I Became A Playwright In Medieval Fantasy-Chapter 52

I smiled back at her and replied, “You’re breathtaking. If you weren’t the saintess, I might have asked you out on a real date.”

“Pfft! So this is a fake date? I’m a little offended,” she teased.

“Haha…”

Shortly after the date for The Miracle Worker’s premiere was confirmed, the saintess and I had made plans to watch the play together.

To avoid drawing unwanted attention, we had reserved a private balcony on the second floor, with a perfect view of the stage. And Beatrice, instead of wearing her usual nun’s habit, had donned a regular noblewoman’s dress for the occasion.

The reason for this "date" was simple.

‘This is Saint Beatrice’s first time truly watching one of Phantom’s plays.’

Though she had seen Exodus at the northern fortress, that was more of a formal event. Today marked her first time going to a theater to enjoy a performance like any other guest.

Furthermore, the saintess had indirectly inspired the material for The Miracle Worker.

It was only fitting that she be there to enjoy the premiere alongside the playwright.

“Shall we?”

I offered my arm, like a gentleman escorting Cinderella to her carriage, as the large carriage waiting by the cathedral’s back gate stood ready to take us.

With a smile, Beatrice slipped her hand through my arm. Thanks to her ability to read energy, she had sensed my gesture even before I offered it.

“You’re quite the gentleman, Phantom. Escorting ladies must come naturally to you, doesn’t it?” she said playfully.

“Well, I’ve had some practice.”

“Oh? A ladies' man, are we? I had a feeling you’d be popular with women, what with the whole ‘masked genius playwright’ persona,” she teased, with a sly grin.

It wasn’t that I was particularly romantic or practiced in such manners. I hadn’t exactly had many relationships. It was more due to my upbringing as a noble, and more recently, I had spent a fair amount of time with Senior Rosalyn.

…Come to think of it, I had essentially stood up Rosalyn for this "date" with the saintess. She was someone who usually watched all of my premieres with Balthazar.

“Haha, even if you are a ladies' man, I don’t mind.”

Beatrice leaned closer, pressing against my arm in a way that felt less like mere etiquette and more like she was playing the role of a real companion. She whispered playfully.

“After all, for today, I get to have Phantom all to myself. It makes me feel a little proud, you know?”

“Should a cleric really be saying things like that?” I asked with mock concern.

“Why not?” she replied with a carefree laugh, turning her face toward me.

“In ancient times, saints and heroes were known to formally enter marriage, you know? To solidify their bond and unity in their quest.”

“Is that so?” I responded, genuinely surprised. Had I fallen asleep during that part of history class?

Sensing my discomfort, Beatrice gently patted my arm and added, “Well, that was before the Demon King was sealed, so don’t let it bother you too much, okay?”

“Ah, right. Got it.”

…How could I not think about it now? If she hadn’t brought it up, maybe I wouldn’t have.

In any case, Beatrice seemed to enjoy teasing me in this subtle, intimate way. Her demeanor was reminiscent of Princess Diana’s, though the princess was more like a sly fox, while Beatrice had the charm of someone who enjoyed playing mind games.

Though I suspected it wasn’t because of any romantic experience—more likely, it was her keen understanding of human psychology.

Around an hour later, we arrived at the balcony of the Kiligruger Theater, our private space reserved exclusively for the two of us. Sitting side by side, we looked out over the bustling audience below, completely isolated in our cozy section.

“Is your seat comfortable? If not, we can always change the reservation.”

“Oh, it’s perfect. Compared to the hard wooden chairs I sit on every day, this feels like a bed.”

“Glad to hear that.”

The space below us was packed with murmuring spectators, but up here, we were in a world of our own. I’d never experienced this kind of intimacy even with Senior Rosalyn.

Seeing Beatrice dressed so beautifully only heightened the sense of closeness. Though she was shorter than Princess Diana, her proportions were artfully perfect, and the grace with which she moved was mesmerizing. She didn’t lack any of the charm that made Diana stand out.

And then there was the soft, sweet scent of acacia drifting from her. Was it a perfume she usually wore, or her natural scent?

As I indulged in these trivial thoughts, I was snapped back to the present.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we warmly welcome you to the Kiligruger Theater tonight!”

The curtains parted, and Renua, the troupe’s lead actor, strode onto the stage. He greeted the audience with his usual exaggerated gestures, explaining the basics of the performance.

“Tonight, we present The Miracle Worker, a story of a woman and a girl who worked miracles through love and devotion! Prepare to be moved by the touching, tear-jerking tale about to unfold!”

Renua was as enthusiastic as ever, perhaps even more so than when he himself was playing the lead. He was clearly on edge, as this was the first time his protégés would be taking the spotlight. Additionally, The Miracle Worker was an unusual play, and he was undoubtedly trying to soften its impact.

However, the murmurs from the audience below were less than encouraging.

“Hmmm, well, we came because Phantom’s work is practically a must-see these days, but…”

“I just don’t get the appeal of this one. A story about the disabled? What exactly is he trying to say?”

Phantom’s previous works could be roughly divided into two categories.

The first was the traditional heroic saga, beginning with Admiral Lee and continuing through Farewell My Concubine.

