Chapter 741: Invaluable
On the desk in front of High Lord Gawain, a crude play filmed in the streets of Saint Suniel was playing for the second time.
Amber blinked her eyes, watching the slapstick comedy projected from the crystal device, her amber gaze bright with interest.
Throughout the entire playback—lasting over ten minutes—Gawain hadn’t uttered a single word. Yet his eyes never left the magical apparatus on the desk.
The emperor’s silence, combined with the solemn atmosphere, made the young playwright from Baren extremely nervous. He had long since stopped narrating his story and now sat anxiously in silence, as if awaiting judgment rather than showcasing his proud creation.
Only now did Gawain’s turbulent thoughts begin to settle.
This was a film transferred onto the magical network terminal—a nascent form of cinema, something he had once envisioned but never had the chance to realize until now.
What did the establishment of the magical network broadcasting system truly mean? No scholar or philosopher of the current age could fully grasp or predict its significance. Even Gawain himself could only vaguely say, “It will change the entire world.” But one thing was certain: as a medium capable of rapidly disseminating vast amounts of information, magical network broadcasting was far more than just a tool for everyday communication, government announcements, or merchants’ advertisements.
It could fulfill the spiritual needs of a new era—once the people of Cecile had enough to eat and wear, once basic literacy was no longer a privilege of nobles and merchants, once they no longer settled for mere survival or monotonous entertainment, they would inevitably seek something higher.
As someone who had been through it all, Gawain deeply understood the profound importance of such “spiritual needs.”
But human energy was limited, and Gawain was no exception. The government office could only push so many projects at once. Since the magical network’s inception, it had grown rapidly, with several popular programs and some entertainment content already airing. Yet, cinematic productions had yet to appear. They existed only in Gawain’s mind as an unprepared plan—until a young man from the North beat him to the idea.
“Did you come up with this?” Gawain finally broke the silence, looking at the blond youth named Philm. “Inspired by the holographic projection at the coronation?”
“Yes… yes, Your Majesty,” Philm replied hurriedly, bowing his head. “Those magical projections amazed me. Before, I’d only seen simple illusions created by illusionists on stage—noble lords liked to decorate their favorite plays with magical light and shadow. But nothing could produce such large-scale, long-lasting, and stable images like those magical network terminals. I also heard they could record images, so… some ideas came to me.”
“That’s an invaluable idea… Kord didn’t let me miss this treasure,” Gawain said sincerely, glancing again at the play floating in midair.
The slapstick comedy, simple in plot, was still playing. As a prototype of cinematic drama, it seemed primitive to Gawain. It retained many theatrical traits: overly elaborate arias, unrealistic costumes, exaggerated physical acting. Though the actors clearly gave their all and had solid stage skills, Gawain noticed their discomfort performing before a “camera.” They were stiff, nervous in ways professional actors shouldn’t be, which greatly affected the quality of the piece.
At best, it was a rough draft for demonstration.
Yet Amber watched the images without blinking. Even after two or three viewings, her enthusiasm remained undiminished.
Amber’s reaction likely represented that of most ordinary people encountering such plays for the first time. Drama had always been the privilege of the upper class or nobility. Common folk’s exposure was limited to poor ballads by wandering minstrels or slapstick acts during festivals. Even though magical network terminals, newspapers, and magazines were gradually enriching the spiritual lives of ordinary people, in the realm of “stage,” plays with engaging stories were still scarce.
Even a crude slapstick segment would be thoroughly entertaining to those who had never set foot in a theater.
But Gawain was not content with mere amusement.
“Do you have any good scripts?” he asked Philm gently.
“I… I’m not a real playwright yet. I don’t have the qualifications to write my own scripts,” Philm said nervously. “I only adapted a segment from my father’s play. But I’ve been trying to write some stories of my own…”
As soon as he admitted this, regret washed over him. Why boast about his immature, laughable stories before the emperor? What if His Majesty demanded to see them? What if they offended him?
Sweat visibly beaded on Philm’s forehead. Rebecca noticed immediately and hurried to open the window. The winter wind howled in, but with a casual wave from Gawain, the window shut again.
“You go read somewhere else for a while,” Gawain glanced at Rebecca, then back at Philm, delivering the words the young man least wanted to hear: “Let me see what you’ve written.”
Philm wobbled, feeling as if he might fall backward, but a steady hand silently supported his lower back.
Findel’s voice reached his ears: “Friend, your stories are interesting.”
At this moment, Philm no longer cared about Findel’s status—here, everyone was someone he could only look up to. Encouraged by Findel’s words, he gathered some courage and pulled a somewhat worn notebook from the inside pocket of his coat.
