Chapter 117: Chainbreaker

Chapter 117: Chainbreaker

"Hmph, probably another religious play about rebirth and revenge, right? Same old wine in a new bottle," a bunch of bored, hot-blooded young men sneered. "Come on, let's see what that Calest has up his sleeve!"

They gritted their teeth and bought tickets (having to spend money on that guy was absolutely infuriating!), and on opening night, they walked into the theater with a pocketful of rotten tomatoes, ready to show off their impeccable throwing skills at any moment.

On the same day, two distinguished spectators, escorted by fully armed guards, made their way to Queen Wilhelmina's Theater and settled into the VIP box upstairs.

"So, Your Grace, you still haven't seen 'The Prodigal's Return'?"

Cardinal Fiore, the Holy Nation's ambassador to Moltalia, holding a pair of opera glasses, asked the young man beside him with a smile.

"I've been swamped with work—no time for entertainment, I'm afraid," Duke Alfonso of Cold Mountain replied politely.

"Now that was one hell of a play! In all my years of theater, I've never seen anything so gripping and thought-provoking!"

Cardinal Fiore said with excitement. "Too bad it stopped running before you got a chance to see it. A play so popular could've raked in a fortune. Captain Dorian must be a real artist at heart—treats money like it's nothing!"

The Duke of Cold Mountain smiled: "That great playwright must've had some brilliant new spark of inspiration. So, do you know what today's 'Chainbreaker' is about?"

Cardinal Fiore shook his head: "I didn't catch the rehearsal. But I imagine it's like 'The Prodigal's Return'—a real crowd-pleaser... I mean, a masterpiece that touches the soul and inspires goodness."

The two discussed in low voices the possible plot of "Chainbreaker." But most of the time it was Cardinal Fiore doing all the talking, one-sided as hell, while Duke Alfonso half-listened, grunting a response now and then.

Ever since becoming "Interim Regent," he'd been buried in work and truly had no time to watch plays. On top of running the country, big and small, he also had to send men out to quietly hunt down "a certain woman."

She had gotten away back then, and Alfonso had been kicking himself ever since. He'd told the world the royal family had killed themselves for the country. If word got out that there was still a royal heir out there, those lying-low rebels would start stirring...

Alfonso's whole reign rested on Holy Nation troops, so he had no choice but to curry favor with Cardinal Fiore. Fiore enjoyed watching plays, so he had to grit his teeth and tag along.

As they talked, the curtain slowly rose. A grand, sweeping classical tune echoed through the theater, with singers tucked away on either side of the stage, humming softly along. At the same time, a booming narrator's voice rang out:

"Ladies and gentlemen, this story takes place long, long ago, in an ancient empire..."

This was a common opening narration for many plays. Modern writers often set their tales in some ancient empire to make their point. There had indeed existed a vast empire that once ruled the continent, but it had shattered in wars a thousand years ago, and its kings weren't about to crawl out of their tombs to call the writers liars.

Today, in this half-fictional, half-real empire, there was a youth who had been reduced to slavery (played by Radomir, the lead male actor of the Kalest Theatre Troupe). He was from some little kingdom the empire had crushed, and he'd been dragged into the arena himself, trained as a gladiator to spill blood for the crowd's amusement.

"How barbaric!" Cardinal Fiore commented in a low voice to the Duke of Cold Mountain. "The Church has completely outlawed this kind of brutality nowadays! Mr. Dorian Calest is probably using this play to take a jab at the old tyrants and sing the praises of the Dawn Church!"

The Duke of Cold Mountain said nothing to that.

This young gladiator was a natural—a hell of a fighter—and quickly became the arena's new star. The arena master promised him freedom if he won a hundred straight fights. But after winning ninety-nine, his last fight was against his best friend. He had to kill his friend to become a free man.

The good-hearted, principled kid refused to fight his friend. The furious arena master wanted him put to death, but with his friend's help, he escaped and set off on a long journey to save him.

"Oh, so this is a coming-of-age story, then?" Cardinal Fiore began to sound uncertain. "A heroic adventure epic, I guess?"

"Can't wait," the Duke of Cold Mountain said flatly.

