Free Web NovelChapter 203: Chapter 186: The Drama Guild Chairman’s Clownish Operation (Part 2)
On the surface, the entire theater world had to maintain a facade of camaraderie, united in their resistance against the market impact of the Shadow of Evil.
"Rest assured," the secretary replied.
They were well-practiced in this sort of business. This was how they had ruined and annexed many small theater troupes.
Sir Turt tucked his pocket watch into his vest, donned a tall top hat, and fastened his intricate cravat. Gazing into the mirror, he felt he looked elegant and distinguished.
From a row of canes, he selected a simple, pure black one, unadorned by any gemstones.
A connoisseur, however, would recognize the wood of the cane as exceedingly valuable.
The very definition of understated luxury.
Sir Turt had always cultivated this image in the theater world. Everyone knew he was a "low-key" man.
It was, in its own way, a rather unique kind of "low-key."
The Sutton King’s Theatre was actually quite close, so he made a point of taking a long detour to arrive at its entrance.
All just to show off his new carriage.
The carriage itself wasn’t flashy—it had no intricate designs—but the horse pulling it was anything but ordinary.
Its glossy black coat seemed to gleam in the sunlight. Anyone could show off a carriage, but a fine horse—that was true style.
An acquaintance, knowing his tastes, sidled up to flatter him. "My, my, the esteemed Sir Turt! Your horse is magnificent. It must have cost more than ten Gold Coins, I imagine?"
In truth, the man knew the horse’s price, but a professional sycophant must be a master of feigned ignorance, all to provide the target of his flattery with the greatest possible satisfaction.
"Not at all, not at all. It’s just an Ordinary horse," Sir Turt said, a grin nearly splitting his face. "It only cost a little over two hundred Gold Coins. Nothing to speak of, really."
The actual price was 205, and the seller had even waived the odd few coins, but he had to say "a little over two hundred."
"Praise the Goddess! So valuable. I’m afraid I couldn’t afford one in my entire lifetime."
"You must have faith. Work hard, and you’ll surely earn more money in the future," Sir Turt said in a display of feigned encouragement.
The sentence, of course, was missing its true subject.
The complete version should have been: "You work hard, and I will surely earn more money in the future."
Every drop of his employees’ sweat would help the Chairman afford an even better carriage.
His secretary arrived to meet him, and they entered the theater together. The invitation permitted one guest.
He had brought his secretary to direct the paid hecklers, ensuring they would strike at the most critical moments.
It was a matter of technique. Perfectly timed booing could incite large swathes of the audience.
"Well? Is everything ready?" Sir Turt asked.
"All set. Fifty-three people in total, distributed throughout every section," the secretary replied.
Turt nodded, indicating a job well done.
’They must be spread out. That way, it won’t look so obviously coordinated.’
The secretary would use a Sound Transmission Spell to command the lead hecklers. Once he gave the signal, the leaders would start the disruption, the other fifty-odd men would follow, and the atmosphere would be utterly ruined.
’It was a shame they couldn’t get their hands on a leaked script. They could have spoiled the plot from the audience—that would have been the most effective tactic of all.’
’For a mystery play like this, once the ending is revealed, the viewing experience is all but ruined.’
’And they could even criticize the writing as being so poor that the audience figured out the ending. Two birds with one stone.’
Normally, some plot details were bound to leak before a premiere. It was unheard of for a play to be completely airtight.
But somehow, *Prosecution Witness* had managed it. The secretary had investigated for a long time and come up with nothing.
"Please follow me, you two." A staff member gestured for them to proceed after checking their invitations.
Sir Turt was familiar with this routine. Special attendants always escorted guests to the VIP boxes; one didn’t have to grope around for a seat on the dark ground floor.
However, the route the attendant took was not what Turt had expected.
He was led onto the dark ground floor.
"Are you sure this is the right way?" Turt asked, suppressing his anger.
Ever since he’d climbed to the mid-levels of the Drama Guild, he had only ever watched plays from a private box.
The second-best tier, no less, right below the Nobility.
He hadn’t sat in an Ordinary seat in at least twenty years.
"There’s no mistake, esteemed Mr. Chairman. I’m quite certain. Our Chairman specifically saved these seats for you."
The attendant pointed to two seats in a corner, far to the back and off to the left.
Even by the standards of Ordinary seats, these were the cheap ones.
’Humiliation. Pure and simple humiliation.’
