Orlie was somewhere beneath the royal castle.
And he knew that I was here. The problem was whether we could communicate.
'Is it safe to make a sound?'
I wrapped the chains around my arm a few times to avoid them scraping against the floor and lifted them up before approaching the door. Though my hand didn't quite reach the doorknob, I was close enough to hold my breath and listen carefully to the faint sounds outside.
The hallway was eerily silent.
It was a good thing Godric wore his heavy, clinking clothes. Even I could sense the faintest of movements.
[Assistant Writer: Isaac?]
"Ah, yes. I can see your message. You're in the royal castle, right? Could you possibly tell me your location?"
[Assistant Writer: …I'm sorry. I don't even know how things ended up like this.]
Oh no. I wonder if my voice is being transmitted. He's talking nonsense. It feels like communication isn't flowing both ways, but is instead just one-sided and disconnected.
[Assistant Writer: I truly… never thought I'd end up doing something like this—]
'He doesn't sound well.'
Has it already been over a month since Orlie left El Dante?
How long has he been trapped?
[Assistant Writer: I'm really sorry for causing trouble. Truly, truly sorry…]
"…"
Could it be that the assistant writer is apologizing for something Godric did?
Why is the assistant writer apologizing…?
Then, vaguely, the words Godric said before he dragged me here came to mind.
[Were you really that worried about that hypocrite?]
Godric called him a "hypocrite."
At the time, I thought it was just a general term for the writers.
But what if that wasn't the case?
The main author refers to Sub-writer 1 as a foreign substance. It's a term with blatant disdain.
It's understandable though. It's hard to look kindly at someone who's ruined the story you've carefully crafted from start to finish. From the main author's perspective, both those others and Godric are nothing but troublemakers.
But the assistant writer has never referred to Godric in that way.
'Now that I think about it, Butier set the stage with a Western background.'
On the other hand, Godric's origins, subtly hinted at, seem quite different, don't they? Far from the main author's preferences.
Maybe the assistant writer is—
'Could it be that Godric was the author of the story where he was the protagonist?'
Damn. Just by stepping off the stage where the story takes place and into the backstage, my head started spinning with an overwhelming flood of guesses and clues.
I'd thought so much that my forehead began to throb.
At that moment, footsteps echoed in the hallway.
Trying to calm my startled heart, I grabbed the rattling chains and climbed onto the bed. As soon as I adjusted my position, the door clicked open. Godric, looking somewhat tired, walked in.
"Did you wait quietly without causing any trouble?"
"You chained me to the bed, and now you don't trust me? If that's the case, you shouldn't have brought me here in the first place."
"From the way you're sulking, your neck seems to have improved for sure. Still, you should apply the ointment, right?"
He then reached out, saying he brought the salve for the yoke, and stretched his hand toward my neck.
Bang! My back slammed violently against the headboard of the bed. The thick cotton blanket, kicked by my feet, got crumpled in the mess.
Godric surrendered by spreading both hands and backing away. Then, he moved his lips as if to say something, but the strange ringing in my ears made it impossible to understand anything.
My breathing was oddly laboured, as if I were foolishly trying to inhale underwater without gills.
Only after a long moment did the voices finally reach my ears.
"Hmm."
Godric narrowed his eyes as if assessing something, then murmured softly.
"You were acting all fearless, so I thought you were some kind of tough guy. Huh?"
He looked amused.
"How on earth did you get along with that wild dog, Leovald, for you to end up like this? That guy must have quite the temper, too."
…What the hell is he talking about?
As far as I know, Leonardo is the furthest thing from hot-tempered. If anything, he'd be lucky to get through life without getting completely trampled.
Godric's absurd speculation made my brow furrow, snapping me out of my brief daze.
When I glared at him, Godric, now half-sprawled on the bed, propped his chin on his hand and grumbled. If someone walked in right now, they'd think we were friends having a pajama party, not a kidnapper and his hostage.
"Aren't you treating me too differently? I'm trying my best to be nice, you know. What makes me so different from Leovald… Should I try looking more pitiful?"
The guy who strangled me and dragged me here by force before locking me in shackles sure acts confident. I have no idea what his definition of kindness is.
Even in this situation, Godric was deep in thought.
Why does he keep bringing up Leonardo, as if expecting me to treat him the same way?
If what he wants from me is Leovald's corpse and the original manuscript, wouldn't it be faster and easier to just stick with violence and threats?
"Why does that even matter?"
Unable to hold back, I finally asked. Godric, half-burying his cheek in the blanket, curved his eyes softly.
"I was just curious."
A breeze slipped through the canopy surrounding the bed, rustling the fabric. Tucking his golden hair behind his ear, Godric gazed at me intently and whispered,
"You don't seem like a puppet created by the other writers. That would explain why my power didn't work on you… It has only ever failed against those guys."
