When several actors stepped onto the stage under the slightly dim yet atmospheric lighting, the people below who had seen their performances before, or who were devoted fans of certain actors, began to clap and cheer.
It was the sa for each person who ca on in sequence, only the intensity of the applause and cheering differed.
But only when the actor playing the male lead ca out, there was first a wave of astonishnt from under the stage.
Because once he put on that special cloak, the male lead’s figure, standing next to ordinary people, was a whole head taller—by a lot!
The top of a normal person’s head barely reached his chest.
"That’s Ebola Riza? Impossible! Make him take off the hood!"
"I’ve seen him! I even bought him a drink! He’s not that tall, you’ve got the wrong guy, right?"
Voices of doubt and discussion rose from the audience like the constant buzzing of flies’ wings.
But no one in the troupe answered or reacted or explained; that too was a part of the performance.
Amid the humming buzz of doubt, the show began.
Dandelion had styled himself as an eyewitness, yet he did not place the play’s background in the period before the Battle of Sodden Mountain began.
That stretch of experience, even for him, was not sothing that could be turned into a happily-ever-after cody.
He went straight for the final climax of the war, naly the Battle of Sodden Mountain.
The stage could not reproduce how brutal and perilous the battlefield was back then; it could not even convey sothing as simple as how many people there were.
Limited by the form and conditions of performance, this play could not make Lann feel amazed or enthralled.
However, when the actors on stage tried their best to portray the tragic fate of the soldiers on that battlefield, and the passion and fervor that burned within that tragedy...
He still could not stop himself from recalling those scenes.
War has a devastating impact on a person’s mind.
Even though in his previous life Lann had already watched many interstellar-level battlefields through "mory Diving," once he experienced it himself, he had to admit it.
—War had reshaped his spirit.
For an ordinary person, war would bring injuries that could never be erased or soothed for a lifeti.
A soldier might be jumpy and suspicious for the rest of his life; his stress reactions might even cause him, so used to killing, to hurt his own family.
But Interstellar Warriors were strengthened humans born for war.
Lann was not broken by war; the Human Empire’s enhancent procedure worked on more than just the human body.
The process also involved controlling hormone levels and tuning brainwaves... War could not crush Lann; it only left him with a period of exhausted maladjustnt.
After he later went to the New Continent for a period of "active recuperation," Lann’s ntal endurance even increased substantially.
Even later, when facing the apocalyptic, oppressive and twisted Fla World, Lann’s ntal state remained relatively stable.
What truly engraved itself on his bones was not the cruelty of war, but the beautiful qualities that were still born in that reeking mire of cruelty.
The calmness in facing Death, the resolve to sacrifice for sothing even after realizing how precious life is, the yearning for life after the war, and the mournful sorrow after a life was gone...
These were the things that could overco the fear of war and leave marks in Lann’s heart.
After watching Lann finish talking with Shapeler, Geralt also sat down beside them.
His elbows rested on his knees, his body bent forward, his head slightly raised, absorbed in the performance on stage.
He was not Lann, who had lived through the flood of entertainnt in the information age and had seen grand spectacles made by computer effects and realistic props.
He was born and raised here; this kind of theatre fit his viewing habits.
He had not been there for the final Battle of Sodden Mountain; Lann had already sent them out of Sintra’s borders beforehand. In theory he shouldn’t have that many feelings about it.
But when Dandelion wrote this script, he inevitably mixed in things they had actually gone through on the battlefield before the great war.
So, as a fellow eyewitness, Geralt naturally sank into it as well.
"Who did you think of?"
Geralt’s eyes did not move, but his low, hoarse voice lightly asked Lann beside him.
Right then on the stage, the actor in a crude imitation of the Niflgaard Army’s black armor was raising a prop sword, aiming it at helpless civilians.
His sword was easily blocked by a suddenly appearing tall figure amid a chorus of gasps.
This was the depiction of the protagonist, but as Lann watched the stage recount his own story, his gaze did not quite focus.
"Who else could it be?"
Lann’s tone was very casual, but it sounded forced.
"Our mutual, ’great’ friend. Hacksaw, who once was just a Palace Steward, posing and affected in speech, dusting powder and spraying perfu on himself, cleaning up nose hair and pimples like a prissy fop."
"Yet at the last mont of his life, just to make people rember the atrocity that happened on that land, to make the world hear the victims’ wails, he endured torture, took on sin, and was braver than anyone."
"But he doesn’t quite count as great." Geralt stated calmly.
"The war records he wrote were preserved and later widely quoted as historical material. But his na was never particularly illustrious."
"Don’t say such laughable nonsense, Geralt."
Lann’s calm was just like Geralt’s, but with a hint of gravity.
"If greatness is only tied to fa, what aning does the word have left? The words people say most often are ’fuck you’ and ’shit.’ So what, does that make them great?"
Geralt was silent for a mont, then let out a short, derisive laugh.
"...Hmph, you’re right."
On stage, the towering hero, like a Celestial God, defeated the Niflgaard people and the black tide that represented the Niflgaard Legion.
The tide was made from black cloth.
Dandelion’s tale rose and fell dramatically, and it really knew how to seize people’s emotions.
