Lord of Entertainment C26 He is a threat!

I couldn't help but smile at his words. Then, attempting to lighten the mood, I quipped, "Now that your troupe is gone, I could have the whole theatre to myself, couldn't I?" It was meant as a joke, of course.

In truth, I had initially planned to leave the theatre after my first concert. But with the discovery of the "Fame = Power" function, I was reconsidering, seeing the potential to accumulate more Fan Points by staying longer.

To my surprise, Rocky nodded in agreement. "Indeed, you are correct. The theatre is at your disposal. I trust you'll continue to grace our stage with your performances," he said with a chuckle that didn't quite reach his eyes.

I gasped, taken aback by his unexpected acquiescence. "But... But aren't you trying to preserve your theatre?" I asked, genuinely concerned about Rocky's sudden willingness to hand over his beloved establishment.

Rocky's chuckle caught me off guard. "Preserve? Hehe." He shook his head, a wry smile playing on his lips. "No... I find myself no longer concerned with such notions."

I remained silent, sensing there was more to come. Rocky continued, his voice taking on a reflective tone, "Besides, when I witnessed your performance on that stage... That dirty, gritty, unpolished song unlike anything I've encountered in all my years - I found myself, surprisingly, at peace with it all."

His words stunned me into silence. Rocky pressed on, "As I listened to you sing, watched you perform, I realized the folly of my attempts to preserve this place as some unchanging bastion of class in a world of constant flux. It was, I now see, a rather misguided endeavor."

Rocky's gaze met mine, his eyes clear and earnest. "And this painful truth, this lesson I'm only now learning to accept, came to me because of you."

"Me?" I echoed, pointing to myself in disbelief.

He nodded firmly. "Yes, you. Your song, your performance." A hint of wonder crept into his voice as he added, "I felt it was a harbinger of change. A challenge to traditional musical styles. A defiance of current societal views. I came to understand that expressing one's truest self, even the darkest thoughts, while immersed in your music... letting oneself go, so long as it remains within the bounds of morality, is not only acceptable but perhaps necessary."

I sat there, momentarily speechless. Rocky's words were having a profound effect on me. I had come to Saint Angeles with my own agenda, seeing my music as a means to an end. But here was Rocky, telling me that my performance had fundamentally shifted his worldview.

I looked at Rocky for a while, before saying genuinely, "I kind of expected that you didn't like my music style because it was even challenging art itself."

Rocky laughed, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "Now why would you think that?"

I smiled sheepishly and explained, "Well, it was because yesterday, I searched for you after the concert, but I couldn't find you. I thought you had walked out in rage."

Rocky's laughter softened, tinged with a hint of sadness. "No, I didn't walk out in rage. I was actually talking with my troupe yesterday." He added weakly, "Begging them to stay... But of course, it didn't work."

I nodded sympathetically. "Well, they can't really be blamed. After all, I heard that being an actor, if one is famous enough, they can afford magical enhancement products that could boost their health, magic, and I've even heard rumors of a product that can make one magically powerful." I paused, considering. "Now they're not only chasing their dreams, but they're also quite tempted to chase after their desire to be powerful, perhaps."

Rocky chuckled at my words, his eyes twinkling with a mixture of amusement and wisdom. "My dear boy, if what you say is true, then I'm afraid those actors have lost the very essence of what it means to be an artist," he said, his voice carrying a hint of melancholy. "You see, true art is already the most potent form of magic known to any sentient being. It has the power to transform souls, to ignite revolutions in the heart, to make the impossible tangible."

He paused, his gaze distant as if looking at some unseen horizon. "Art, in its purest form, can make one more powerful than any enchanted tonic or mystical artifact ever could. It grants us strength in expression, fortitude in happiness, and wisdom in appreciation. In essence, it elevates every facet of our existence to heights unimaginable by mere physical or magical enhancements."

