(3rd Person POV)
Nightmare Before Wintermas ran in theaters for weeks, and by the end of its screening, it had amassed a total of 301 million global dollars at the box office.
Though it didn't quite reach the towering heights of previous Hellfire blockbusters, its success was undeniable. For a film made on a modest budget, using stop-motion technology and minimal star power, the profit margin was staggering.
Other studios took notice.
Inspired by Hellfire's success, they began to seriously consider their own ventures into stop-motion. The appeal was obvious—lower production costs, no need for high-priced actors, and only affordable voice talent required.
The media buzzed with speculation.
"Stop-Motion: Is This the Future of Filmmaking?" one headline questioned.
Another read, "With Hellfire's Innovation, Are Actors Becoming Obsolete?"
A more dramatic piece asked, "Will Stop-Motion Replace Traditional Animation?"
But not everyone agreed.
Audiences and industry veterans alike pushed back against the hype. While Nightmare Before Wintermas had impressed with its charm and technical brilliance, many believed it was far from replacing traditional animation—or the irreplaceable presence of live actors.
"Stop-motion was brilliant," many said, "but it's just one style. Nothing beats the emotion a real actor brings."
While the debates raged, Hellfire had already moved on.
The next project was in motion: Titanic.
Firfel was practically glowing with excitement. This was the film Arthur had promised her—a romantic epic, just for them.
She attended every meeting in the writers' room, her ideas helping shape the narrative, eager to bring the vision to life.
Arthur, meanwhile, was set on adapting the legendary Titanic from his previous life. His initial plan was simple—cast an alternative Leonardo DiCaprio, alongside the blonde starlet whose mere walk had enchanted magazine covers and movie screens alike: Selina Taylor.
But fate had other ideas.
Despite his vast network and resources, Arthur hadn't yet found a Leonardo equivalent in this world.
He had Joseph Jackson—a spark of Michael.
He had Enyalius—the perfect mirror of Keanu.
But no Leo.
And so, the choice became clear.
He would take the role himself.
Partly out of necessity.
Partly because… he didn't mind.
After all, this film wasn't just another project. It was personal.
And it would bring him closer to Firfel than ever before.
Even though filming hadn't started yet, Firfel found herself growing closer to Arthur, more than ever before. The strain their relationship had suffered because of his clone was fading, replaced now with something stronger—deeper.
Ironically, it was the clone's coldness that had pushed Arthur to come up with the idea of making a romantic film together, a way not just to tell a story, but to heal and deepen their bond.
As they developed the script for Titanic, Arthur stumbled upon something unexpected—there was already a similar story in this world.
In the history of Wales, he found records of a ship called the Titan Ship, which had sunk ninety years ago. Just like the Titanic of his previous life, it had been a marvel of its time—a massive vessel that the people of Wales had once taken great pride in, only for it to end in tragedy and become a forgotten chapter in history.
For Arthur, it was perfect.
Now he didn't need to explain the story as pure fiction. He could frame it around the Titan Ship, using it as leverage to ground the film in this world's reality.
And Firfel? She became more fascinated the more she learned. The tale of Rose, forced into a loveless engagement, and Jack, a free-spirited artist whose life ended too soon, captivated her.
But something troubled her.
One evening, as they sat together, she turned to Arthur, a hesitant look in her eyes.
"Why does Jack have to die?" she asked softly. "Can't we change it? Let him live… give them a happy ending?"
Arthur shook his head gently. "No can do," he replied. "Jack's fate is sealed. He dies, and Rose lives on. That's the heart of the story."
Firfel frowned, her lips pressing into a thin line. She lightly swatted his arm. "You're cruel."
Arthur gave a wry smile. "It's just a story, Firf. Tragedy makes it more powerful—more memorable." He leaned back, shrugging. "A perfect ending doesn't always mean a happy one."
She understood, of course. As an actress, she knew the weight of tragedy, the way it could linger with an audience. But over the past few days, she'd grown attached—not just to Rose, but to Jack too. And imagining Arthur, playing Jack, dying on screen… it stirred something uncomfortable inside her.
She didn't want to see it.
But Arthur had already made his decision.
And she, quietly, would follow it.
---
After the unexpected success of Nightmare Before Wintermas, the Jackson family in Ferland City, Morningstar, finally took notice of Joseph.
His track "Thriller" had become a sensation in Morningstar, released as a standalone music video on VHS. Alongside his growing popularity, the songs featured in the Hellfire Walkman were still charting—turning Joseph Jackson from a forgotten son into a rising star.
The failure they once disowned was gone.
And now, the Jackson family thought it was time to bring him back—at least, in part.
But Joseph wanted none of it.
"I owe everything to Arthur Pendragon," he said firmly. "I'm not leaving him."
His words didn't sit well.
Angered, his family began spreading rumors—feeding the Morningstar media with defamation, framing Joseph's success as fleeting, undeserved.
As for Princess Lucy, she scoffed at the news. To her, Joseph's rise was nothing but luck, a product of Arthur's influence.
"Sooner or later," she muttered, "he'll come crawling back to the Lucy Agency."
But those were passing storms.
Time moved on.
And with it, the world turned its eyes back to what mattered.
Star Wars was coming.
As the release date drew near, excitement surged. Tickets sold out before the film even hit theaters. No hesitation. No second guesses.
People believed.
Hellfire's name was all they needed.
Reputation alone was enough.
Days passed, and at last, December 25 arrived. The long-awaited release of Star Wars began, premiering first in the Anatolia region under the night sky. Other parts of the world, still in the middle of their Wintermas celebrations, would witness its debut later that same evening—Evros, the Middle East, and the Empirica region all waiting for their turn under the stars.
Releasing it on Wintermas had been no mistake. People were flush with end-of-year bonuses, their pockets heavier, their spirits high. Spending a little more for a film wasn't just possible—it was expected.
Theaters in Anatolia filled fast, with lines stretching far beyond entrances. Tickets had sold out days in advance, without hesitation. No one questioned the film's quality.
Inside the grandest theater in Horn City, critics took their seats, pens in hand, notebooks open, eyes sharp. These were the same critics who had dissected Lord of the Rings, who'd been floored by Demonfather, who had learned to never underestimate Arthur Pendragon.
But even they felt something different tonight.
A sense of witnessing the birth of something far greater.
As the lights dimmed and the massive screen flickered to life, a single phrase appeared:
‹A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away...›
Then, the music began—not loud or jarring, but bold and clear, carrying a tone unfamiliar to many.
This wasn't set in their world—or any world they knew.
The imagery that followed was even stranger. Massive ships, a desert with twin suns, people dressed in foreign clothes, wielding weapons made of light.