The second category was more experimental, featuring works like Chaplin Comedy, The Dialogues, and The Cthulhu Mythos.

Regardless of which type of play it was, the public always eagerly consumed his work.

From the nobility of Admiral Lee to the charisma of Julius Caesar, the slapstick humor of Charlie Chaplin, the faith of Moses, the curiosity of Socrates, the boldness of Xiang Yu, and the cosmic horror of Lovecraft—Phantom’s works resonated deeply with the medieval mindset of this world.

But when people saw the flyers for The Miracle Worker, many had furrowed brows and puzzled expressions.

“This one’s a big departure from his usual style. The scale feels too small for a Kiligruger production.”

“And what’s with the subject matter? A blind and deaf girl? And her devoted teacher? What’s the point?”

In the real world, the concept of “human rights” didn’t really start to gain traction until at least the 18th century in Europe. Even in earlier discussions led by the Church, such concepts were still in their infancy.

As for the disabled—those suffering from diseases or injuries—they were often treated as outcasts, so the idea of Phantom centering a play on them? It was as absurd as casting an orc barbarian to play Vercingetorix.

In modern terms, it was like a romance writer suddenly switching to harem novels—a shocking departure from their usual fare.

“Is Phantom starting some kind of charity work? Who asked for a play about this?”

“Maybe the cathedral pressured him because donations are down. I mean, he’s given plenty to the poor already, right?”

“And now we’re supposed to feel sympathy for those crippled beggars? It’s like they expect us to treat charity as a right.”

The people who frequented Kiligruger Theater were mostly nobles or wealthy bourgeoisie. While they made regular charitable donations, largely because of the Church’s teachings, they were extremely stingy when it came to helping the disabled.

Helping the poor could at least be seen as a practical measure, aiding in the maintenance of order. But assisting the disabled? That was just throwing money down the drain.

“Ahem, Your Grace? Don’t let those narrow-minded comments bother you,” I said, wondering if she might be affected by the overheard conversations.

Those people wouldn’t be so quick to speak if they knew the saintess herself was present. Though her visit had to remain secret, I still felt a bit uneasy.

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“Don’t worry. If I got upset over every thoughtless comment, I’d have died of stress long ago,” she replied with a bright smile, completely unfazed.

She even winked playfully and brushed aside a stray lock of hair.

“Besides, they say insults help you live longer, right? If that’s true, my lifespan must be increasing by the day. Maybe I should complain to the Heavens for making me endure this long,” she joked.

“….”

“Why so quiet all of a sudden?”

“It’s nothing.”

For a moment, I had the irrational urge to take her hand, but I quickly regained my composure.

Though Beatrice appeared composed and resilient, there was a depth of pain behind her calm exterior that I couldn’t fully grasp.

Just then, the sound of trumpets filled the air, and the stage curtains finally rose.

And there she appeared.

“Huh?”

“An old woman?”

An elderly woman dressed in a black gown with a red shawl draped over her shoulders. She sat at a desk in the center of the stage, writing with a pen.

[…My life began surrounded by darkness and silence.]

As she smiled and continued to write, a soft, soothing voice narrated her inner thoughts.

The narrator’s words represented both her internal monologue and a way to communicate indirectly with the audience.

[From the moment I can remember, I have been unable to see or hear. Trapped in a body the gods made incomplete, my life has been filled with nothing but impossibilities.]

“What is this? They’re just reading out what the old lady’s writing?”

“So, she’s deaf and blind? Is this supposed to be some kind of joke?”

“Ha! Phantom’s really gone overboard this time. It’s one thing to lose one sense, but both sight and hearing? And she’s writing on her own? Come on.”

“Ridiculous. This is way too far-fetched. If she can’t see or hear, how would she even understand what writing is?”

The audience’s reaction was filled with skepticism from the start. It was like reading angry comments from history buffs criticizing a film for poor accuracy.

In this world, the idea of someone like Helen Keller—a blind and deaf individual who became a prominent social activist and author—was unheard of, except perhaps for those touched by divine grace like the saintess herself.

But I wasn’t fazed.

[…But there was someone who didn’t give up on me and led me to the light of civilization.]

Whether it’s a play, a drama, or a film, true judgment can only be made after experiencing the entire story.

[In a life where light was dark and sound was silent, where all I knew was the impossible, there was a miraculous teacher who led me into the realm of possibility.]

As the narrator spoke, the elderly woman’s pen continued to glide across the paper. At last, she placed the pen in the ink pot and stood, her final words hanging in the air.

[This is the story of me and my teacher. A tale of how something small, done together, can grow into something much larger.]

The scene transitioned into darkness, imitating the opening sequence of the Indian film Black, a loose adaptation of Helen Keller’s story. As the stage plunged into total blackness, the audience was left in silence.

After a few moments of eerie quiet, the stage lights came back on, revealing…

[Get away! Don’t touch me!]

Crash!

…a poor, dismal scene inside a welfare facility, modified to fit the setting of this world.

A young girl, filled with rage, was violently lashing out at the staff trying to help her.

This was the youth of Anne Sullivan—long before she became the tutor known to the world—when her life was filled with nothing but hardship and despair.