Chapter 1 - Chapter 1

Translator: Nox

Chapter – 01

Just a lone spoken line remained in the production.

A secondary performer advanced toward the edge and posed his inquiry to the central figure. Although targeted at that lead, the man’s stare drifted across the viewers below.

Does flawless creation even exist?

Deliver it evenly, without force or flair.

Such precision marked my vision, captured clearly within the margins of my script.

Those marginal directives formed the backbone for any production leader, outlining vision, setup, movements, portrayals, audio cues, illumination schemes—all essentials to manifest the drama live.

Certain leaders dismissed their importance, yet I embraced them fully.

No one prepared more thoroughly than I did, embedding every detail into the crew and cast via grueling sessions.

In this instant, that performer adhered flawlessly to my guidance.

The spectators mirrored that obedience.

Perched at the balcony’s remotest perch, she surveyed the rigid forms of every patron beneath her. They held utterly still, breaths suspended amid the power of that delivery.

Each viewer grappled inwardly with a response to the core riddle—what defined ultimate mastery?

Hush enveloped the space.

Only veterans of live stages grasped such quietude’s intensity. It rang louder than thunder at times.

An electric charge mounted between performer and watchers, poised to burst. All gazes locked upon the lead character, hungry for his reply.

That lead figure—devoted three decades to his craft, now teetering on collapse—prepared to respond.

Anticipation gripped them.

His face turned outward. The tool in his grasp rose faintly off the surface.

Mouth opened briefly, then halted. The quiet deepened further.

Rather than reply, however, he pivoted away and resumed his strokes upon the work.

Precisely then, illumination vanished.

Blackout.

A crisp signal noted precisely in the margins.

Darkness devoured his intended words, while her vision gradually sharpened.

All sensed the drama’s close, but none stirred. The spell lingered.

Full brightness returning alone would shatter the ritual’s hold.

Sixty seconds passed.

Exactly then, cheers exploded.

That roar drew a quiet grin from her shadowed nook at the balcony’s end.

Bliss surged.

Success landed.

Her mapped paths, commanded effects, shaped interpretations—each element struck true.

Inside this confined domain of performance, she wielded absolute command.

Here, she reigned divine.

Fingers closed around the rehearsal-battered pages of her directives.

Brightness flooded back; performers with glowing cheeks assembled for bows.

As usual, she planned her swift departure through the rising acclaim.

Or so she intended.

[The Patron Saint of Mecenat presents you with a quest. Accept…]

Bewilderment hit.

Nothing in her pages called for any projection. In haste to mask the glitch, she extended a hand—only for the text to flicker erratically and dissolve.

“…Why ignore every call?”

Her head snapped sideways. Full light now bathed the hall, patrons streaming out.

Evidently, bows had concluded during her fixation on the apparition.

A mirage?

Could senses conjure something so sharp?

Had premiere strain warped perception?

Unless… what alternative existed?

Swift evaluation defined her edge.

Eyes settled on the sudden companion frozen nearby.

“Shin Sunghyun.”

Her paternal sibling by marriage.

Within kin circles, he alone held true birthright status.

She stemmed from her sire—the conglomerate’s secondary heir—with an outsider paramour, erased publicly, shunned privately.

Contracts between that actor parent and progenitor secured her solid legacy post his demise. Digital eras pierced elite veils, rendering her known to many.

Likely foreseeing exposure, the patriarch once mandated proper upbringing upon her introduction.

Shape her visually appealing, articulate gracefully, temperament steady against scandals like self-harm.

An orchid canvas aficionado, he specified further:

Cultivate her as artwork, exquisite merely to observe.

Thus her moniker: Shin Geurim. (Geurim = “painting”)

Existence mirrored canvas perfection—devoid of want.

Luxury rides, fine dwellings, gourmet meals, license to address progenitor as “Father,” consort as “Mother,” illegitimate origins notwithstanding.

Her allotted path gleamed attractively.

Save for Shin Sunghyun’s shadow.

Prime successor, primed for empire helm, yet fixated on crushing his obscure performer stepsister.

