Upon the recomndation of Renua, the manager of the Kiligruger troupe, I arrived at the House of Confession, a welfare institution. It was clear from the state of the place that it had seen better days. Here, I t the elderly priest, Father Pierre.
If soone as prestigious as had visited a more well-off establishnt, they would have been obliged to offer fine beverages and lavish hospitality.
But Father Pierre could only offer a chipped cup and plain water.
“I apologize for the lack of proper hospitality, sir. Our facility's situation is unfortunate, and I regret that I can offer you nothing better,” said Father Pierre, gazing at apologetically.
“It’s an honor to et you regardless. I’ve heard much about your great achievents as a hero candidate,” he continued.
“The honor is mine. You, Father, are renowned for your work, praised for embodying the love of the Heavens in your actions,” I replied.
“You flatter . I’m simply doing my duty as a follower of the Heavenly Church,” Pierre responded modestly.
“Heh, modest, indeed. There are many who profess the sa faith but act in ways that are far from it,” I said.
Father Pierre smiled bitterly, clearly pained by my remark. It was obvious that he had experienced too much to deny it.
‘Places like this mostly rely on charity donations to operate,’ I thought to myself, surveying the surroundings. It was all too clear that money was scarce. Even the priest himself was wearing worn-out clothes that had been nded nurous tis.
Though Saint Beatrice donated monthly to improve the conditions of places like this, it seed that her efforts alone couldn’t support every facility in the capital.
“But what brings you to our House of Confession?” Father Pierre asked seriously, setting down his cup with a slight clatter.
“This place is known as a haven for those rejected by society. I imagine it’s not a place soone like would usually take an interest in,” he added.
“Do you think so? I am, after all, a candidate for the hero’s mantle. Wouldn’t you be interested in asking for a donation?” I teased.
“Heh, I wouldn’t dare. It’s my fault, my failure, that things are in such a state. I would simply be grateful for the thought alone, Phantom,” Pierre replied, humility radiating from him.
Even though it was obvious to any outsider that the facility was struggling, Pierre was too proud, or perhaps too worn down by constant refusals, to ask for help.
In a dieval society like this, the concept of human rights hadn’t developed yet. Nobles or wealthy benefactors were unlikely to open their wallets for the disabled, unless it served their own image.
“You have extensive experience caring for the disabled, don’t you, Father Pierre?” I asked, a slight smile hidden under my mask.
“Yes, of course. This is a place where we offer the love of the Heavens to those cast aside by society. I live among them, sharing their lives,” he responded.
“Well then, that’s perfect. I actually ca here on the recomndation of Renua, the manager of the Kiligruger troupe,” I said.
“Recomndation?”
“Yes. I’m working on a new play, and I’d like you to consult on it, Father.”
“A consultant? Forgive , but I know little about theater. I’m not sure how I could assist you…”
“It’s quite simple. The the of my new play is about the disabled.”
“The disabled? Are you saying you’re writing a play about those deed unworthy by society?” Pierre’s voice was filled with surprise.
“Yes, and I’d like you to help create sothing for it.”
I handed Pierre a few crumpled pieces of paper. He looked them over with a puzzled expression.
“This is… a form of sign language? And what are these six dots?” he asked, perplexed.
The notes I handed him contained a simplified version of sign language principles and the Braille alphabet—concepts I had adapted for this world. My goal was to develop them further in collaboration with Father Pierre.
“These are called fingerspelling and Braille. They will appear as key elents in my new play, The Miracle Worker,” I explained.
“Key elents…?”
“Yes, the core of The Miracle Worker is the education of a young girl who has lost both her sight and hearing. I spent quite so ti developing this idea.”
Father Pierre stared intently at the paper, deep in thought, digesting what I had shared with him.
After a long silence, he slowly turned his gaze back to .
“Did you truly create these concepts—fingerspelling and this alphabet of six dots—just for a play?” he asked, incredulous.
“Of course. I am Phantom, after all,” I said with a smile.
Father Pierre’s arms dropped to his sides, and for a mont, he stood still. Then suddenly, his eyes filled with tears.
“Father?” I asked, startled.
Without warning, he jumped to his feet and grasped my hand, his voice shaking with emotion.
“The saintess was right about you! I didn’t realize how deeply you cared about improving the conditions for the disabled,” he exclaid.
“Uh… improving conditions for the disabled?”
“Yes! These systems you’ve created—fingerspelling and Braille—they could only co from soone who understands the minds and hearts of those people. You see them as equals, not as burdens,” Pierre declared, wiping his tears.
“Well… uh…”
“You truly are the ssenger sent by the Heavens, Phantom. You asked for my consultation, didn’t you? Worry not, I will help you,” he said, his eyes now burning with holy fervor and love.
“I will do everything in my power to assist you. Your new play, The Miracle Worker, is undoubtedly a divine work intended to aid the forgotten and forsaken.”
…It seed I had been thoroughly misunderstood.
I had simply co here on Renua’s advice, not because I had any grand intentions of leading a movent for the rights of the disabled in this world.
‘Still, I suppose his misunderstanding is understandable,’ I thought.
In this world, there were forms of communication similar to sign language and Braille, but they weren’t designed with the true education of the disabled in mind.
The so-called fingerspelling used here was more like a secret code employed by monks during vows of silence, and the raised letters of Braille-like scripts were cumberso and not at all suitable for the blind.
In that sense, my modern concepts of fingerspelling and Braille, which could express the entire alphabet and numbers with just six dots, must have seed revolutionary.
For a world where physical disabilities often hindered the acquisition of knowledge, these innovations were truly groundbreaking.
