Chapter 1464: A New Winter Play
As time edged into the Frost Moon, the constellation of Frostsky gradually climbed to its zenith. The long, bitter winter had descended upon the entire empire—from the perpetually frozen northern mountain ranges to the shadowed southern peaks, from the bustling commercial hubs of the western borders to the remote Changfeng Fortress in the east. It was as if an overnight chill had swept through, stripping the trees bare and blanketing many regions in fresh snow.
In the old days, the arrival of winter meant the harshest time of the year had come. Food was scarce, heating was costly, and the city and countryside alike were ill-equipped to endure the cold. Most people huddled indoors, carefully rationing their remaining provisions and firewood, waiting for the season to pass. Entertainment was a luxury few could afford, and outdoor leisure in winter was a privilege reserved for the upper class.
But without realizing it, those memories belonged to a bygone era.
Filme stood at the edge of the square before the Shadowplay Theatre, bundled in thick winter clothes. Watching the steadily growing crowd, his modest attire made it hard for anyone to immediately connect him with the illustrious title of “Founder of Shadowplay Theatre.” On this snowy winter street, he looked like any ordinary young man who happened to pause here, gazing at the posters and holographic projections advertising the new play.
This was the world’s very first Shadowplay Theatre—and it belonged to him. His father had once been a moderately well-known playwright in the capital, with his own troupe, yet he had never owned a theatre of his own. That had always been his greatest regret.
Filme never imagined that his father’s lifelong dream would ultimately be fulfilled through him, and in this form.
He drew a quiet breath in the cold air, smiling softly as he watched the theatre staff bustling at the entrance and the audience filing orderly into the ticketing and waiting areas. Filme loved this feeling. Even though his status had changed dramatically, he still made it a habit on every opening night to dress simply and quietly watch from a good vantage point nearby, observing the crowd streaming toward the doors.
It was a sign that his hard work was recognized—and that was his favorite kind of pastime.
The winter chill could not dampen the citizens’ enthusiasm. Opening nights were always the liveliest moments on this street. When seasonal hardships no longer dictated daily life, cultural entertainment naturally became a popular demand—and in this era, “Shadowplay” was unquestionably the empire’s reigning king of entertainment.
A group of passersby brushed past Filme, their low voices carried by the wind as they discussed the newly released play—
“I never expected Mr. Filme’s new play to be about… mythology. I thought it’d be another grand war epic or a story about the pioneers, like before. But mythology does sound pretty interesting.”
“The new play’s called ‘Master of All Laws.’ It’s about the goddess of magic and her loyal saints… and even covers the goddess’s fall.”
“Honestly, can such a subject really work as a Shadowplay? This isn’t some bard’s made-up ‘myth.’ The goddess of magic was a real deity. My grandfather’s neighbor’s uncle’s friend was even a follower of hers… Won’t this kind of play offend people?”
“I don’t think so. I was a magic apprentice myself and recited prayers with my mentor a few times—so I’m kind of a semi-believer. I’ve already seen the play twice since yesterday, and today you dragged me to see it a third time…”
“You’ve seen it twice?!” The first speaker looked at his friend in surprise. “So… what do you think? Don’t talk about the plot—just tell me if it’s good or not.”
“How could a play personally supervised by Mr. Filme be anything but good?” The semi-believer looked up, then sheepishly added, “Honestly, I mainly watched it twice to see Miss Mylmina… I mean, the actress playing the goddess Mylmina. She’s pretty good-looking.”
Hearing this, someone nearby half-joked, half-seriously exclaimed, “You even dare to fantasize about a goddess’s appearance?!”
“I’m talking about the actress playing Mylmina, not the goddess herself. And praising the goddess’s beauty is hardly blasphemy—it’s a normal compliment. When you pray, don’t you always start by praising the deity?”
“…I guess you could look at it that way.”
Their voices gradually faded into the bustling crowd, their light chatter and laughter swallowed by the noisy street. Filme’s gaze lingered thoughtfully on the small group of young people until they disappeared into the throng. Then his eyes slowly rose to the massive poster and floating holographic projection hanging above the theatre entrance.
In the grand promotional image, a figure draped in a mysterious veil and dark gown hovered like mist against the backdrop. Her eyes, filled with enigmatic elegance, seemed to peer down from the clouds upon the mortal world. Below her apparition, eight saints—added by the playwright at the last minute—stood arranged, their saintly relics, nonexistent in history, scattered beneath. Bold artistic characters shimmered across the image—
Master of All Laws
A joint production by the Imperial Propaganda Department, the Theocratic Council, and Filme Studios. Adapted from authentic historical records, revealing the hidden side of the gods.
Beneath the title, smaller text read:
The inaugural series of “Gods Among Mortals.”
Filme narrowed his eyes slightly, a faint smile playing on his lips.
…
Meanwhile, far to the south of the continent, in the Silver Empire’s elven royal court, Queen Belsethia Morningstar sat quietly in a comfortable chair. Her drink was half-finished, and she had barely touched the fries beside her. The magical network terminal before her scrolled through the credits of the Shadowplay, while her expression grew increasingly stunned and dazed.
The few personal attendants watching with her wore similarly blank looks.
After an unknown length of time, Belsethia finally whispered to herself, “They actually did this… They really went through with it…”
She lifted her gaze to the still-scrolling credits on the terminal, but her mind replayed the scenes she had just witnessed—the way gods were formed through the powerful will of their followers, how they responded to prayers and bestowed divine power, the mutual care between gods and mortals, and how, within this gentle yet eternal bond, the invisible chains gradually stretched to their breaking point… until, in the play, the goddess of magic chose to fall to prevent a fictional “magical catastrophe,” entrusting the future of the world to mortals and returning her authority to them before her demise.