During his journey, the youth encountered a band of reliable companions: a skilled dwarven craftsman (since the troupe couldn't find a real dwarf, the part was played by a little person); a beautiful elven woman with superb archery skills (played by the troupe's lead actress, Zora); and a witty, sharp, and charming bard who becomes the kid's mentor and guiding light (played by the troupe's director, Mr. Dorian himself).

Together, the four took out bandits raiding villages, lords bleeding the people dry, and merchants who'd sell their own mothers for a coin. They even tricked a dragon out of a magical treasure using nothing but their silver tongues (mostly the bard's doing).

"I don't see what this has to do with religion," the Duke of Cold Mountain said with sarcasm.

"Uh... 'The Prodigal's Return' saved its point for the end too. Gotta save the best for last, right?" Cardinal Fiore said with an awkward chuckle.

Having obtained the treasure and mastered extraordinary martial arts, the protagonist bid farewell to his companions and returned alone to the imperial capital. Just as he was about to sneak into the arena, he was spotted by a bishop.

The Duke of Cold Mountain noticed that in the front row of the ground-floor seating, several young people suddenly stood up, pulling something out of their cloth bags, ready to hurl it at the stage.

At that moment, the besieged protagonist loudly rebuked the bishop:

"You, a member of the Holy Order, yet you urged the emperor to invade my homeland and harm innocent people! You claim to spread the gospel of God, but in truth, you're just plundering the treasures and wealth of foreign lands! Have you ever considered that my countrymen, like your followers, are flesh-and-blood human beings? Yet you brand them as outsiders—where is the equality and brotherhood that God has taught you?"

The young spectators in the front row sat back down, exchanging bewildered looks. A murmur of whispers rippled through the theater.

"Your Eminence, wasn't the Kalest Troupe recommended by you?" the Duke of Cold Mountain turned to Cardinal Fiore beside him.

Fiore pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at the sweat on his forehead: "Th-this... this is impossible! Captain Dorian is a devout believer of the God of Dawn... the indulgence tickets... the Archbishop..."

On stage, the bishop summoned guards to arrest the protagonist, returning him to the arena master as a runaway slave. The furious master decided to teach this unruly slave a lesson: he must complete that long-delayed duel and fight his friend to the death. If he refused, his friend would be executed.

By now, the friend had become the arena's champion gladiator. One more match, and he would earn his freedom.

On a clear day, the protagonist and his friend walked into the arena with heavy hearts. The stands were packed, and thunderous applause rang out. The referee blew his horn, and despite a thousand unwilling hearts, the two raised their weapons and fought.

Unwilling to kill his friend with his own hands, the protagonist deliberately held back and was ultimately run through by his friend's sword. The referee raised both arms and declared that the friend was now a free man from this day forward. But the friend only clutched the young hero's body and wept bitterly.

"This is impossible!" a spectator in the ground-floor seats shouted. "The protagonist can't die! Dorian Calest, what the hell are you writing? If you'd said it was a tragedy, I wouldn't have come! Refund!"

The other spectators were about to chime in when they saw the protagonist's three skilled travel companions step onto the stage, followed by a host of slave gladiators. It turned out these three had long since infiltrated the arena and secretly freed the slaves.

The liberated slaves broke into the armory, seized swords to arm themselves, and under the command of the dwarf and the elf, merged into a torrent of steel.

They let out thunderous roars, clashing swords against shields, like the orderly battle formations of the ancient empire. The excellent architecture of Queen Wilhelmina's Theater amplified the magnificent sound from the stage, carrying it to every corner of the theater.

The friend cradling the young protagonist's body looked up and wiped away his tears. The elven archer pulled him to his feet and thrust a longsword into his hand.

Captain Dorian, playing the bard, stood at the highest point of the stage with a harp in his arms, striking a heroic pose.

He sang aloud:

"Ladies and gentlemen, hear my words.

A hero's tale never ends in tragedy!

Though one may fall, thousands shall rise,

And tell the legend of courage, generation after generation!"

The slaves trampled over the bodies of the arena master and his guards, surging into the streets. The entire city echoed with a war song woven from the notes of shattered chains.

The young spectators in the front row dropped their cloth bags and applauded in unison. Dorian's melody was simple and catchy—once heard, everyone immediately remembered the lyrics.

