"The time has come!!"
"It's finally time to escape the era of oppression and humiliation."
"Mom, I'm going to become a novelist!!"
The announcement of the competition spread.
Unlike the quiet decline of the Royal Literary Society, a new wave swept through the foggy city.
And the citizens of London, enthralled by a renewed 'literary fervor,' were once again ecstatic.
Ordinary people, who couldn't even get proper reviews without connections, now had a chance to enter a competition judged by qualified panelists with a hefty prize at stake.
There had never been such a bold invitation for writers before.
And the fact that it was a 'blind' contest, open to both established and new writers, without age restrictions, especially electrified teenagers.
In that precarious stage of life, where concerns about their future start to loom, students began to dream wildly of achieving both wealth and glory through what they loved most.
***
At Eton College, where there were the most of such students, yet also the furthest distance from them.
Lewis Montague Miller, eldest son of the Miller family, sat slouched in a chair that must have been meticulously crafted by a master artisan.
And in a voice colder than the North Sea's icy winds, he spoke.
In front of him, the people waiting anxiously swallowed nervously. Finally, his small mouth slowly opened, and a voice so cold it made the North Sea seem warm drifted out.
"Three points."
"Wh-what? But I was so confident in this one!!"
"Confident, you say?"
Monty scoffed. And then.
"You mean... this?"
"Ugh!!"
The boy, a fourth-year from a noble family at Eton, collapsed dramatically as if he'd been struck in a vital spot by Monty's derisive remark.
Though it was the world of young boys, or perhaps because it was, relationships between seniors and juniors were notoriously strict at Eton College.
A senior was still a senior, even if only by a year. And for someone like him, the son of an American merchant, it would be unthinkable to challenge the authority of the son of a local dignitary.
Of course.
That is, if this weren't the drama club.
"Your basics are lacking. Why are your lines so cheesy? No, fine, let's say cheesy is acceptable. But the tone is inconsistent. Even if English doesn't differentiate much by gender, this is a bit much. Are these lines for a man? A woman?"
"Th-that's a stylistic choice! It's to show Olympia's manly character and strong power as queen while persecuting Alexander..."
"Ah, is that so? But if that's the case, you shouldn't have delivered the lines this way in the scene with Perdiccas. Honestly, based on the dialogue, it sounds like Perdiccas is meeting Alexander, not Olympia. It looks like a gay scene."
"Kuhuhuhk!!"
His cutting remarks.
Every word pierced the heart of this aspiring young playwright.
Such ruthless criticism left even the seasoned Eton School Drama Club members shivering, regardless of their seniority.
'Terrifying...!'
'That guy was the best writer in our grade!'
'So this is the Reaper of the Drama Club...!'
Eton College, still more focused on raising 'nobles' than 'elites,' had three things that could give a student influence: bloodline, age, and... cultural refinement.
And when it came to the refinement of the Drama Club members, no one could compare to Lewis Montague Miller.
An artistic sensibility inherited from his parents.
And a literary education he'd absorbed directly from none other than Hanslow Jin himself since birth.
Along with his older sister, Maggie, and younger sister, Mary, who constantly challenged his understanding of 'what the kids these days are into.'
In many ways, it was as if he'd already received the full range of education for gifted children in this field...
So, no matter how talented they were, there was no way the Eton Drama Club, made up of mere students, could satisfy Monty.
— "Senior, I get that you're trying to make the dialogue sound philosophical, but isn't this just rehashing Goethe? It's not that it's bad, but it's neither easier nor more entertaining. Why not just stage Faust instead?"
— "Hey, aren't you dropping the ball too much during the climax? You've built up all the emotions like a melodrama, and now the story just falls flat. Also, don't use such strong words, it makes you look weak."
— "I'd like to go easy on you since you're a junior, but... it'd be better if you went back to basics. How is this different from a diary entry filled with fantasies?"
If his words were just sharp, that'd be one thing, but Lewis Montague Miller, through some mysterious study method, didn't even spend much time studying, yet his grades weren't bad.
"He sings some weird song while memorizing, but there are so many strange rumors, who knows the truth."
Moreover, whatever he ate while growing up, he was tall and athletic, making others feel small in his presence.
If there were any gaps, it might be that the acting skills displayed in the drama club still needed some polishing. But even so, at a student level, they were more than sufficient for a leading role.
Moreover, since his critiques were not off the mark, it was nearly impossible to counter his sharp tongue.
It was only natural that Lewis Montague Miller would come to dominate the drama club.
Of course, this meant that countless aspiring playwrights, unable to meet the gourmet's taste, had their spirits crushed like fallen leaves in the wind.
Thus, his nickname became the Reaper of the Drama Club.
