"Since I have saved this place through my investment," I cut him off coldly, "you must listen to me."
The motif for the remodeling was the 'White Cube.'
An exhibition style that leaves the space entirely white and empty, allowing visitors to focus solely on the artwork itself. It was a modern exhibition concept that didn't exist in the Empire yet; it wouldn't be introduced until the Progen Republic rose after the fall.
"The Arte Museum was a place my mother loved."
The essence is the space, not the interior design. I hoped this place would survive for a long time and inspire many.
If only for my mother’s sake.
"Therefore, it must not become a mere warehouse where paintings are hung. It must showcase the unique dignity of the Empire."
I gestured as I walked down the hallway.
"There must be a story. A narrative."
It must not be a mere 'arrangement of art.'
"Once you pass through the dark corridor at the entrance."
Thump. Thump. As we walked out of the passage that had been deliberately reconstructed to be narrow and dark.
"Suddenly, the field of vision opens up wide."
The vision expands, and the space bursts open. The artworks rush toward you as if pouring into your eyes.
"The passionate works of the masters called 'Impressionists' from 200 years ago, when Imperial art was at its peak, will greet us."
Verdi followed behind, leaning on his cane.
"Everyone will feel the thrill—as if they are walking into the very history of the Empire."
This was knowledge extracted from the stories of museums that often appeared in newspaper editorials and columns, as well as The Aesthetics of Space, which I had read before my regression.
"A museum is only complete when the space, the arrangement of works, and the movement of the audience are combined."
I turned back to Director Verdi.
"When reality is already harsh enough, people don't come to a museum just to see a few paintings. Therefore, we must provide an experience."
The Empire’s economy was slowly coming back to life. It was thanks to the exploitation of foreign companies and immigrants, and the boom in the munitions industry.
When money starts circulating in people’s pockets, they seek out culture. I would show them the strength and elegance of the Empire.
"However, if it is too blatant, it becomes bravado. The majesty of the Empire and the purity of Aran… are sufficiently grand and beautiful even when revealed subtly."
It was the art of an Empire that held a thousand years of history. No other country could imitate the sheer amount of accumulated time.
Director Verdi looked at me with a complicated expression.
"It is still difficult for me. Perhaps I am old, as you say, or…"
"It is likely your prejudice against me."
In his eyes, I was a homicidal maniac who killed people without a second thought. A butcher who had crushed Genen.
The sight of someone like me discussing art must seem ridiculous, contemptible, or terrifying to him.
"That is why I refuse your refusal."
I understood those who did not know my intentions.
"This is my way."
Because I would continue to be—likely forever—misunderstood.
*
Princess Justine looked at the new posters being hung on the walls of the [Royal Opera House]. They were new operas and a strange genre called musicals.
"…."
Maximilian was at the main entrance. The director welcomed him while sweating profusely.
Every time Maximilian spoke, the director reacted with exaggerated deference, and when Maximilian offered a handshake, the director took it respectfully with a face as if he were greeting the Emperor.
— He wishes to see a new stage.
Maximilian’s words suddenly came to mind.
He had kept his promise. Though she didn't know what that promise was for…
"Ha."
She gave a short laugh and turned away.
She simply walked through the residential area and arrived at the nearby Arte Museum. There were no visitors at the museum at all. It was because of the construction—the remodeling.
The moment she stepped inside, unconcerned as always.
"…?"
Her brow furrowed.
The interior was strange.
The elegant wallpaper and decorations had all been torn away, and everything was painted white. The floor, the ceiling, the walls. It was so white it made her eyes ache.
"You have arrived."
Director Verdi, sensing a presence, approached her.
"It’s changed a lot."
"Yes. It is under construction."
"Did you tear it all down because you ran out of money?"
"No. It is a remodeling."
"What kind of remodeling is this?"
The Princess let out a dry laugh, and Verdi remained silent as if in agreement.
"I assume you didn't throw away all the paintings?"
"No. Please, come this way."
The director guided her.
Thump. Thump.
The two of them passed through a narrow, dark passage together. An escort knight followed a few steps behind her.
While walking through the corridor where light was blocked, Justine felt a strange tension. A sense of suffocation, as if someone might reach out and plunge a dagger into her throat at any moment.
In that moment, just as the passage ended.
Whoosh—.
The space widened dramatically, and her vision cleared.
"…."
It was a space of pure white.
Upon that stark white void, devoid of any decoration or distraction, the canvases of the Imperial Impressionists radiated an intense presence. It was a beauty that momentarily took her breath away. Natural light coming through the windows illuminated the frames. The entire area seemed to hold the sunlight, creating the illusion that the forms in the paintings were floating.
"…!"
Justine inhaled sharply without realizing it.
"Whose idea was this?"
"…It was Knight Maximilian. He called it a 'White Cube'."
The director added an explanation.
"He said a museum should be like a single story. That the works remain in their place but breathe with the space, and are only completed by the audience who observes them."
His words were indeed correct.
Justine walked through the interior as if possessed. The path, which led from grand canvases depicting the myth of the Empire’s founding to paintings dealing with the lives of the subjects, was like a single play.
She was impressed.
At the same time, it was eerie.
Maximilian had been paving the path she walked all this time. It was also Maximilian who had gone out of his way to invest money to save this museum.
"It is beautiful."
At the Princess’s reaction, Director Verdi belatedly realized that he had grown old.
"Your High—"
Yannick, the escort knight behind her, suddenly approached. Justine gave a light wave of her hand.
"You may call me by my name here."
"…Justine. Such an enclosed space is dangerous."
The Princess no longer intended to hide her identity, and this was the first time Verdi had heard it directly.
"Security is also weak due to the construction."
Yannick always wore a look of dissatisfaction. Especially so whenever she engaged in outside activities.
"Yannick."
Justine asked, without taking her eyes off the paintings.
"Would you believe me if I said all of this was for me?"
"…."
Yannick remained silent for a moment before answering dryly.
"Knight Maximilian is praised as a loyal subject, but well. I am not so sure."
Justine, in fact, suspected Maximilian. He was the son of Zebestian, whom the Emperor trusted most, but she tried not to believe in him more than anyone else.
Because the way he tried to take flight so perfectly was, to her, far too suspicious.
"Yannick. Who do you serve?" she asked out of the blue.
Nevertheless, Yannick bowed his head as if he had been waiting for the question.
"A man of the North swears loyalty to only one lord."
Yannick looked into her eyes and took a Northern posture of respect.
"For me, it is you, Princess."
Justine stared at him intently. She did not show her emotions.
Men of the North were all smooth talkers.
That was the truth.
Yannick was already in the pocket of the Imperial Guard.
His loyalty now was not toward her, but toward the orders of the Imperial Guard to monitor her.
This was her surroundings.
Everything was a chain that bound her.
"…Loyalty, is it."
Justine closed her eyes with a bitter smile.
In this suffocating Empire, there was not a single person truly on her side. Even her father was jealous and envious of her Aranian appearance.
She moved her feet again.
"Let’s walk through the museum some more."
The pure white space continued for a while before being suddenly blocked by a temporary wall. Beyond it, workers were moving busily.
Justine’s sense of immersion shattered.
"I apologize. It is still unfinished."
"When will it be done?"
Director Verdi answered cautiously.
"It will be completed soon."