“Hmph.”

Diana chuckled softly as she read through the response she had received a few days prior.

The letter from Phantom covered his well-being, the challenges he faced in his creative work, and a myriad of other topics. As her eyes followed the neatly written script, Diana murmured to herself.

“He’s quite the charming man, isn’t he?”

The letters they exchanged had begun as a casual, almost playful correspondence after that cosplay event. But now, she found herself genuinely enjoying their exchanges, to the point where she eagerly anticipated each reply, counting the days until the next one would arrive.

Of course, there was another, more subtle reason for her interest in reading Phantom's letters in detail.

“Who would have thought? For someone from a family of warriors, his writing is incredibly delicate. Does writing beautifully make you better at creating plays?”

Diana’s sharp, lime-colored eyes scanned the graceful, rounded letters on the page. As she examined the handwriting, a thought crossed her mind. Those who primarily trained in martial skills often lacked refinement when it came to writing. Even the royal knights didn’t bother much with neat handwriting, as long as their writing was legible.

Given that detail, the pool of potential candidates for the identity of the great playwright Phantom narrowed further in her mind. A first or second-year student with hands hardened from physical training, yet skilled enough to write with such elegance—there weren’t many who fit that description.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better, Your Highness. You seemed rather unsettled by the recent news from the capital,” said her attendant, Franz, cautiously inquiring by her side. Diana responded with a playful, sarcastic smile, setting the letter down on the table.

“Unsettled? That’s an exaggeration. ‘Mildly irritated’ is more like it, Franz.”

“Is that so? You did seem rather displeased at the time—”

“Quiet.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Once again, Diana swiftly silenced her attendant’s remark with a smirk. In her mind, the headline from the recent newspaper flashed again: “Saint Beatrice Recommends Great Playwright Phantom as ‘Hero of the Pen’ Candidate!”

Of course, who Saint Beatrice nominated as a Hero Candidate wasn’t her concern. Choosing Hero candidates was a privilege reserved for high-ranking members of the Church.

However, the fact that Phantom—a man who was special to Diana in his own way—had been chosen? That didn’t sit well with her for some reason.

‘When did I last feel like this?’

It was an unfamiliar yet oddly familiar feeling. Diana pondered for a moment, then finally remembered where this emotion had come from.

It was the same feeling she had experienced as a child when she had reluctantly given her favorite doll to her newborn brother. The feeling of having something she cherished taken from her.

“Hmph.”

Saint Beatrice, huh?

On that day, for reasons she couldn’t quite explain, Diana found herself annoyed with the Saint.

✧❅✦❅✧

“Done! It’s finished!”

After several days of squeezing in whatever time I could to work on it, I finally completed the first draft of my Lesedrama. Wiping the sweat from my forehead, I placed the manuscript down with a satisfied sigh.

The reason I chose to write about Socrates for this project was simple.

Plato, Socrates’ student, had recorded his master’s life and philosophical dialogues, and these writings were often considered the origin of the Lesedrama genre in the literary world.

‘Besides, Socrates himself never left behind any writings.’

Socrates believed that relying on written words diminished one's ability to think critically. He feared that once words were written down, their context would be lost, and with it, their true meaning.

Thus, Socrates’ ideas and legacy had only survived through the words of his disciples—particularly in Plato’s Dialogues, which resembled a form of dramatic literature.

“Here, Maurice. Take a look. I’ll revise it before publication, but tell me what you think.”

“Oh? Another ancient setting, like your Julius Caesar piece? I see Athens is mentioned, along with references to primitive polytheism. Looks interesting,” Maurice remarked, flipping through the pages, his eyes gleaming with interest.

“Well, something like that.”

I adapted the parts that might make people in this world uncomfortable. Where that wasn’t possible, I simply attributed it to “ancient culture” and moved on.

Socrates was a philosopher born and raised in Athens, a city-state known for its democracy and polytheism. Without these elements, it would be impossible to depict his character accurately.

For example, the opening scene of the Dialogues is a perfect demonstration of this.

“Wow! The intro is pretty engaging, Balthazar.”

Maurice’s eyes sparkled as he continued reading, then he glanced at me with a mischievous grin.

“So, he visits the Oracle of Delphi, and the oracle declares that no one in Athens is wiser than Socrates? Haha! Is this another story about a genius strategist who outsmarts his enemies?”

“Well, maybe.”

Even though I wasn’t a huge fan of philosophy, I found myself fascinated by the records of Socrates. Plato’s writings were far more engaging than other, more dry philosophical works. Reading them felt like reading a play.

That said, recreating all 25 of Plato’s Dialogues in a dramatic form would’ve been impossible.

‘Philosophy is profound and deep in its own right, after all.’

I wasn’t a disciple of Socrates, nor was I a professional philosopher. So trying to fully capture the essence of his teachings in a play would’ve been a fool’s errand.

Instead, I took a different approach. Rather than copying the Dialogues verbatim, I re-imagined the character of Socrates as I remembered and respected him from my previous life as Ha Eun-seong.