Born from the lineage that produced Agatha Christie, and shaped by Hanslow Jin's gifted education, he was a nameless monster of literary refinement.
"Miller, are you there?"
"Senior, you're here!!"
At that moment, the door to the drama club room opened, and Edward, the head and the highest-year student, walked in.
Nodding in response to the members who greeted him, Edward turned to Lewis Montague Miller and said,
"Yes, senior. Did you call for me?"
"Yes. Hmm..."
Is he still doing his homework...
Edward forced a chuckle and shook his head briefly. How to handle that devilish tongue was always a challenge.
"Let's talk for a moment. Follow me."
"Yes."
"Yikes."
In the world of school, age itself is power and authority.
No matter how high one's grades are, it does not change that fact.
Thus, when Edward says "Follow me," it naturally feels like there's a bracketed implication (to the rooftop).
Nevertheless, Lewis Montague Miller naturally followed behind Edward.
And no wonder.
"Here, take a look."
"Hmm. Is this a new piece?"
"Yes."
"Hmm..."
After all, even if he was famous for his harsh criticism, Monty was the only one who could accurately judge the problems in a work at Eton College. Even including the supervising professor.
For a while, the rustling of manuscript pages was the only sound.
After a tense silence, a sigh escaped from Lewis Montague Miller along with a sound of finality.
Edward waited for his verdict with the apprehension of a defendant awaiting judgment.
And then.
"This one is good."
"R-really?"
"Yes. I don't see any particular flaws. It has enough pull to it."
It passed.
As Monty nodded and said so, Edward clutched his head in deep relief.
He could feel the struggle he had gone through. Knowing his goal, Monty smiled gently and asked,
"So, senior, have you made up your mind?"
"Yes. I'm thinking of submitting it to a magazine."
Monty nodded.
In truth, this was a shockingly surprising development by general standards, even though he had grown accustomed to it.
Even though he was involved in the drama club at Eton, few transitioned to a full-time writer.
So, for Edward, a scion of the Irish baron family, to seriously dream of becoming a 'magazine serial writer' was akin to an aristocrat planning to marry a commoner.
Especially when the person wasn't particularly poor.
Of course.
— "Ugh, aaah! Peter Perry has ended! This, this can't be true!!"
— "What? You call that literature? Fool!! Reality is harsh and bleak enough! I need these brief fantasies as a break!"
— "This play will be George MacDonald's The Princess and the Goblin. What? Haven't read it? Look at this pathetic life! Listen up! Fantasy literature is..."
Despite his outwardly serious demeanour, and his habitual indulgence in fairy tales with his bear-like physique, it somehow seemed to fit him to some extent.
"By the way, I heard the Authors' Alliance is holding a competition. I'm thinking of submitting it there."
"That's a good idea."
"If I fail there as well, I'll have to consider Sandhurst as planned…"
Monty fell silent for a moment.
Being the highest year also meant being a graduating student.
There were only a few months left until he would see Edward, the head of the drama club, and Eton School, for the last time.
"Sandhurst…"
"Do you have any thoughts about it?"
"Yes."
Monty nodded silently. After all, there's not much war going on these days, and this is the strongest nation in the world, the British Empire.
Becoming an officer in such a country, and perhaps gaining military honors… it would make entering politics easier.
'If only that were possible.'
It would be a chance to overhaul this absurd empire.
As Monty contemplated, Edward patted him on the back.
"Yeah, you'd do well."
"Thank you, senior."
"To do that, you'll need results. Do you have anything in mind?"
"Well, my grades should already be sufficient."
"That's true. But you'll need something more…"
Edward smiled wryly.
"How about being the head of the Eton School Drama Club?"
"… Pardon? Me, a third-year?"
"Think about it from the other side."
Edward looked at Monty with a wry smile.
"Which fourth-year would accept being the head if it were you?"
"… Hmm."
"Just shut up and accept it. It's better for you."
"Treating people like they're some kind of slaughterhouse."
Still, it was quite an appealing offer. After all, having the position of head of the drama club at Eton, renowned for its tradition and honor, would be a notable credential anywhere.
"Alright, then take this."
"That's fine."
Edward nodded approvingly and reached into his pocket to offer Monty a cigarette.
Though it was a privilege of the heads, Lewis, who had an unusual aversion to smoking, kept his distance as Edward lit the cigarette.
Moments like these made him seem like a really cute junior.
Edward chuckled to himself.
If he thought of waiting for that kid to arrive, he might even consider Sandhurst not being such a bad option.
And so, Edward John Moreton Drax Plunkett—designated as the 18th Baron of Dunsany—blew cigarette smoke towards the sky of Eton School.