’Given his status... how could he sit among people who couldn’t even afford the expensive tickets?’
’He felt that just breathing the air in here, he would catch the foul stench of poverty.’
Of course, in this day and age, anyone who could afford a theater ticket was by no means poor. But in Turt’s eyes, anyone beneath him was all the same.
He despised them, just as he despised the man he used to be before he had made a name for himself.
Sir Turt gripped his cane and turned to leave.
’He had accepted the invitation to give this sham of a Drama Guild face, to give his old master face.’
"Chairman," the secretary said, grabbing Turt’s arm. "If we leave, what if they start rumors that the Drama Guild fled because it felt inferior?"
"Besides, we’ve already made our preparations. We should at least stay to see them through."
At his secretary’s words, Sir Turt managed to swallow his anger and reluctantly sat down.
The moment he sat, he felt his breeches, worth 20 Silver Coins, had been sullied.
’He decided that even if it meant buying tickets just to leave negative reviews, that’s exactly what he would do.’
’He would also contact all his partnered critics and have them unleash their full fury right after the premiere, trashing the play until it was deemed worthless.’
’As for *how* to trash it, he would take it upon himself to personally scrutinize his ’most respected’ master’s comeback performance.’
He waited a little while. It wasn’t time for the show to officially begin.
An actor walked out onto the stage. Because the Sutton King’s Theatre was so large, he had to use an Amplification Spell to ensure his voice reached every member of the audience.
"Esteemed members of the audience, to ensure that your friends who have not yet seen the show have the chance to experience it with maximum enjoyment, we ask that you do not spoil the plot of *Prosecution Witness* for anyone."
After saying this, the actor repeated the message twice more.
’Sir Turt found it laughable. A simple request not to spoil the play? Who would be so obedient?’
’If there were no spoilers, what would his stable of critics have to write about?’
’It wasn’t as if one couldn’t submit anonymous tips to the papers.’
However, the same attendant from before returned, a Scroll clutched in his hand.
"Hello again, esteemed Mr. Chairman. If it’s convenient, would you please sign this Contract promising not to reveal any spoilers?" the attendant asked, unrolling the Scroll.
’Sir Turt froze. ’What is the meaning of this? Have they guessed my plan?’’
’He felt a flicker of panic, but he couldn’t let it show.’
"Why would I spoil it? I am the Chairman of the Drama Guild. I am quite familiar with and happy to abide by the rules of our profession. I would never do something to undermine them."
He said, his voice full of righteous indignation.
"So it is convenient for you, then? Please, sign quickly. If you’d rather not sign, a thumbprint will also suffice."
The attendant even produced a box of Seal Paste as he spoke.
"You’re questioning my integrity!" Sir Turt decided to play hardball. ’What can a mere theater attendant do to me, anyway?’
"It is not convenient!" he snapped.
"That’s fine. We can help make it convenient for you."
"What do you mean, help me—"
Before Sir Turt could finish his question, he saw a nearly three-meter-tall Beastman striding toward them. The floorboards groaned under the creature’s weight; if they weren’t on the ground floor, he would have feared a collapse.
"Which hand?" the Beastman asked, baring his fangs. "Are you going to do it yourself, or should I help?"
"I—I’ll sign it myself. That’s fine."
’Discretion is the better part of valor.’
Sir Turt folded. He had the sinking feeling that this invitation wasn’t his chance to move against the sham Drama Guild, but rather a trap he had walked right into.
He signed his name with extreme reluctance, then took out a handkerchief and pressed it to his nose.
The handkerchief was scented with expensive perfume—an essential social accessory for the aristocracy.
Their body odor, it was said, could not be cleansed by bathing alone.
He produced it now to mask the Beastman’s scent.
Beyond the foul odor, there was a metallic tang of blood.
Having lived a comfortable city life for so long, this savage, bloody scent filled him with panic.
He was now beginning to suspect that targeting the New Drama Guild might have been an unwise decision.
After all, the Zog Group was their sponsor.
’But he’d heard the Zog Group prioritized profit above all else. If they were sponsoring the new guild, it meant they needed the profits that theater could bring. So why couldn’t he be the one to ruin the New Drama Guild, prove his own value, and take its place?’
’And from there, take another step—and bring even the Shadow of Evil under his control.’
He had convinced himself.
He had to believe that Zog was a Dragon who abided by the law of the jungle: the strong devour the weak.
At that moment, the lights went out, and the show officially began.
