I Became A Playwright In Medieval Fantasy

Upon the recommendation 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 met the elderly priest, Father Pierre.

If someone as prestigious as me had visited a more well-off establishment, they would have been obliged to offer fine beverages and lavish hospitality.

But Father Pierre could only offer me 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 me apologetically.

“It’s an honor to meet you regardless. I’ve heard much about your great achievements 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 me. 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 same 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 mended numerous times.

Though Saint Beatrice donated monthly to improve the conditions of places like this, it seemed 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 someone like me 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 me 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 medieval 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.