When people are dissatisfied with a story, they leave scathing comments.

 

They might write lengthy critiques or offer a few pointed barbs. And more often than not, the response they receive is something along the lines of — “If you don’t like it, write your own damn story.”

 

That’s precisely the situation I found myself in.

 

“Damn it…”

 

Balthazar Arture.

 

Or Ha Eun-seong, as I was known in my previous life.

 

The youngest son of the prestigious Arture family, a lineage of renowned warriors, and a second-year student at the academy, I was fuming, clutching a letter from a famous theater company in the capital.

 

Twenty years had passed since I died in an accident at the tender age of thirty and was reincarnated into this world.

 

And I’d never once regretted being reborn here.

 

I was born into a wealthy, aristocratic family, never wanting for anything. As the pampered youngest child, I was free from the complexities of my family’s political affairs.

 

But that was all about to change.

 

I had sent a letter of complaint, written anonymously, of course, and with utmost courtesy, expressing my dissatisfaction with the current state of plays in the capital.

 

Their response was essentially, “If you don’t like it, write it yourself.”

 

“These bastards… are really pushing my buttons.”

 

My biggest hobby back when I was Ha Eun-seong was watching movies and dramas.

 

I loved visual media. The way acting and directing combined to create new and exciting experiences.

 

And in this medieval world, movies and dramas were replaced with plays. 

 

Naturally, once I got a bit older, I spent most of my allowance frequenting nearby theaters.

 

But the novelty wore off quickly.

 

‘Your scripts are garbage, you narrow-minded fools!’

 

I wasn’t criticizing the direction or the actors’ performances. In fact, those aspects were quite impressive, even compared to works from my previous life.

 

The actors, perhaps because their livelihood depended solely on their talent, exhibited a level of raw emotion and realism that surpassed even some of the actors from my world. And thanks to the magic and sorcery that permeated this world, the set designs were sometimes so spectacular that I wondered if they were using CGI.

 

But the scripts? The scripts were the complete opposite.

 

They were boring, stale, recycled plotlines that had been rehashed a thousand times over. It was always the same tired tropes – faith in God would solve everything, or endless political satire devoid of any humor or heart.

 

Everywhere I went, it was the same predictable narratives, over and over again.

 

In short, it was mind-numbingly boring. Even if I wanted to enjoy them, there was nothing there to enjoy.

 

So I wrote my letter, suggesting that they try writing something new and original. It wasn’t as if I was holding them at swordpoint; I simply asked why their stories were so homogenous. And for that, I was treated with disdain.

 

“Balthazar, did you get a reply?”

 

I turned to see a young man standing behind me. It was my childhood friend, Maurice.

 

Unlike my family, which was moderately wealthy, Maurice’s family was one of the most prestigious in the capital. And since Maurice’s father outranked my own, we had been close since we were children.

 

He peered at the letter over my shoulder and said, “I told you, didn’t I? This is the only kind of response you’ll ever get. Why would they take your criticism seriously? You’re not even part of their industry.”

 

“That’s no excuse!”

 

Crumple, crumple! 

 

I channeled the spirit of an irate viewer and crushed the letter in my fist, venting my frustration.

 

“Aren’t you tired of it yet? Seeing the same old stories played out in the theater every day?”

 

“Not really. The story isn’t all that important to begin with. Just enjoy the spectacle, the costumes, the pretty faces.”

 

“Ugh!”

 

I pounded my chest in frustration, utterly exasperated by my friend’s obliviousness.

 

A good script was the be-all and end-all of playwriting; there was a reason why literary giants like Shakespeare and Goethe were lauded as master storytellers.

 

And yet, here was Maurice, completely content with lackluster narratives as long as they were accompanied by flashy magic and stagecraft!

 

‘This can’t be right!’

 

In a world brimming with fantasy and romance, why are the scripts so stagnant? And to make matters worse, they dismissed any criticism, refusing to even acknowledge the need for change!

 

As a former connoisseur of visual media, I was fuming.

 

“If you don’t like it, write it yourself?”

 

Fine, they told me to write my own story?

 

I’ll write it myself and send it to them. And I’ll make them cover the postage.

 

Determined, I cleared the paperwork and books cluttering my desk.

 

Then, I took out sheets of writing paper from my drawer and laid them out in a row.

 

As a man from the modern world, I had consumed countless movies, dramas, and plays. I was confident that I could whip up a story that was at least a hundred times better than the garbage they were churning out here.

 

……However, things didn’t go as smoothly as I’d anticipated.

