Chapter 772: The New-Style Drama
Once the Earl of Barin confirmed that the stage held nothing but a jumble of magical components and crystal arrays, he felt he had grasped the essence of this so-called “new-style drama.”
It wasn’t some brilliant new technology, but he still had to admit—it was a remarkable idea.
By recording traditional plays onto crystal images and then using the magical network terminals’ ability to replay and broadcast widely, a single scene could be transformed into a product that could be endlessly duplicated and reproduced. The cheap magical devices instantly slashed the cost of such “dramas” to an unbelievable degree, without compromising the quality of the experience.
That explained the existence of this rather “popular” theater, the tickets priced at a mere six Ael, and the fact that ordinary citizens could watch these “new-style dramas” at their leisure.
Undoubtedly, this aligned perfectly with His Majesty Gawain Cecil’s push for the “New Order,” embodying the core principles of “technology serving the masses” and “mass production laying the foundation.”
No wonder this innovation had the full backing of the Administrative Office, enabling such grand promotion throughout the imperial capital.
Barin could see this clearly, and so could most of the others present—none of those standing beside Victoria were fools. Having been involved in the Administrative Office’s operations in the Old Capital, they had encountered many cases involving magical technology. At least in terms of comprehension and inference, they could easily deduce how this new-style drama worked. The technology itself was unsurprising, but they still admired whoever had come up with the idea: in an era of rapid change, the ability to conceive a good idea was itself remarkable.
Having figured this out, the Earl adjusted his posture in his chair, preparing to watch the upcoming performance from a relatively comfortable angle. The hall was packed, the seats cramped, with no high-class attendants, no desserts to pass the time, no private balconies—this was hardly a comfortable theater environment, but it promised to be a novel and interesting experience.
Just as he settled in, a chime rang out from somewhere unknown.
Lights rose on the stage.
The once noisy hall gradually quieted. The common folk, many of whom were entering a theater for the first time, fell silent, their faces alight with anticipation, nervousness, and curiosity. They watched as the crystal arrays on stage lit up one by one in magical radiance, and then a holographic projection rose into the air.
Many recognized it as something akin to the magical network terminals used for street broadcasts, but that didn’t stop them from fixating on the images unfolding before them—
After a brief advertisement introducing the Kord Household Services Company, one of the drama’s investors, the magical shadow play began. The first scene revealed a messy, tangled street, with a group of children running and playing in mud and dust.
No castles, no knights, no princesses visiting the common folk, no gardens or fountains viewed from manor terraces.
Only one character after another, living in the city’s cramped alleys, wandering the streets, struggling to make ends meet.
The Earl frowned in confusion, as did several others nearby.
Victoria Wilde, however, watched silently, expressionless.
The camera moved through the crisscrossing, shabby lanes, weaving through crowds loudly bargaining, working hard, laughing and crying. It felt less like a staged set and more like the eyes of someone wandering through an old city—an imaginary city, yet utterly real. It plainly showed things that were somewhat unfamiliar to the Earl but deeply familiar to most in the hall.
This was the place they had once lived, their former neighbors—and even themselves.
…
In a room adjacent to the screening hall, Gawain sat before a monitor displaying the exact same scene as the stage. Around him, various magical devices filled the room, with several magitech technicians focused intently on their instruments, ensuring the premiere went smoothly.
Gawain’s gaze lifted from the monitor.
He had already seen the entire magical shadow play in advance, and frankly, the story was very simple to him.
It told of a few young people living in the North, struggling with poverty and bleak prospects. When war broke out in the North, they were forced to sell their belongings and leave their homes, boarding a mechanical ship to cross half the country and start anew in the South.
Interwoven were the myriad human dramas aboard the immigrant ship, recounting the experiences of ordinary people—
A taciturn watchmaker, ostracized and falsely accused due to his reclusive nature, who found a new home in a Southern factory; an elderly couple separated from their only son during the war, who mistakenly boarded the immigrant ship while trying to reach relatives, only to discover that the “gear monster” hiding in the ship’s engine room was their son, suffering from amnesia; a down-on-his-luck mercenary fleeing enemies, who stole a ticket and boarded the ship, pretending to be a noble knight, and when the ship passed through a war zone blockade, bravely stood up to officers attempting to extort passengers, protecting a brother and sister without travel permits…
In this magical shadow play, Philm and his friends didn’t chase sensational court intrigues or preach hollow allegories. Their sole aim was to tell a good story.
To make it feel as if it were happening right beside the audience.
“It’s not a complicated plot,” Gawain turned to look at Philm, who stood nearby, visibly nervous and restless. “It’s straightforward.”
“Y-yes, Your Majesty,” Philm stammered, “It… is somewhat simple…”
Gawain smiled and shook his head. “No, I’m not criticizing. On the contrary, that’s exactly right. For the first magical shadow play, it needs to be simple and accessible.”