Accomplished, refined, obnoxious—unyieldingly devoted to her harrying.

His dogged pursuit threatened even her emotional barrenness.

“So, terrified I’ll rise and spill family secrets publicly?”

“Rise? You’d vanish from headlines anyway.”

His features hardened at “publicly.” Disgust twisted toward her like toward refuse.

“That glare echoes Father’s own.”

“Pardon?”

“Capture it for performer coaching—useful reference?”

“…Seeking death?”

She mimed drawing her device to record; he lunged to bat it—then halted, locking stares with an entering cleaner.

Smile strained across his face.

Merely jest. Pure tease.

Rough fingers tousled her locks as he leaned close:

“Meet at wardrobe.”

Wardrobe summons? Absurd.

While he stalked off muttering, she fixed on the vacated platform. Actor warmth, glows, crowd energy—evaporated. Stale void remained.

Peak joy faded quick; aftermath dragged endlessly.

Return beckoned.

To patron entry clutching passes, dimming houselights, platform igniting with vital presences—overseeing their eager forms.

Pure delight awaited.

Far richer than this flawless tedium.

Chill of nerves in palms, thrill swelling within—

Evoking that rush, sudden dark descended anew.

Exit time?

She rose halfway when a beam pierced the platform.

Confusion creased her brow; control perch stood vacant. Faulty gear?

Abruptly, a form materialized centerstage.

“Still weighing our proposal? Disappointing, maestro. Chorus troupe even eyed you for visionary lead.”

Cascading ringlets trailed to his ankles on that diminutive frame.

Stunned by the oddity, words escaped her.

Memorable debuts defined casts—a core tenet of her craft.

Beyond flair, though—what intrusion was this?

Chorus?

Production house from that message, not performers?

“Truthfully, our manuscript captivated you.”

Flawless tone carried flawlessly.

Clarity struck.

Performer through and through.

They craved distinction for favor—stunts echoing her origin parent’s flair, theatrics before leaders.

“If audition means this display—”

Rejection brewed on her tongue.

Then overlay bloomed before her.

[Main Quest: Adaptation.]Become a character in the novel and begin the adaptation.

Shock deepened.

Absurdity—

“Observe? System overlay trumps any cue, right?”

His tone reverberated through void.

Tremors rocked beneath. Weightlessness seized her.

Impact!

Agony ought to flare—none did.

Sight cleared to reveal an aged, lavish auditorium.

Far from contemporary arch.

Long ago, mighty Mecena domain commanded realm riches, honor.

Its collapse drew scions direct and distant, plus backers ruined by loans, to partition remnants.

Imperial blade to inaugural lord fetched scraps; empty-handed lenders spat scorn.

Glory’s remnants paraded under hammer—

Finally, cherished White Friars venue of founding duke entered fray.

This very hall hosted the dispersal.

“This gem—former pulse of ducal culture, drawing throngs for—”

“Dead era. Who stages in ruins?”

Skepticism sharpened as venue rose.

Few sought venue ventures now; scribes, talents fled.

Viable profit lurked in savvy hands, yet one slip spelled ledgers red. Prior gambles on domain had scarred them.

Risk aversion ruled.

Save one soul.

“…Pardon, a bid registers?”

From rearmost enclosure, a paddle lifted.

Crimson gaze iced the air. Ebon tresses woven skyward in ornate twists. Empire’s notorious lavish noble—domain’s sole survivor.

Original steward of all under gavel.

Hush gripped as arm ascended.

“No counters? Awarded to the lady.”

Strike, strike, strike.

Hammer rushed closure.

Papers thrust forward; raven-haired heiress murmured aside:

“…Merely signaled inquiry.”

Reality blurred further—what realm was this?

Such archaic apron?

No chance to voice before attendant proffered title.

“Worthy finale for Mecena’s enduring lady! Preserving founding lord’s token, defying tales!”

At those words, Mecena’s lady—or rather, Shin Geurim—sensed near certainty: she inhabited the final domain noble’s form amid a toppled realm’s tale.