“Your Majesty… these are the stories I’ve written,” he said, handing over the notebook. “They’re still immature. If anything is inappropriate, please forgive me…”
“No harm done. They’re just stories,” Gawain said casually, taking the notebook and flipping through it.
The first pages were a messy, fragmented narrative, still revolving around knights, princesses, gods, and extraordinary beings. Though some fresh ideas from the young man were evident, it was mostly reworking old themes. But the latter part caught Gawain’s attention.
“Is this… your experience aboard the Highlander?” he asked, pointing to the last few pages.
“Well… not entirely,” Philm struggled to explain. “Some parts are what I saw on that mechanical ship, but the passengers’ backstories, their lives before departure, and what happened after they reached the southern lands—those are exaggerated or imagined. Especially the sections about their lives after arrival… I made those up. After we disembarked, we all scattered, so I could only guess based on what I knew.”
As he spoke, shame crept over him. He knew his “coarse” stories about immigrants’ life on the ship were hardly suitable for this occasion. No noble knights, no heroic battles, no wise teachings from gods or sages, not even heroic monologues or poetic narration. Such tales would seem crude even on a Harvest Festival street stage, let alone in the palace…
Yet before him, the emperor smiled and nodded: “Interesting…”
Gawain closed the notebook and looked at Philm, who was visibly stunned.
“Few playwrights write such ‘realistic’ and ‘logical’ stories. Few focus on an engaging tale rather than a noble heroic mask. And you’ve cut out the pointless poetic narration and formulaic monologues… Does this story have a title?”
Still dazed, Philm answered instinctively, “Just call it ‘Going South’…”
Gawain paused, then chuckled: “That’s a simple, straightforward title. I like it.”
Philm immediately lowered his head. “Your Majesty, I’m ashamed…”
“No, don’t be ashamed. The title is good, and the story is good, though it’s not quite a script yet,” Gawain shook his head, then looked into Philm’s eyes and asked, “You’ve recorded a magic shadow play on the magical network terminal. Have you noticed the difference between acting for the camera and acting on stage?”
Philm hadn’t expected such detailed, professional questions from the emperor, but he had noticed some differences and quickly replied, “Traditional stages are open and fixed. Actors and sets are presented directly to everyone. But the magical network terminal is like an ‘eye.’ Its ‘stage’ depends on its ‘field of vision’…”
Gawain’s questions kept coming:
“Have you thought about how to switch scenes in front of the camera crystal?”
“Have you considered the differences in script format between magic shadow plays and stage plays?”
“The pacing of magic shadow plays differs from stage plays. Have you noticed that?”
“Illusion magic can create better effects before the camera crystal than on stage. Do you have ideas about that?”
“Let’s brainstorm a story to be presented as a magic shadow play…”
Gawain fired question after question, his enthusiasm growing. The emergence of this new art form rekindled his excitement, making him feel the era’s momentum surging before his eyes. His conversation with Philm grew deeper and broader, soon reaching a level few others could understand—even Rebecca was left speechless.
She nudged Amber cautiously. “Hey, hey, what’s the ancestor talking about?”
“How should I know?” Amber shrugged. “I’m telling you, whenever he suddenly starts talking about stuff you don’t understand, it’s best not to strain yourself listening. Otherwise, you’ll get a headache. I speak from experience…”
“Wow…”
Eleven, who had barely spoken since entering the room, was just as bewildered as Rebecca and Amber. Only Findel, standing behind Philm, caught bits and pieces—he had often discussed magic shadow plays with Philm during their journey.
Soon, Findel shared Philm’s strange thought:
That His Majesty could extend the conversation about such a new thing with such detail and specificity, even exploring its future development, was as if he had long anticipated this art form and foreseen its future!
Sweat beaded again on Philm’s forehead. Gawain’s questions were not easy to answer—even as the inventor of magic shadow plays, Philm hadn’t considered so many aspects or discovered so many problems. After struggling through a barrage of questions and finally catching a breath, the young man from Baren couldn’t hold back.
“Your Majesty… have you… actually been thinking about magic shadow plays for a long time?” he asked hesitantly.
The moment he said those words, the more he thought about it, the more it seemed quite possible—after all, the magical network broadcast was said to have been originally proposed by His Majesty Gawain Cecil…
Upon hearing Philm’s words, Gawain immediately realized something.
Perhaps he had asked too many questions, said too much.
So much so that it had caused this intriguing young man before him to start doubting everything.
“No, it’s just that I have a knack for spotting new things,” Gawain chuckled, shaking his head as his gaze settled on the young man from Baron. “Mr. Philm, the Shadowplay you created—that’s absolutely true. Never doubt that.”
(End of chapter)