The Beginning of Wranglers' Revival

The reach of a rebuttal would never match that of the rumor itself.

Although Drogo had secured the front-page headlines of every newspaper in the city, Raul's efforts to clear his name were still not going smoothly.

When the newspapers printed something that matched the spectators' expectations, they would say, "See? I told you. Rich people are all scum."

If the reports contradicted their expectations, their attitude became, "Lapdog media. Just another trash paper controlled by the rich."

At the end of the day, people tended to believe what they wanted to believe. That was why conspiracy theories never lacked an audience, while truths that were not dramatic enough often failed to draw attention.

Nobles kidnapping little girls, brainwashing them, and framing others was just too cliché—cliché in the way it had happened countless times over the past few centuries.

Besides, the law was not really going to do anything to the nobles. Their ancestors had followed the Lionheart King through the pass, and they had already suffered all the hardship they were ever meant to suffer.

So even though the entire chain of evidence had been laid out in the newspapers, people still came up with a version of the Raul incident that they preferred to believe.

Now, Raul was not only the criminal who had violated a little girl. He had also kissed the nobles' asses, which was why they were protecting him and keeping him out of prison.

In no time, he had gone from a rising hope among the commoners to a traitor to their class.

Who told him to make a fortune from Holy Mountain Journey? There had to be something fishy about that.

As people isolated him, they also resented him. Why did good fortune like that never fall into their laps?

Thus, Raul's already difficult life only grew worse.

Now, when he went out to buy groceries, merchants would secretly short him on the scale. People occasionally threw garbage at him. Every few days, someone splashed paint on his house. Whenever he walked down the street, someone would deliberately bump into him, then glare and threaten him afterward.

Those people were not really fighting evil. They just wanted someone to vent their frustrations on, and now they had finally found the "perfect victim."

If they really had such a sense of justice, there were plenty of nobles swaggering through the city every day. Yet no one dared to actually bump into them. Maybe because nobles really did dare to be evil.

Fortunately, everyone in the Mixed Beast Troupe, along with the acting students, continued to support him.

Drogo could not stand watching it any longer. He wanted Battleaxe to continue serving as Raul's bodyguard. Whoever bumped into Raul, Battleaxe would bump right back. Come on, then. Let's hurt each other and see who could hit harder.

But Raul politely declined, saying that he was an adult who had been getting by for so many years and could not always rely on others.

Drogo had even asked Flynn whether she knew any illusion spell that could project magic onto the moon, so they could hypnotize everyone in the city and stamp their minds with the right ideas.

Flynn said there was seriously something wrong with his brain.

Life returned to its usual peace. In simple terms, it was time to get back to work.

When Drogo saw the pile of feature-testing requests he had accumulated, he fell into deep despair. He had only been gone for a few days. Was this really necessary?

Why were all those old men and women working so hard? He felt embarrassed to slack off himself. Wait, no—he was the oldest one here.

Could they not show a little consideration for an elderly dragon?

His heart was weary. Even an ancient dragon who feared nothing would, under the grind of day after day of work, begin to question why he was even alive.

Sure enough, boundless enthusiasm and overflowing energy were the ultimate research talents. He had fallen for that success-guru nonsense from people who slept only four hours a day.

While working, everything unrelated to work looked so fascinating.

For example, Drogo was currently filing his claws. Since his claws were too hard, even the tiny file he used was forged from hundredfold-refined essence gold. The powder filed off had to be carefully stored in little bottles. At an alchemy shop, it could be sold as dragon horn. The ingredients were similar enough, anyway, and it fetched several gold coins per gram. It was said to improve virility, so it was always in short supply.

"Huo An and Raul are here." Aisha saved Drogo from his spiraling self-torment.

"Good, good, good. Bring them in quickly." Drogo half ran, half bounced toward the reception room.

"Have you finished testing my features yet?!" Flynn's furious shout came from behind him.

Her hair had clearly been created by a transformation spell, so why did it seem to be thinning a little? Could going bald from programming be some kind of rule-based urban legend?

