The Crown Prince Who Raises Alt Characters

#Chapter 367 Ghost Sirius (7) - Dream Play She wanted to show the audience the work and have them voice their impressions. But the audience must not spread word of its contents. Objectively speaking, it was a pipe dream. There was no way to make theatergoers sign some kind of non-disclosure oath, and even if they did, there was no way it would actually be kept. It was an unreasonable condition, like demanding someone look straight at what was in front of them while keeping their eyes tightly shut. But the Greater Demon Lucidra had somehow managed to solve this conundrum. "In short, it just comes down to making sure the people involved can't spread the content in reality, right? That's simple enough. To begin with, just make them unable to remember it in reality." "I'll bring the audience onto the stage in the form of a 'theater visited within a dream.' Once the play ends, they can share their impressions with each other inside the dream." "Once they wake up from the dream, every memory of it vanishes…! Of course, there's no way the content could ever spread into reality!" Naturally, it sounded insane. So much so that even at the Mage Tower, said to gather the Empire's foremost geniuses, if a client came in requesting such a spell formula, they would quietly recommend a psychiatric consultation at an imperial hospital ward. This wasn't even on the level of controlling a single person's dream. Tens, hundreds, perhaps even more spectators had to be gathered into a single dream, made to interact with one another, rendered unable to recall the dream once they woke, all without letting them notice anything was off throughout the entire process, and without being discovered by anyone around them. What kind of insane amount of mana could possibly sustain something like this? What kind of insane control could possibly manage something like this? No, before even that — what on earth could be gained by going this far in the first place? "Just watch — you think I can't do it…!?" But every so often, the world produces people who accomplish something ridiculously impressive for the stupidest of reasons. This was, in the end, simply one more instance of that. *** Looking at the continent as a whole, being a writer was, by nature, an occupation commonly begun by 'children of well-off families.' In truth, it could hardly be otherwise. To write stories as an author, one first had to know how to read and write, had to have pen, ink, and paper on hand, and, crucially, had to have an environment comfortable enough that the people around them would leave them be even if all they did was sit around writing all day. Of course, there were also die-hards who skimped on their own meals, wore mended clothes, and gritted their teeth writing away in some drafty little room, but in terms of difficulty of entry, it was an undeniable fact that children of well-off families had it far easier. Seria Rinkle, known to the public as the author of the [Rose and Pocket Watch series], was no exception. Her father and grandfather were fairly successful administrative nobles in the capital. They didn't hold a territory of their own, but between the stipend and performance bonuses they earned as officials, and connections that lacked nothing to be called part of the wealthy upper class, Seria too had grown up wanting for nothing since childhood. She'd taken up writing more as a hobby than out of any need to make a living, and since she had a knack for it, her work had gone on to gain considerable popularity. Not quite to the level of some great literary master the Empire could boast of, perhaps, but at least enough that noble young ladies and high-ranking noblewomen across various countries would squeal with excitement while waiting for her next release. Naturally, Seria's ego swelled bigger with each passing day, and the very act of writing was fun and exhilarating. After all, how could it not be fun, writing whatever she pleased one stretch after another without a single worry about making a living? [To the author of Rose and Pocket Watch. Frankly, I simply cannot sympathize with the reason the protagonist Rozelia falls for Clark. His personality is rotten, his abilities are mediocre at best, and his identity is suspicious — isn't he just a roughly 60-point sort of person, all told? It seems there's far too little plausibility for a high-ranking noble young lady to fall in love with him──] "What do you even know!!" In other words, she had been happy — until the day she received a 5,700-character hate letter, of all things, under the guise of a fan letter. "What? The male lead lacks charm? Where on earth could there possibly be a more perfect manservant than this in the entire world!!" As far as Seria was concerned, what this mysterious malicious fan had pointed out was truly a sight to behold. Things like: since he'd perfectly groomed the entire vast garden alone in a week, he should have finished that much in a single day; since he'd prepared the master family's anniversary banquet single-handed without anyone's help, he ought to do as much every single mealtime as a matter of course; since he'd protected the heroine from assassins with brilliant swordsmanship, the number of assassins should have been increased about fivefold for the male lead's charm to really show through — and so on. Because what had been written down were absurd demands that, by any common-sense standard, could only be called insane. "Do you have any idea how thoroughly I did my research…!" She'd had the skilled gardener employed at her house confirm the 'theoretical limit' based on the actual garden, and had gone through the same process with the cook. When it came to combat-related depictions, she'd even gone so far as to interview a professional knight. Clark, the