By the time Dorian sang the second verse, they were joining in with "Though one may fall, thousands shall rise." All the spectators rose to their feet as one, raising their hands in cheers, and the theater seemed to sprout a forest of arms out of thin air.

Cardinal Fiore's face turned ashen. He summoned his guards and pointed at the actors on stage, shouting angrily. But the theater was so loud that no one could hear what he was saying.

The guards received their orders and went down. Before long, the theater doors burst open with a thunderous crash. A squad of Holy Nation soldiers, armed to the teeth, charged down the aisles.

The captain at the front raised a piece of paper and shouted, "Stop right there! By decree of the Duke of Cold Mountain, all non-religious plays are prohibited from performance!"

Splat! A tomato flew from the front row of the audience, hitting him square in the face, turning into red mush that dripped down onto his chest.

"Get out! You despicable Holy Nation dogs!"

More tomatoes flew like catapult stones, some pelting the soldiers, while more arced toward the second-floor VIP boxes.

Cardinal Fiore shrieked and dodged a red projectile aimed at him, clutching his hat as he scrambled away in a panic. Duke Alfonso of Cold Mountain had a mocking grin on his face, signaling his guards to protect the Cardinal Bishop.

The theater's ground floor had turned into a madhouse. Soldiers and audience members were brawling in a tangled mess. On stage, the actors, oblivious to the chaos, kept performing the slave uprising scene.

Captain Dorian, playing the bard, strummed his lute and kept singing in his signature, piercing voice:

"Dear friends, lend me your ears,

The brave are marching, drawing near!

They will shatter their chains, tear through the dark..."

Before he could belt out the last line, a soldier—whose chest plate was dripping with tomato juice—hopped onto the stage and swung his sword at Dorian.

"Captain, watch out!" Radomir, playing the protagonist, sat up and yelled, forgetting he was supposed to be dead.

Dorian stayed cool as a cucumber, setting down his harp and meeting the blade with bare hands.

The actors screamed, sure his hands were about to get skewered. But the moment the blade touched Dorian—

Poof!

A soft pop, like a party popper.

The sword suddenly turned into a big blooming bouquet.

The soldier stared blankly at the flowers in his hand. The momentum made the bouquet thud against Dorian's arm, causing no harm.

"W-What kinda sorcery is this?!"

Scared out of his wits, the soldier dropped the bouquet like it had fangs.

Dorian picked up the flowers and gave an elegant bow, straight out of a royal court: "Thank you for the flowers, sir!"

The actors were floored. They'd never seen their captain pull off a stunt like that. Since when did he know magic?

More soldiers shoved through the wall of spectators and flooded onto the stage.

Dorian strode forward calmly. He grabbed a soldier's sword hilt—poof!—and suddenly the soldier was holding a bouquet of red roses.

He grabbed another soldier's spear—poof!—the tip vanished, and in its place was a spotless white calla lily.

The stage was now bursting with flowers, smelling like spring had shown up early.

The soldiers backed off like they'd seen a ghost.

The captain, his face smeared with tomato pulp, also climbed onto the stage. He slapped a soldier trying to run away, furious: "Can't take him down? Then take down the rest! Go!"

The soldiers quickly dodged around Dorian and rushed the other actors. The actors had weapons, sure, but they were just painted wooden props. In moments, several actors playing slaves were beaten to the ground.

Dorian's brows knit tight, and he was about to rush to his troupe's rescue, when a commanding voice rang out above them.

"He's a superhuman, but fear not!"

Duke of Cold Mountain stood in the VIP box, calling down to the soldiers.

"He can only turn inanimate objects into flowers! Use your bare fists!"

The soldiers snapped out of it, sheathing their swords (and bouquets), and lunged at Dorian with bare hands.

The poet-playwright tried to resist, but fists were no match for many. Someone yanked his hair, another kicked his knee. Overwhelming force pressed him to the floor, his face nearly flattened.

He heard someone in the theater singing "Heroes' tales never end in tragedy," but it wasn't a troupe member's voice—likely a spectator. Were he not gasping for breath, he would have cheered for that singer.

A moment later, the singer let out a muffled grunt, probably struck down.

A heavy blow landed on Dorian's temple. His vision went black, and then he knew no more.