"I have important business now. Hmph!"

When he reached the reception room, Drogo warmly shook hands with Huo An and Raul. "You came at just the right time. I've been waiting for you for ages."

Huo An was baffled by the sudden enthusiasm. He knew perfectly well whose handiwork it was that so many nobles had vanished from Twin Towers City overnight, and it was even stranger that the government had suppressed the matter by calling it an accidental fire.

Yet the dragon spokesman for the owner of this mysterious group, whose strength could not be gauged, was shaking his hand so fast it left an afterimage.

"Could it be that you already know Wranglers and the Mixed Beast Troupe want to co-produce a Magic Shadow?"

"Magic Shadow is great. Magic Shadow—I love Magic Shadow. Do you have a script? There isn't another deliveryman living in a river-view apartment this time, right? Is it still a comedy?"

"Not this time." Huo An scratched his head awkwardly. He would never again write something so detached from real life.

"This story is based on Mr. Raul's experiences. I don't think he should have suffered this kind of treatment, so I want to speak up for him. This is a draft of the script. Please take a look."

No matter the world, the real "father" of any production crew was always the producer. He was usually either the investor or someone directly responsible to the investors. Film and television was an industry that burned money. Without money, how could anyone make a damn thing?

Of course, some directors had achievements so remarkable and track records so proven that they served as their own producers, or investors rushed to cater to them.

But Huo An was clearly not in that position. He even had to rent cameras from Drogo.

For now, cameras could only be rented, not sold. The rental also came with a goblin operating crew. Given how cameras were developing here, it would be a long while before the profession of cameraman emerged.

Drogo took the script. It did not yet have a title, but after leafing through it, he could easily see that it was far more mature than before. Its ending was also stark and cold—one might even call it cruel.

Though the character played by Raul ultimately cleared his name, he still failed to win acceptance from his fellow citizens and nearly died at the hands of his own people.

The entire atmosphere was despairing. It was a bold attempt. In the common dramatic forms of the day, even tragedies had to offer the audience some sense of comfort—sorrowful, but not devastating.

"Very good. How do you plan to shoot it?"

"I want to use many ordinary scenes from Mr. Raul's daily life. Ideally, we could secretly follow and film him directly."

"You can strike back at the people isolating Raul now. Not a bad idea."

"No, I won't strike back at specific people," Huo An hurriedly denied. "I only want to satirize this phenomenon. No one who appears will have their face revealed. That's something I learned on the streets.

"The audience is, after all, the people who feed and clothe us. If we describe the phenomenon in broad terms, they can still identify with it. If it goes well, it may even bring change. But if we make it about specific people, it will only make them more extreme and push them completely to the other side, even if they are in the wrong."

Huo An gave an honest smile. "That's just something I worked out myself. I don't know if it's right."

"I underestimated you." Drogo was certain that Huo An could make this Magic Shadow well. As the first Magic Shadow truly produced by locals, life had changed Huo An far more than he expected.

"Will you use Mila?"

"No." Raul answered before Huo An could.

"That might truly clear your name." Drogo said it with a hint of persuasion.

"Even so, no. She's still just a child. She shouldn't be under that much pressure." Raul hesitated. "I want to adopt her. She can keep Marlin company, too."

Drogo's expression shifted. Mila had been a victim in this incident as well, but she had still directly harmed Raul.

If someone demanded high moral standards of others, they surely lacked morality themselves.

But Raul was doing this of his own accord. No one had asked it of him. It was worthy of respect. The world would always need people like him—purely good people, even if many disliked them.

"I'll cover all of Mila's living expenses," Drogo said.

There was no sense in letting someone without money bear social responsibility while the rich did not.

Besides, the money they had seized that day was enough to raise ten thousand Milas.

"By the way, what are you planning to call your Magic Shadow?" Drogo pointed at the script, whose title was still blank.

"We haven't thought of one yet."

"Why not take my suggestion? Call it The Hunt."