The entire play portrayed the “Goddess of Magic Mylmina” from a positive perspective, as well as the eight saints symbolizing various mortal ideological stages. Even the most devout followers of the goddess could not find grounds to criticize the depiction of the goddess or accuse the play of defamation or blasphemy.
They had to admit that the gratitude and praise expressed in the play felt more genuine than the empty, rigid prayers they were used to.
Ordinary believers might sense a subtle dissonance after watching—something that felt off, contrary to common sense, but hard to pinpoint.
Belsethia knew exactly what that feeling was. She knew all too well. For three thousand years, her family had worked to eliminate the influence of natural gods on elven society, using countless schemes to control the spread of “secret cults” within the empire. As the heir to the world’s oldest “priestly lineage,” Belsethia was a learned theologian—and also the most irreverent heretic alive. In this play, she detected a familiar scent.
Rebellion and sacrilege hid in the very bones of the production, permeating it from start to finish. It did not need to distort or slander the gods. Its greatest act of defiance was in attempting to explain the existence of the gods.
It subtly presented the audience with a theory: that gods were born for a reason. Supported by this theory, it brought a vivid, emotional “goddess” to center stage.
It sought to strip away the mystery of divinity, cloaking this intent in abundant praise and positive portrayal to minimize resistance among believers. But once the audience gradually accepted this way of thinking—embracing the idea that “gods have origins” and making such reflections habitual—the profound worldview based on the “unknowability of gods” would quietly vanish.
True worship and respect for a real individual have never been the cause of a god’s birth. Blind faith and reverence for a void are. In this, Gawain Cecil had once again outpaced everyone.
Of course, Belsethia knew she was not the only one who could see the “true intent” behind this play. Ordinary people might be unknowingly influenced, but theologians and clergy who studied thought guidance and believer cultivation as she did could easily spot the problem—they were experts in this field.
No matter how clever Gawain Cecil and Mr. Filme’s methods were, there would always be sharp minds who saw through the truth. Those who made theological contributions were no fools.
But this was not a major issue—because Gawain Cecil had already established the Theocratic Council. Based on the Alliance’s order, he had preemptively secured political authority to define theological power in the new order. Especially after the Wasteland War, with the Alliance’s will highly unified and the Cecil Order shining brilliantly today, the Theocratic Council operating within the Alliance framework held the highest interpretive authority in theology.
Belsethia couldn’t help but smile. She suddenly thought of how the less intelligent believers would be subtly swayed by Gawain Cecil’s schemes, while the slightly smarter but less influential believers and clergy lacked the power to shape true public opinion. And those truly brilliant clergy who could see the situation and truth clearly…
Their names had actually already appeared—and were still scrolling on the magic network terminal right now. They were the advisory panel sent by the Theocratic Council specifically for this film and drama project.
“Ah, there are bloopers at the end!”
The voice of the maid, Eliane, suddenly came from beside, breaking Belsethia’s train of thought. She saw that the credits and acknowledgments on the magic network terminal had finally finished playing, and the behind-the-scenes footage of the magical shadow drama’s production began to appear in the holographic projection—this was Eliane’s favorite part.
In the bloopers, the tall and beautiful “Miss Mylmina,” who played the goddess of magic, flubbed her lines. The supporting actors nearby looked awkward, and the director on set stepped forward to give some guidance. “Miss Mylmina” muttered apologetically and with a hint of helplessness, “Why are these eight names so hard to remember?”
“I think those eight saints’ names are pretty tough to memorize too,” another maid whispered nearby. “But… even professional actors sometimes forget their character names?”
Belsethia smiled softly, almost to herself. “Maybe it’s because that actor isn’t really a professional.”
…
The premiere of the new drama Master of All Laws sparked the expected wave of excitement. It wasn’t just because Philm Studios maintained their usual high production standards, but also due to the unique and fresh subject matter of this “mythological documentary,” as well as the official Cecile government’s tireless promotion of the series.
On this colder winter day, arriving earlier than usual, the new magical shadow drama instantly became the focus of countless people’s attention—even the goddess of magic herself had watched it six times.
Bathed in the golden glow of the Oak of Light, in the rebellious courtyard, the goddess of magic, Mylmina, sat beside the magic network terminal and the neural connector. She had just disconnected from the immersive neural network and a barely concealed smile played on her lips.
This scene did not escape Amon’s notice.
“Honestly… don’t you find it awkward watching yourself act?” The sacred white stag’s tone was odd. “I’ve heard a lot of ‘actors’ feel embarrassed the first time they watch themselves on screen. And you’ve watched it six times in a row…”
“Seventh time, actually. I just finished the seventh,” Mylmina replied casually, her face calm. “What’s there to be embarrassed about? I was so natural—didn’t you see the feedback on the neural network? Most people said the most memorable part of the new drama was the character ‘Mylmina’…”
“That’s only because they didn’t expect the producers to find a woman over two meters tall to play Mylmina. Honestly, if Philm Studios had cast a mountain giant to play you, the audience would say the same thing.”
“You’re just jealous,” Mylmina shot him a sideways glance. “You should read the comments online—some people are even confessing their love for the character ‘Mylmina’…”
Amon thought for a moment. “…That is genuinely impressive.”
Mylmina: “…”
(End of chapter)