male lead, was none other than a character set up so that he alone could pull off every single one of the figures that experts from entirely different fields had each claimed was, in theory, just barely achievable. If there was one part of Clark's setting that had disregarded real-world accuracy on purpose, it was only that, since basing him on an actual noble house would have been politically risky, she'd deliberately invented a lineage that could never exist in reality — a 'young noble descended from the blood of the cold Northern Grand Duke' (since, after all, it was the south that was cold, not the north). And yet someone had dismissed this male lead of such staggering specs as 'lacking charm' — from Seria's standpoint, it was simply outrageous. If this counted as lacking charm, did that mean nothing short of an imperial prince disguising himself as a servant and working as one would count as not lacking in ability? (E/N: *cough* *cough* *cough*) An ordinary professional writer would have grown used to harsh criticism, whether from readers or editors, but Seria, as the daughter of a successful noble house who had only ever heard praise for writing well or the mildest of critiques, had particularly no resistance to this kind of thing. So it was that, one day, while she was groaning under some inexplicable mix of anxiety and indignation— Seria realized she was sitting in the audience seats of some theater. "...Huh?" How had she ended up here? The question that had flickered through her mind for an instant faded away before long. A theater was a place for watching plays. So she, too, must have come here to watch one. The other audience members in the seats around her also seemed a little bewildered at first, but soon settled into calm expressions as they waited for the play to begin. Before long, the curtain rose, and the figure who appeared was someone Seria, too, recognized. Dark crimson hair. Golden eyes. Stella Rosenberg, the actress representing the Astraea Troupe, or perhaps the Empire's theater world itself. 『What is this mess? Can none of you even clean properly?』 Sharp-tongued and violent, like a rose bristling with thorns, Stella glared sharply out over the audience seats. And the performance that followed was, quite simply, one that drew forth admiration. 'How can a one-woman play feel this real?' The only one on stage was Stella. And yet the heroine Stella was playing, the noble young lady C, was an extremely vicious character, the type who lashed her aggression out at others without restraint. In other words, on a stage with no one but herself, Stella had to act out cursing and striking at thin air. No matter how outstanding Stella's looks were, it was a setup that should have inevitably come off awkward. But once Seria actually watched Stella's acting, she didn't feel even a trace of that awkwardness. 『Ow! Hey! You want to die!?』 Stella mercilessly slapped and kicked the maid who had, while combing her hair, accidentally tangled it in the comb. There was no actress playing the maid. And yet, to Seria's eyes, the maid was there. The subtle recoil transmitted through her arm the instant she struck the cheek, the movement of her ankle the instant she kicked. Every single small gesture felt as real as if someone were truly standing there. When Stella was in a good mood, every servant in the estate breathed easy; when Stella was in a bad mood, every servant in the estate was struck with fear. That much was visible to the audience. "Good heavens…." Seria wasn't the only one taken aback, it seemed — a murmur of admiration rose up from somewhere among the audience seats. Seria, too, silently agreed, if only without making a sound. A single person. A talent who, simply by being alone up there, could force dozens of people's actions and lines into the audience's minds. At this point, wasn't this closer to the realm of magic than art? Still, precisely because of that, there was something puzzling about it too. 'What on earth could possibly follow after this?' She understood that Stella — that is, the heroine C's — personality was extremely rotten. She understood that the people around her suffered for it, too. But then what? Was this a story of the wicked woman's downfall? Or her redemption? Watching the play with rapt interest, Seria's eyes soon went wide as she saw another actor step onto the stage. And she felt a small flicker of worry. 'If he's appearing now, there's a good chance he's the male lead. But Stella has carried the stage alone this whole time — will bringing in another actor at this point actually balance out?' Even to Seria, who had no deep knowledge of theater, Stella's presence was on a level that felt downright unfair. A mere extra might be one thing, but if he was the male lead, he would need to trade blows with Stella on equal footing — how could that possibly be possible? The same held true when looking at it in terms of the role rather than the actress. What man could possibly dare to redeem that rotten-tempered — no, to put it bluntly, practically personality-broken — wicked woman? Just how pure and devoted a love would it take─ 『Good day, my lady! Starting today, I'll be serving you. I look forward to it!』 『Ha ha ha! My lady, throwing dishware is an act unbecoming of dignity. If you don't want people saying you were never properly educated, you'd best restrain yourself!』 『Fired, you say? Well, whew, it can't be helped then. I'll take my leave.』 『Oh, you're taking it back? That's fine. Then again, how could I possibly work with any peace of mind at a job where I could be let go at any moment like this? Oh, you won't fire me? Then I'll ask you to draw up a contract for me!』 ...Pure and devoted? Seria blinked. And she muttered, without meaning to. "Where in the world is there a manservant like that."