Arias rang out, actors took the stage.
The audience in the theater fell silent, absorbed in the performance.
The sets were lavish, the acting poignant, songs flowed one after another, unfolding a gripping drama before the public's eyes.
Reyn watched attentively for several minutes, noting that this art form differed little from its Earthly counterpart.
Unfortunately, neither in his previous life nor on Ellunes—perhaps due to lacking an artistic bent or differences in aesthetic tastes—could he, try as he might, be captivated by opera's charm.
No matter how polished the performers' skill or beautiful their voices, Reyn always felt like an outsider at this artistic feast, unable to truly immerse himself like the others.
Viola, by contrast, was completely engrossed. During intermission, she even exchanged a few remarks with Reyn, informing him that the opera's author was none other than Chairman Hasilin himself.
The plot was straightforward: a handsome, elegant young aristocrat falls in love with a social lioness risen from the common folk, essentially a courtesan. Their feelings are mutual, but the aristocrat's family throws obstacles. A series of misunderstandings leads to breakup. Later, the hero comes to his senses, abandons everything, and rushes to his beloved, but arrives too late—her life has ended.
In short, a tragedy.
Tragedy is when beauty is destroyed before the viewers' eyes. This principle is universal. The audience watched spellbound; many ladies in the hall quietly sobbed, soaking their lace handkerchiefs with tears.
Reyn, lacking refined artistic sensibility and not being sentimental, felt no deep emotions. If not for Viola, his thoughts would have wandered far long ago.
Finally, nearly two hours later, the opera ended.
The theater erupted in applause; the actors took their bows.
Reyn joined the clapping. He noticed Viola's eyes were slightly reddened—clearly, the drama had touched her too.
She turned to him, her gaze full of deep emotion.
Reyn smiled back. Their hands lightly touched, and they exchanged knowing smiles, as if their souls spoke without words.
"Time," to his surprise, Viola had calmed; the nervousness he'd noticed on the way to the theater was gone. "Let's go to the temple behind the theater. The priests must have everything prepared by now."
"Alright," Reyn nodded.
Viola lowered her veil, concealing her face, and naturally took his arm. They left the box.
On the way, they carefully avoided the dispersing audience, venturing into the depths of the Grand Ode Theater.
The Grand Ode Theater's architectural complex was conventionally divided into three parts.
The front, open to the public, was the performance center—the main theater building itself, a vast round structure.
Behind the theater sprawled a vast garden.
This garden stunned with its fairy-tale, almost surreal beauty. Stone paths wound among flowerbeds, leading to gazebos and pavilions. Elegant sculptures dotted everywhere, fountains sprayed amid magical glows, water murmured. Artfully trimmed shrubs and floral garlands, illuminated by soft magical light, created an atmosphere of enchantment. Strolling through this garden felt like wandering a dream, captivating and reluctant to release.
At the garden's far end, in the night gloom, loomed the vague outlines of a majestic, serene temple.
Both the garden and temple were accessible only to Arts Association members and followers of the Long-Haired Lady.
"Temples of the Long-Haired Lady are usually surrounded by gardens," Viola explained. "Here, believers can showcase their artistic talents, and it's also an important place for their gatherings."
"I see."
Reyn understood everything. He noticed several couples in the secluded corners of the garden, strolling arm in arm or whispering on benches, occasionally emitting happy laughter.
A real sanctuary for dates, like secluded groves at educational institutions.
"I'll take you through the garden; it's also part of the ritual," Viola said with a smile. "From this moment on, the Long-Haired Lady might already be watching us."
Reyn's heart trembled slightly. Of course, he agreed.
Arm in arm, they strolled leisurely through the garden, admiring the creations of the masters of art. Occasionally, they encountered other loving couples; they exchanged light nods and parted ways.
Reyn didn't turn around, but he clearly understood that every couple they met would inevitably glance back at him and Viola after passing by.
And once they were farther away, they would start whispering quietly.
"Gossip is truly in human nature, no matter what world you find yourself in..."
Reyn sighed inwardly. Glancing at Viola, he saw that she was completely focused on him, paying no attention to those around them.
"I need to focus," he chided himself.
The garden was enormous. In half an hour, they had only covered a small part of it. Deciding that was enough, they headed straight for the temple.
The Temple of the Long-Haired Lady was not impressive in size. A row of round columns supported the dome, creating an impression of elegance and classical austerity. From the garden side, a semicircular arched entrance led into the temple, adorned with numerous reliefs.
Architecture was also an art, and this temple itself was a grand masterpiece.
When Reyn and Viola emerged from the garden, they saw a group of people already waiting at the temple gates.
The first thing Reyn thought, scanning them, was that he had stumbled into a modeling agency.
All these people, regardless of age or gender—and there were more than a dozen of them—were strikingly beautiful, as if selected on purpose.
Some were dressed in strict suits and carried themselves with impeccable dignity; others looked casual, even a bit disheveled, but each possessed a unique charm, as if they didn't belong to this bustling world, radiating refinement and elegance. Any one of them would immediately draw everyone's attention in a crowd.