“…Hey. Is this really the whole thing?”

Maurice’s voice pulled me out of my thoughts. He had been flipping through the pages for some time.

“Why? You don’t like it?”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just… I don’t know…”

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, clearly struggling to find the right words.

After a long pause, he finally spoke again.

“Isn’t it all a bit vague? It’s just people talking back and forth, and the main character is constantly nitpicking at others. I mean, if you just criticize everything, how can anyone claim to know anything?”

“That’s the point.”

“Uh…what?”

My version of The Dialogues was less of a traditional play and more like an educational lecture in dramatic form.

I had focused on Plato’s early dialogues, which best showcased Socrates’ personality and philosophy. These conversations were woven into a single narrative, with occasional narration to explain Socrates' ideas and actions.

And the truth was, Socratic philosophy wasn’t about proclaiming a particular doctrine. It was more about encouraging others to engage in philosophical thinking on their own.

“Keep reading, Maurice. Once you’ve finished, reflect on Socrates’ dialogues. You’ll see things differently.”

Socrates never claimed to have any knowledge, nor did he ever suggest he was trying to teach something.

What he pursued was the idea of knowing one’s own ignorance—the famous ‘I know that I know nothing.’ He led people away from superficial, subjective understandings, guiding them toward true knowledge.

“Fine, I’ll keep reading.”

Maurice clicked his tongue but returned to the manuscript. Page by page, he read through the conversations, slowly shifting from a somewhat skeptical expression to one of deeper contemplation.

Discussions with Protagoras on human measure, debates with Gorgias about the futility of existence, explorations of temperance with Charmides, and reflections on courage with Laches.

And then, the final chapters—The Apology, Crito, and Phaedo, recounting the trial and death of Socrates.

Finally, Maurice closed the manuscript with a thoughtful expression, resting his chin in his hand like Rodin’s The Thinker.

Meanwhile, I stretched out, tossed my quill aside, and collapsed onto my bed.

“Yawn… It’s late. Let’s get some sleep.”

From recalling the knowledge in my head to condensing it into a manuscript, the effort I put into this Lesedrama was equivalent to writing three full plays.

“Hey, Maurice? Are you going to sleep or what?”

“…?”

Even as I set my alarm and turned off the lights, Maurice remained in deep thought. I decided not to worry about it too much.

‘He’ll pass out eventually,’ I thought, burying my head in the pillow and drifting into a sweet, well-deserved sleep.

✧❅✦❅✧

Ringgggg—!

“Ugh, so sleepy…”

Morning came, and the blaring sound of my alarm dragged me from my slumber. Rubbing my eyes, I opened the window to let in the first light of dawn.

And there he was—Maurice, still sitting in the same spot, lost in thought.

“Hey, Maurice? Did you stay up all night?”

“Ah, you’re awake. My dear friend, Balthazar.”

I blinked in confusion as Maurice slowly broke his statue-like posture, turning to face me.

“I’ve been pondering. As a noble, as the second son of the Marquis of Laval, as Julian’s lover, and as a man—have I truly been living a virtuous life?”

“Uh…what?”

“The scales have fallen from my eyes. I now realize that true value doesn’t come from outward appearance or material wealth, but from the beauty of the soul. Striving to cultivate a better soul is my life’s mission now.”

With a contemplative look that seemed out of place on his dark-ringed eyes, Maurice quoted a line straight from Phaedo.

“Thanks to you, I’ve finally realized how ignorant I’ve been. Thank you, Balthazar, my most honorable, just, and wise friend.”

I could only offer one response to Maurice, who was now quoting from Plato and acting as though he’d reached some great epiphany.

“What the hell did you take last night?”

<><><><><><>

...Surprisingly, it wasn’t just Maurice who seemed to have lost his senses.

Two days after I had connected with the publisher through Maurice’s contacts and officially published The Dialogues...

Professor Frunel, known for starting his lectures at the exact minute, suddenly made a surprising announcement in our Imperial Political History class.

“Today, I, Frunel Rabize, have something to confess to all of you.”

“A confession?”

“Out of nowhere?”

The students stirred in confusion, completely caught off guard. Frunel, who had always been strict and inflexible, had never shown a side like this before.

Without caring for the murmurs, Professor Frunel let out a deep, emotional sigh and began to speak to us.

“All my life, I’ve believed that I was a wise and intelligent man. Because of that, I’ve easily looked down on others and never doubted my own excellence. In every way, I was the very picture of an arrogant so-called intellectual.”

Well, that part I already knew.

Frunel was infamous in Bronde Academy for being a strict, old-fashioned professor, despite his outstanding achievements in his field of study.

But why was he bringing all of this up now?

“But then, this one book! It has broadened my narrow mind and reprimanded me for my ignorance, transforming me into a new man!”

With a dramatic declaration of repentance, he raised...

"Huh?!"

...a shockingly familiar sight—The Dialogues in its first edition, with the image of a bald philosopher on the cover.