Three hours later.
Standing at the entrance to the stage and looking down the corridor leading toward the light, Rumi was still somewhat uneasy. "Is it really okay to go on like this? We haven't rehearsed at all—"
"There's no time to write another play. Just tell your own tragedy. Leave the rest to us."
"Maybe we could wait another three weeks—"
"Then we'd need this performance to uncover the Queen's preferences. It'll help with writing the later scripts."
"All right, I'll do my best. But I'm afraid I won't be able to say that much—"
"Please, you're Chatty Rumi. Stop drowning in sorrow and keeping your mouth shut. Now, for your mother's sake, you need to speak."
Tang Qi patted Rumi's shoulder, then greeted the frog gentleman, Fulei, behind him. "Do as I told you earlier."
"All right, I'll inform the musicians—"
Clearly, Fulei also had doubts about the play Tang Qi had written in three hours.
But they were already in the same boat, so he had to help to the bitter end.
Rumi had never felt his footsteps weigh so heavily.
Every step was harder than walking through snow.
The audience saw Rumi take the stage, but more of them focused on Tang Qi behind him, the creator of The Secret of the Basement. "A script performed by its own playwright? Could it possibly outshine the Hundred Faces Troupe?"
"Look at the team behind him. There are more than ten people. This must be a grand production."
"Shh, keep quiet. The play is about to begin—"
Standing at the center of the stage, Rumi desperately wanted to say, "Believe in yourself. You can do it."
But in the end, he merely glanced back at the team behind him and comforted himself. "Believe in Tang Qi."
He took