Several weeks after Phantom t with Father Pierre and began preparing The Miracle Worker…
“Hmmm, a new play about the deaf and blind? Is this Phantom’s attempt at so Salvation Army concept?”
Princess Diana, having just returned from the academy to the imperial palace and finished her bath, muttered to herself as she returned to her room.
She stared at the flyer for Phantom’s upcoming play, The Miracle Worker, which was set to premiere this year in ti for Teacher’s Day. The flyer depicted a tutor embracing a disabled young girl.
"But compared to his previous works, the scale seems unusually small. Isn’t this the sa man who always wrote about great heroes or extraordinary individuals with remarkable talents?"
“I believe it’s an experint of sorts. Didn’t they say the Cthulhu Mythos was also an experintal work?”
Her attendant shrugged as he offered his opinion, marking the exact date of the play’s premiere on her calendar.
“He even recruited a priest who runs a welfare center to help him accurately depict the behavior of the disabled. Just like with Farewell My Concubine and Cthulhu Mythos, he’s putting in a lot of effort this ti as well.”
“Hoho, is that so? Now I’m quite curious,” Diana chuckled.
She didn’t know how Phantom planned to handle such a controversial subject like disability, but she was confident that, given his track record, he would do so skillfully.
From Admiral Lee, Julius Caesar, Chaplin Cody, Exodus, The Dialogues, Farewell My Concubine, to The Cthulhu Mythos, Phantom had never once disappointed his audience.
“Well, good. The premiere is next week, right?”
Diana stood from the sofa, her eyes fixed on the red circle her attendant had drawn on the calendar.
She called for her maids to prepare her outdoor attire, a slight smile forming on her lips.
“No matter how outstanding the play is, I’ll find out for myself soon enough—sitting right beside the playwright.”
Recalling the day her brother, Wolfgang, had fainted after watching a horror play, she reflected on the candid feelings she had hinted at to Phantom that day. Half-joking, half-serious, she had made him a proposal, and now, anticipation filled her.
Over the past few months, exchanging letters with Phantom had gradually piqued her interest in the renowned playwright.
What had started as a re ga of guessing his true identity had turned into sothing more. Now, the exchange itself had beco enjoyable.
Diana von Clausewitz, a princess who had lived her entire life without lacking a single thing, naturally reigning over all those beneath her.
Aside from her father and brother, there was no other man who had drawn her attention to such a degree.
It was no wonder that rumors had begun circulating among the palace maids about a curious tension between the princess and Phantom.
“Uh, Your Highness?”
Just then, her attendant spoke up cautiously, bringing with him news that was sure to sour Diana’s mood.
“I apologize, but I have heard that playwright Phantom already has a prior engagent on the day of the premiere.”
Diana froze.
She had been standing before a large mirror, pondering what outfit to wear for the occasion, but now her movents stopped completely.
“…A prior engagent?”
“Yes, but if Your Highness desires, I can try to negotiate with him. Phantom owes much to the royal family, so he wouldn’t dare…”
“No, that won’t be necessary. I’m not a child, Franz. I won’t throw a tantrum over sothing so trivial,” Diana said, lightly dismissing her attendant’s suggestion as she pushed her golden hair back.
She turned with a calm smile, speaking in her usual composed tone.
“Well, if he has another engagent, there’s nothing to be done. It’s my fault for not arranging things sooner. It’s disappointing, but I’ll just have to wait for another opportunity.”
“Understood.”
“But what kind of prior engagent could he have? Isn’t he a man shrouded in mystery, who rarely interacts with others?” Diana’s curiosity was piqued once more.
One of the reasons she had beco so intrigued by Phantom was the aura of mystery that surrounded him.
A genius who hid all personal information, yet produced masterpiece after masterpiece. It was a concept that could easily charm any woman, and Diana was no exception.
In fact, there were fan clubs dedicated to won who admired Phantom, and even Diana’s occasional correspondence with him had made her the subject of envy.
“Well, it seems he has made an arrangent with the saintess,” her attendant said carefully.
“The saintess?”
“Yes, as you know, the Holy See dispatched Saint Beatrice to the capital. I’ve heard that Phantom has agreed to watch the premiere of The Miracle Worker with her…”
“Hmmm.”
A cold huff escaped Diana’s lips, and though she was still smiling, her erald eyes had sharpened noticeably.
Diana spoke again, her tone seemingly casual but with a hint of bitterness.
“Saint Beatrice. With her, of all people?”
…This could be a problem.
The maids around Diana tensed up, sensing the sudden shift in atmosphere, while her attendant swallowed nervously.
‘She’s disliked the saintess ever since the sudden announcent of Phantom as a hero candidate,’ he thought.
As soone who had served Diana for a long ti, he was well aware of her inner thoughts. He could easily detect her emotions, even from the smallest changes in her expression.
And right now, her emotion was irritation.
It was the kind of irritation one feels when a dirty fly lands on a perfectly cooked steak, or when soone spills dark coffee on an expensive dress they had been planning to wear to a grand ball.
In short, it was the look Diana wore when sothing she had been aiming for had been ruined by soone else.
Ti passed, and the day of The Miracle Worker’s premiere finally arrived.
As Phantom, I stood outside the grand cathedral of Etheldro, donning my usual mask and dressed sharply for the occasion.
It was late afternoon, the sun just beginning to dip below the horizon. While there were many people walking around the cathedral, few seed to be heading inside at this hour.
I had been waiting for a while, and the one who finally greeted was…
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Phantom. Did I take too long?”
“Not at all, Your Grace.”
…It was none other than Saint Beatrice, who had shed her usual nun’s habit and was now dressed elegantly, like a noblewoman, her appearance graceful and refined.
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