I chuckled at that, appreciating the poetry in Rocky's words. Of course, I couldn't help but think to myself that the "art makes one powerful" concept probably only applied to me literally, thanks to my unique system. Still, there was something compelling about Rocky's passionate belief in the power of art.

***

(Deacon Ivan POV)

In the hallowed halls of Saint Angeles Cathedral, I, Deacon Ivan, had just received the morning newspaper from one of the altar boys. As I unfolded the crisp pages, my eyes were immediately drawn to a headline that made my blood boil.

I gripped the edges of the newspaper, my knuckles turning white as I read the coverage of "Arthur Whitlock" and his so-called revolutionary performance. Such blasphemy! How could this be allowed to grace the pages of our city's respected publication?

This Emilia Stark who penned the article was clearly ignorant of the dangers she was promoting. Praising such a style of music? A trashy, vulgar way of conveying art? It was nothing short of rebellious thought, a direct challenge to the values we hold dear.

The more I read, the more my anger grew. This "grunge" music, as they called it, was being hailed as some sort of cultural breakthrough. But I knew better. It was a corrupting influence, a demonic style that would lead our youth down a path of moral decay.

I couldn't stand idly by while this poison spread through our city. With the newspaper clutched tightly in my hand, I made my way towards Priest Maxwell's office. He needed to see this, to understand the gravity of the situation.

Surely, once Priest Maxwell saw how dangerous this demonic style of music was, how it was influencing people through these glowing newspaper articles, he would agree that we should have arrested Arthur Whitlock when we had the chance. We couldn't let this continue unchecked.

As I strode through the cathedral, my robes swishing with each determined step, I rehearsed my arguments in my head. This wasn't just about one performance or one article. This was about the very soul of Saint Angeles. If we allowed this kind of "art" to flourish, where would it end?

I reached for the door, pausing to collect myself before knocking firmly. Priest Maxwell's measured voice responded, "Enter."

As I stepped inside, I found Priest Maxwell already perusing the morning paper. "Priest Maxwell," I began urgently, "I see you're already aware of the troubling news?"

Priest Maxwell glanced up, his expression unreadable. "Troubling news? I'm afraid I don't see anything particularly alarming here, Deacon Ivan."

My frown deepened as I pointed emphatically at the front page of my own copy. "Here, this coverage by Emilia Stark of Arthur Whitlock!"

"Hmm?" Priest Maxwell's tone was maddeningly calm, inviting further explanation.

Frustration bubbled within me at what I perceived as his willful ignorance of such a critical matter. "The journalist who penned this article, Emilia Stark, speaks with unbridled admiration of Arthur's musical style. She goes so far as to praise this... this demonic form of expression!" I took a breath, my words tumbling out faster. "She even details an interview with Arthur himself, where he delves disturbingly deep into a demon's perspective, all under the guise of 'performance'—"

"Enough." Priest Maxwell's raised hand silenced my tirade. "I've heard sufficient, Deacon Ivan."

"We must take immediate action, Priest Maxwell," I implored, my voice tinged with desperation.

To my dismay, Priest Maxwell shook his head, his voice maddeningly calm. "No, Deacon Ivan. I believe you need to learn the virtue of relaxation. There's nothing inherently threatening about Arthur Whitlock or his musical style."

His dismissive attitude struck me like a physical blow. How could he not see the danger? "But Priest Maxwell," I protested, "this 'music' flies in the face of everything we stand for! It's crude, it's vulgar, it's... it's positively demonic!"

Priest Maxwell leaned back in his chair, regarding me with what seemed like a mixture of patience and exasperation. "Deacon Ivan, art has always pushed boundaries. It's meant to challenge us, to make us think. Just because something is new or different doesn't make it a threat to our faith or our values."

"But the influence it could have on our youth—" I began, only to be cut off again.

"Could be positive," Priest Maxwell finished for me. "It could give them a new way to express themselves, to work through their struggles. We shouldn't be so quick to condemn what we don't understand."

I stood there, momentarily speechless. How could Priest Maxwell, a man I respected and looked up to, be so blind to this danger?