By those guys, does he mean the writers? And by power… he must mean
It was an ability unique to him as the 'protagonist,' something the other two writers didn't possess.
"And yet, despite that, you keep hovering around the star of this stage. Strange, isn't it? Since he's nothing more than a wooden puppet, made exactly as intended and moving according to his design."
Thud.
Godric moved his middle and index fingers across the blanket, making them walk step by step.
"You see, ever since I realized that the things around me were nothing more than puppets, reciting lines they were assigned, their faces all started to look the same to me."
"…"
His fingers glided smoothly over the white fabric, his long arm extending to use the top of my foot as a small hill for them to play on.
"My uncle, who threw himself at me in a desperate bid for the throne. The attendants I kept close because I cherished them. The commoners living beyond the palace walls. All of them."
Godric's fingers danced gracefully over the blanket, like tiny actors performing on a stage.
"And then, at some point, their features just… vanished. They all turned into faceless ghosts. Imagine living among a crowd of egg-headed phantoms."
He smiled faintly and covered his face with both hands, like a child playing peekaboo. His palms hid his entire face, his nose, mouth, and eyes swallowed up by the expanse of his hands. Then, between the small gaps of his fingers, his red eyes flickered dimly.
"Tell me, how can you possibly love something like that?"
'Ah. So that's why he lost his mind.'
I don't know what happened to Godric's original stage or how he ended up intruding on Leovald's, but at the very least, there's no deception in his words.
He realized the people around him were nothing more than characters.
Isn't that sentence… oddly familiar?
That warning.
[Act naturally to prevent them from recognizing any discrepancies in the world of the play.]
Godric—no, the being who had once been the protagonist of another stage—had realized the truth.
That the reality he had believed to be his life was nothing more than a well-constructed play.
If Leonardo were to come to the same realization, would he go through something similar?
The front of a stage, the part meant for the audience, is always meticulously crafted and beautiful. But the back—the side that only those who work on the stage can see—is different.
Once you glimpse the flimsy scaffolding propping up the carefully painted scenery, the illusion shatters, and you are left face to face with reality.
So that's why Godric, surrounded by mere extras, had always seemed so listless and worn out.
"Don't worry. You're an exception. Ever since I realized you weren't like the others, I've been able to see you clearly. It's been a while since I had the pleasure of watching someone with real expressions."
His tone was leisurely as he tapped my nose with the tip of his finger.
"On the other hand, I find it fascinating how you manage to treat that Leovald guy like a real person. Even if he feels real to you, in the end, he's just a convincing—"
"…You keep saying weird things."
"Hm?"
I know Leonardo was created to be the protagonist of a story.
But that doesn't mean he can't feel pain. It doesn't mean he has no emotions, or that he isn't alive.
There were nights he couldn't sleep. When he got hurt, he bled. His hands were warm to the touch.
Even if he was living out trials scripted for him, that doesn't make his entire existence fake or meaningless.
If that's not a life, then what is?
"You were a protagonist once too, weren't you? Then you should understand."
The lead of a story. The agent of fate, and the one who resists it.
"How does that make him just a puppet?"
Does the protagonist exist for the story, or does the story exist because of the protagonist?
In the end, it's all a matter of perspective.
A protagonist can be nothing more than a plaything for entertainment, or they can be the very reason the stage was built in the first place.
That's for them to decide.
And I don't know how not to care about the protagonist of this story.
Godric leaned against the bed, watching me in silence. After a moment, he slowly parted his lips.
"This is… almost enough to make me jealous."
Jealous?
His eyes darkened, their colour shifting like ink spreading through water. A single layer of canopy fabric had fallen, but somehow, it was enough to plunge him into shadow—his eyes, his hair, everything swallowed in black.
"Why didn't I have something like this?"
His smile faded, lips tightening into a sharp, almost violent curve.
A raw expression—somewhere between amusement and rage.
He pushed himself upright, leaning in closer. My back was already pressed against the headboard; there was nowhere left to retreat.
Still smiling, he spoke softly, as if sharing a secret.
"I just had a brilliant idea. Want to hear it?"
Before I could answer, he grabbed my wrist, forcing my hand against his cheek. His skin was warm beneath my palm. His eyes gleamed, fever-bright, as he continued in a rush.
"When the story rewinds, your memories will rewind too. By then, I'll have already moved into Leovald's body… So that solves everything, doesn't it?"
…What the hell is he saying?
"I'll give you a new role as well. Let's see… what would suit you? Something similar to now, perhaps? A foreigner who fell into this world to save the protagonist?"
"What… are you saying—"
"Just listen."
His voice was smooth, almost coaxing.
"This way, nothing really changes. You'll still be with your dear 'Leo.' The plot will shift a little, sure, but there won't be any reason for you to reject me anymore… Sounds like a good idea, doesn't it?"
Godric filled my vision as he beamed, his smile bright and unwavering.