 

“Damn it.”

 

I conceded that I lacked talent in writing.

 

Or more accurately, I lacked the talent for crafting a storyline.

 

They always said that being a good viewer didn’t necessarily make you a good writer, and now I understand why. What I thought was just talk became glaringly real as soon as I picked up the pen.

 

Sure, if I had to write a trashy soap opera, I could probably manage. Those things were so formulaic that there were entire textbooks dedicated to writing them.

 

The real issue was the historical setting, presenting unexpected hurdles.

 

‘You need to spice it up without straying too far from medieval values…’

 

When writing, one must always consider the audience’s perspective.

 

In my previous world, diverse narratives flourished because people were more open-minded.

 

But in this world, where thought and expression were restricted, writing something truly innovative would be difficult. Audiences wouldn’t be receptive. And the playwright might even be accused of being a heretic!

 

“Ugh.”

 

I tossed down my pen and sighed, unable to come up with any brilliant ideas.

 

‘This is too damn hard.’

 

Creating a thrilling story, brimming with excitement and twists and turns, that would appeal to modern sensibilities, but wouldn’t offend the conservative values of this medieval world?

 

Not even the lives of historical figures could provide such convenient stories… 

 

“…Wait a minute?”

 

The lives of historical figures?

 

Suddenly, vivid images started forming in my mind.

 

Back when I was living in modern-day Korea, I had read countless biographies of famous figures from around the world. And now, I could envision their lives unfolding on stage, a panorama of scenes woven together into a compelling narrative.

 

“Wait a minute… this could actually work.”

 

Scritch—! Scratch—! 

 

I started jotting down the names of famous heroes I could remember, muttering to myself.

 

Reality in this world isn’t the same as in my original world. 

 

And naturally, the people of this world had no knowledge of real-world historical events.

 

Therefore, I was free to present real-world history as my own fictional creation, without any repercussions.

 

And more importantly, I knew how to transform a historical narrative into a captivating story. I understood the art of adaptation, of highlighting the most dramatic moments and embellishing the details for maximum impact.

 

‘If I revise the biographies of historical heroes, turning them into a play?’

 

And adding a dash of moral lessons for the audience, to stay true to the spirit of medieval theater?

 

“This is brilliant!”

 

“What’s brilliant?”

 

Maurice, who had been hovering behind me, asked. He yawned lazily and chided me in a bored tone.

 

“We’ve barely got any time left before the semester starts. And you’re stuck here, scribbling away? Don’t you realize you’ll be doing enough writing at the academy, with all those reports?”

 

“Just shut up.”

 

It wasn’t as if I actually wanted to become a playwright in this world.

 

I was a nobleman, perfectly content to live a comfortable life without lifting a finger. My life plan involved indulging in the pleasures of the idle rich, pursuing simple happiness.

 

But there was one insult that no Korean man could ever tolerate. And that was being told, “You suck at this.” Those theater snobs had essentially said, “Are you trying to give me advice? You’re a lower rank than me, lol.”

 

When, in reality, I was a far more experienced player than they could ever dream of being.

 

If I didn’t exact “revenge” for this, I wouldn’t be a true “Korean” man.

 

“Alright, if they want me to write a story, I’ll write them a story they’ll never forget. Time to pull out the big guns.”

 

With those words, I underlined one of the names on my list of biographies.

 

Korea’s greatest naval hero, a military genius admired worldwide.

 

Admiral Yi Sun-sin.

 

✧❅✦❅✧

 

Some time later, within the confines of Bronde Academy after the vacation ended…

 

“…This is ridiculous.”

 

I stood in the academy cafe, my hand pressed to my forehead, struggling to process the situation.

 

⌠Those who seek death shall live. Those who seek life shall die.⌡

 

One student roared, quoting Yi Sun-sin’s famous line.

 

⌠Your Highness, I still have twelve battleships.⌡

 

Another exclaimed, mimicking the admiral’s defiant cry.

 

⌠I swear upon my three-foot long blade! Mountains tremble, rivers quake, and with a single stroke, blood paints the land crimson!⌡

 

Academy students, excitedly quoting Admiral Yi Sun-sin’s famous lines to each other.

 

Regardless of rank—seniors, juniors, and classmates alike—they were all absorbed in discussing the new play that had recently been performed.

 

I had simply wanted to put those theater snobs in their place.

 

But the play, which they had surprisingly agreed to produce, had become a smash hit.

 

…Perhaps a little too successful.

 

— End of Chapter —