With music and poetry being chanted, even the most inattentive audience mbers felt fear and suffocation from the black "tide" onstage.
But then, with the appearance of that "tall hero," their confidence was roused again, and when the Niflgaard Legion was defeated, they couldn’t help cheering, standing up to applaud.
Everyone stood up to applaud, neatly blocking the view of the three people on the bench.
The cheers could be heard all the way out on Novigrad’s main street beyond the slaughterhouse gate; windows on the second floors of the street-side houses opened, and the residents inside peered curiously toward the slaughterhouse.
Originally, the only sounds here should have been the shrieks of pigs, cows, and sheep before they died.
"If I hadn’t personally read the war records about you, I’d probably think right now that Dandelion’s script is just a big boot‑licking farce."
Shapeler was also applauding sincerely, but he didn’t stand up. He spoke beside Lann.
"But that is precisely why Bishop Helvaart set the city’s spies to tracking you."
Halfway through, he suddenly asked Lann in a tone that clearly sought confirmation.
"Do you know? At the ti, Helvaart acted as diator and took part in the truce‑signing talks between Niflgaard and the Northern Territory."
"After he ca back he was weighed down with worry, even going to casinos and brothels far less often. Naturally, that also ant he racked up far less debt."
"No, I didn’t know."
Amid the noisy clapping and cheering, Lann shook his head.
"But I suppose... you’re hinting that, at that truce‑signing conference, there were certain countries, or rather a certain group of people... who secretly ford an alliance against ?"
"I never said that," Shapeler denied flatly. "And in fact, based on the intel I can see from where I sit, at least Bishop Helvaart didn’t receive the slightest hint. But you have to admit, Lann..."
"Information about you is hot right now, and simultaneously hot everywhere."
Shapeler didn’t continue; he trusted Lann understood perfectly.
If there really were a covert alliance targeting him, that would only show those people were acting in secret and had considerable clout.
But that would be all.
If, however, no one was organizing any of this, and instead everyone was spontaneously and coincidentally doing the sa thing, that was the truly terrifying behavior.
Because that would signify the rise of a trend, a "hot wind."
A conspiracy can at least be unraveled and countered, because conspiracies can’t stand the light—but how do you block a trend?
A conspiracy is like two rchants locked in a business war, whereas a trend... is like a nation’s currency exchange rate collapsing.
Everyone wants to take a bite, even the country’s own citizens.
This was not a lightweight scenario.
But though Lann understood what Shapeler ant, he wasn’t particularly nervous.
He shrugged. "So, I’ve already prepared my counter‑strategy. You’re watching it right now."
Dandelion had pitched the tone of this play as a "cody"; aside from a happy ending, of course the process had to make people laugh as well.
Now that the thrilling war segnt was over, the drama onstage slid smoothly into a different atmosphere.
At the tail end of the battle, Lady Irena, in the role of "Tishaya," ca out.
Gotta say, with that big open cut at the chest of the costu and the neat lines everywhere else, it really did capture Tishaya’s ascetic vibe.
From the mont "Tishaya" ca onstage, the music and the accompanying sung poetry shifted to a new style.
Even people who didn’t often watch codies or listen to poetry could feel the mood turning relaxed and subtly suggestive.
At the sa ti, the audience below the stage shifted from stirred and moved to leering and snickering, or covering their faces while peeking through spread fingers.
Lann’s expression started to go numb.
Geralt, sitting beside him, let out a aningful, "Waa‑oh~ waa‑oh~."
At the very edge of Lann’s retinal display, a tiny "recording" icon suddenly appeared.
Onstage, perhaps a bit of blocking designed by Dandelion? The "tall hero" and "Tishaya" struck a very difficult yet aesthetically pleasing pose.
They fell into an enraptured kiss, and judging from the way their hands road over each other’s bodies, this clearly wasn’t a "just a quick peck" situation!
...That bastard Dandelion was obviously using pre‑set choreography to imply their relationship was a lot more "in‑depth"!
BYD, you really had to rub this in my eyes, huh?!
"Waa‑oh~ waa‑oh~"
Another teasing sing‑song, but this ti it wasn’t coming from the person beside him; it rang out inside his head.
At the sa ti, realizing ntos was about to make trouble again, Lann imdiately spotted that little recording icon at the edge of his vision!
He didn’t waste even a split second and instantly prepared to shut his eyes and turn away.
I’m not watching, let’s see what the hell a bio‑AI can record then!
But clearly, ntos was being very stubborn this ti.
"An intelligent brain records the beautiful monts of life. That, too, is my duty, sir. This is your first ti watching a theatrical performance from a dieval civilization; it has great archival value. Of course, if you refuse to let this unit record, then this unit will simply have to borrow your brain’s powers of imagination in the future to reconstruct the current scene, in order to maintain the integrity of the record."
The implication: if you won’t let keep an "official history," I’ll just write the "unofficial history" however I like.
Listening to ntos speak in that very British butler accent he’d painstakingly trained it into, Lann felt like a huge stone had just dropped into his chest.
That accent felt great when it was serving him, but when it was roasting him... infuriating! And yet, sohow getting mad only made him feel uncultured—like he’d already lost!
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