CHAPTER 285: CHAPTER 209: ONLY PRINCE NOZAWA IS THE SAVIOR!_2

The costumes and sets were also grounded in Wanjin reality; even the whole theme of the story had changed. It was no longer centered on religious mythology or tales of ghosts and monsters, but now took inspiration from folk life and was adapted accordingly, just like Harano said: "down to earth."

Princess Dog, Ah Hu, and the others felt a much stronger sense of immersion watching this. They watched the protagonist, Matsunomaru, unable to pay the exorbitant annual tribute, stand up bravely, use his wits to outsmart the noble Samurai, and help the entire village escape danger. Then he pretended to be a fool and bet with the monks at the temple, successfully helping the village avoid paying interest on loans and grain taxes.

The actor playing the Monk was especially outstanding, bringing the hypocrisy to life—outwardly lofty, but inwardly greedy. The lines were brilliantly crafted, full of puns and witty wordplay that had the audience laughing out loud. Meanwhile, Matsunomaru’s honesty and foresight allowed him to lay linguistic traps step by step, until the Monk was tongue-tied and had to swallow his bitter fruit alone. The humor of the "Kyogen" style and the sharp wit of the commoners were brought to the fullest, making it an absolute treat.

But then, the story took a sharp downturn. No matter how clever Matsunomaru was, he still couldn’t stay in the village. He was forced to leave home in search of a living in Kyoto. Yet on the way, he was conscripted by two low-ranking Samurai to carry their baggage—when he resisted, they threatened to cut him down.

But as luck would have it, Matsunomaru was truly smart. He saw his chance while the two bathed, stole their swords and armor, and turned the tables, forcing them to bark like dogs, walk like chickens, sing street tunes, and strip down to dance like monkeys. Only then did he take their money and make his escape, leaving the two hapless Samurai unable to voice their grievance, and the audience roaring with laughter.

In the middle, through the mouths of the two low-ranking Samurai, there was even a little jab at the emperor’s poverty. They also joked about the time a former Empress went off to the Korean Peninsula for two and a half years, sat on a rock to get pregnant, and came back to give birth to the young emperor.

This drew little reaction from the crowd. These days, the Court had long since lost its authority; people just saw it as a joke. No one was scared—after all, Harano was sitting right there. If there were any trouble, it’d be the theater’s problem, not the audience’s for laughing.

Afterward, Matsunomaru made it safely to Kyoto and found a job at a rice shop. Because he was clever, he quickly won the boss’s favor and caught the eye of the boss’s chubby daughter. But Matsunomaru was still pining for his childhood sweetheart and planned to go back and marry her in a few years, turning down the advances and making for lots of comedic moments.

But at this point, the story again took a hard turn. The rice shop owner offended some Samurai in Kyoto. No matter how Matsunomaru tried to help smooth it over, the owner’s family was soon destroyed, and Matsunomaru was forced to flee back home.

But this time, his luck wasn’t as good. On the road, he was captured as an Ashigaru by two clans at war, thrown into battlefield chaos, where he again pulled off tricks to stay alive—putting on life-or-death slapstick, until, through a series of farcical, impossible events, both noble houses ended up annihilating each other. Only then did Matsunomaru, safe and sound, return home, ready to marry his childhood sweetheart.

But disaster had struck his hometown. While famine raged, the Lord was still fighting the neighboring Lord, crazily collecting annual tribute. The endless taxes—grain, horses, all kinds of levies—just kept piling up. And in just a few short years, his childhood sweetheart had died too, buried alive by the local Lord as "sacrificial pillar" for castle building.

At this point, the audience’s laughter had completely vanished. They watched Matsunomaru sobbing and singing his solo onstage—denouncing all the world’s injustices, asking why things had to be this way.

Even Ah Hu felt a tightness in her chest, feeling a kind of empathy—the suffering of the Commoners was always the same. Even if the Okabe family’s rank was a little higher, to the Samurai they were still nothing, still forced to do plenty against their will. Like being sent to Wanjin by Oda Nobunaga, utterly powerless over their own fates.

The audience felt even more deeply, since they’d truly had rotten luck, really paid those backbreaking tributes, really been sent to fight wars, with family who really had starved to death. Watching Matsunomaru brought up memories of their own tragedies. When, at the end, Matsunomaru sought a pure land, wiped away his tears, and finally started leading the rest of the villagers to cross the sea to Wanjin, thunderous applause erupted, and more than a few had tears in their eyes.

Yeah, people were simpler in these times—untainted by shallow feel-good fiction. Even if this play was heavy-handed propaganda, missing only a banner reading "Only Lord Yehua can save us," the immersion was real, their emotions completely swept up.

Ah Hu couldn’t help but stand and clap hard like the Wanjin people, even if she hadn’t thought it all through—she just felt the story was incredibly good. This new drama was far more captivating than simple "Kyogen," but who knows what’s coming next.

Maybe one day, she’d feel Wanjin truly was a land of peace, want to "run away" to live here, and think that emperors and Samurai were just unnecessary—no longer wanting their rule.

Maybe so. After all, a lot of things change you without you noticing—who knows what seeds will grow in the future?

......

"Well, what do you think?" Ah Man stood in the box clapping too, raising her bean-shaped eyebrows and turning to ask Harano, "Are you satisfied with this new play?"

"Not bad, better than I expected."

Harano had watched the last half, since internal propaganda was serious business, but he felt the main character’s suffering wasn’t tragic enough—the whole village hadn’t died, or the male lead wasn’t quite pitiful enough. Maybe it’d be better to tell the story from the sweetheart’s perspective, remaking it as a "Japanese White-Haired Girl," making it more suitable for mass propaganda—if you don’t occupy the high ground of messaging, someone else will. Besides, Japanese Samurai really are bloodsuckers, squeezing the very marrow from the Commoners—it’s not even an exaggeration to show it this way.