This wasn’t mere consolation—it was exactly what he thought.
Gawain had no shortage of thrilling, intricate, and exciting story ideas. In fact, in this era starved for mental entertainment, he could easily pull from countless tales with complex plots, suspense, and rich world-building that surpassed contemporary dramas. But for the first magical shadow play, those wouldn’t be suitable.
The debut needed to appeal to the masses, most of whom had never even seen the simplest play before.
If the story was too convoluted, they wouldn’t understand it; if it was too detached from their lives, they wouldn’t engage; if it was too rich in symbolism and allegory, they might dismiss magical shadow plays as boring and avoid them forever, making promotion impossible.
In Gawain’s view, having a “local” write a story for “locals” was far better than him dredging up some otherworldly legend from his mind—those would require painstaking adaptation to fit the local worldview, and even then might fail to capture the public’s interest.
“To be honest, there were many things in this story I learned for the first time,” said Ilaven with a shy smile beside Philm. “Father was right—I should get out more and learn.”
As he spoke, the Western heir glanced curiously at his friend nearby. “Findel, what’s wrong? You’ve seemed uneasy since earlier.”
“I… it’s nothing, probably just a feeling,” said Findel, tall and sunny with silver hair, though now looking a bit anxious. He smiled and shook his head. “I’ve had a bad feeling since earlier, like trouble’s coming.”
Philm immediately tensed. “You mean the premiere might have problems?”
Powerful supernatural beings often possessed instincts beyond ordinary understanding. Philm didn’t quite grasp this and assumed it was some kind of prophecy, so he couldn’t help but grow nervous at Findel’s words.
“No, not that kind of trouble,” Findel quickly waved his hand. “Have confidence, Philm. Your work is excellent—look at Miss Amber’s expression. She clearly likes this magical shadow play.”
By the monitor, Amber watched the holographic projection without blinking, fully immersed. Yet when Findel finished speaking, her ears twitched slightly as she said without turning, “It’s pretty good—at least some details feel authentic. That mercenary who stole the ticket—his trick was crude but clever. Did you get someone to coach you?”
“We made several trips to the Security Bureau,” Philm said sheepishly, lowering his head. “The actor playing the mercenary was actually a thief… I mean, he used to be one.”
“Good,” Gawain chuckled. “I mean, your dedication is commendable.”
He turned his gaze toward the screening hall next door.
Not only was Philm’s team serious about their magical shadow play.
Findel’s intuition… seemed pretty good too.
…
For over two hours, the hall remained quiet.
For a group of commoners entering a theater for the first time, and for nobles like the Earl of Barin sitting among them, this was almost unbelievable.
By the halfway point, Barin realized one thing: aside from serving as background, castles, manors, and palaces simply wouldn’t appear.
Apart from the mercenary disguised as a knight and a few clearly villainous old noble knights, “knights” were basically absent.
No poetic narration, no heroic monologues, no priests symbolizing gods, no philosophers embodying wise nobles—none of that would appear.
The story was simple, and to Barin, not particularly interesting.
Most of it was alien to this noble from the capital—he couldn’t relate, understand, or empathize.
Yet he still watched the entire story attentively, noticing that everyone in the hall was completely absorbed in the magical shadow play.
As the story neared its end, the “Highlander” ship, battered and tested, having broken through war blockades and survived monsters and mechanical failures, finally arrived safely at the southern port city. The audience was delighted to see a familiar figure appear in the play—a beloved witch cameoed as an immigration clerk, and even the famous merchant and Kord Household Services Company owner, Mr. Kord, played a guide at the docks.
The ending was even more novel: after the “several years later” caption, the screen showed immigrants settled in the South, recounting their experiences on the ship and their new lives. The final scene was a mosaic of dozens of small clips, dozens of characters speaking the last line in unison:
“Yes, this is how we begin our new lives.”
The scene slowly faded to black, and the cast list appeared on the holographic display.
Count Barin let out a soft sigh and was about to rise when a faint voice suddenly came from the seats behind him:
“Yes, this is how we begin our new lives…”
Startled, Barin froze. Before he could turn toward the sound, more voices echoed nearby:
“Yes, this is how we begin our new lives…”
Many eyes remained fixed on the now-darkened crystal array, and many still quietly repeated that final line.
In this city, ninety-nine percent of the people were immigrants—some would say displaced persons, refugees.
They had lived through everything the story told: leaving their homes, enduring long journeys, planting roots in unfamiliar lands, working hard, building their own houses, tilling their own fields…
No story moved those gathered here quite like The Immigrants.
Gradually, applause began to rise—soft at first, then swelling louder and louder until it filled the entire hall.
Amid the surrounding claps, Count Barin suddenly heard Victoria Wilde’s voice in his ear:
“They come here to watch others’ stories, only to see their own reflected within.
“Mr. Barin, what do you think of this story?”
(End of chapter)