What Arts Association—this was a club of beauty connoisseurs!
Reyn chuckled inwardly. The Long-Haired Lady, the goddess in whose domain lay "beauty," clearly favored attractive followers—even among the priests, there wasn't a single ugly one.
He discreetly activated his Soul Eye and quickly scanned the gathering, confirming that they were all priests of the Church of Beauty and Good.
At their head stood the chairman of the Arts Association, Count Hasilin.
The souls of all the others, starting with Count Hasilin himself, blazed with the fire of faith, and quite fiercely at that. Each was at least a zealous follower, and most worshiped the Long-Haired Lady exclusively.
However, upon finishing his scan of their souls, Reyn felt a chill inside.
He noticed that the souls of several people were tinged red—most in light red, but one or two in dark red. That meant hostility toward him.
The guests clearly hadn't come with good intentions!
Reyn's gaze slid over these people—mostly men. He immediately guessed what was going on.
In the Church of Beauty and Good, the feminine principle prevailed over the masculine: there were more female followers than male ones, and accordingly, more priestesses. Among those present, there were only five or six men, but aside from Chairman Hasilin, the souls of almost all of them were tinged red.
"I've become the enemy of all the men in the Arts Association."
It didn't faze Reyn in the slightest. He squeezed Viola's hand even tighter, deliberately flaunting their closeness.
Under the intent gazes of the assembled, Viola and Reyn walked side by side toward the temple gates.
The temple gates were closed.
Hasilin, without delay, pronounced:
"The altar for the ritual is already prepared. Enter. We will remain outside and pray with you, asking the Lady to bestow divine arts."
"Thank you, Your Grace," Viola replied calmly.
Hasilin nodded and, turning to the temple gates, prepared to open them.
"My apologies, Your Grace, please wait a moment."
A resonant, pleasant voice suddenly rang out, drawing everyone's attention.
Only Hasilin remained unruffled. Focusing on the spell, he emitted a beam of white light that activated the runes on the temple gates. The heavy stone doors silently swung inward, revealing the inner sanctum.
Only then did Hasilin slowly turn around and ask:
"Yett, what did you want to say?"
The voice belonged to a young man of about thirty, with delicate, almost feminine features, slender and tall. He was dressed in a perfectly tailored dark-azure suit, a sword hung at his belt, and behind his back was visible an elegant seven-string lyre. His entire appearance breathed refinement, and anyone seeing him couldn't help but admire: "What a beautiful man!"—he could conquer the hearts of countless maidens.
Reyn had recently seen this man—on the opera stage, where he had performed the lead male role.
In the opera, this Yett had been a handsome and elegant aristocrat; in life, he was no commoner either—a noble order adorned his chest.
Judging by Yett's soul, he was a fifth-level magical swordsman.
Reyn looked closer and realized this guy was no ordinary. He wasn't a standard elemental magical swordsman; several of his elements were quite rare, reminiscent of some rare supernatural class, but not fully formed.
In a word, this man possessed considerable power.
Yett's sudden intervention didn't surprise Reyn at all. He had noticed the strongest hostility emanating from this man at first glance. It would have been strange if he had done nothing.
He glanced at Viola.
Hidden beneath a light veil, her face remained impassive, as if nothing concerned her, but her tightly clenched hand betrayed her true feelings—she was clearly furious.
Yett took two steps forward and loudly declared:
"Your Grace, forgive my audacity. I merely wish to clarify if there is a canon rule stating that only her followers or true artists may enter the Lady's temple?"
Hasilin nodded without hesitation:
"Such a rule does indeed exist."
"Thank you, Your Grace," Yett bowed very politely, then turned to Reyn, took two more steps, and asked: "Lord Reyn, are you a follower of the Long-Haired Lady?"
"No," Reyn replied calmly.
"In that case, do you understand art?" Yett asked again.
Reyn had already guessed his intentions and suddenly found it amusing.
Every movement of this man resembled a theatrical performance: speech with emphasized intonation, impeccable politeness, carefully chosen attire, manners as if rehearsed in advance—everything was flawless, but somewhat exaggerated, though it gave the impression of naturalness.
Had he immersed himself too deeply in the role and imagined himself the lead in real life?
Or was this some role-playing game?
Reyn pondered inwardly, smirking as he replied:
"I know a little."
Since he hadn't answered Yett immediately, his expression seemed a bit odd, and the onlookers took it for uncertainty.
"Who dares say Reyn doesn't understand art?" Viola couldn't hold back. "Gentlemen, you've all heard 'Viola by the Lake.' Reyn is the author of that music. Can a man capable of creating such a beautiful piece not be an artist?"
"If Lord Reyn were the author of that music, he would undoubtedly have the right to enter the temple. Unfortunately, that's not the case," Yett immediately objected loudly.
He was well prepared. From an inner pocket, he pulled out several sheets of paper and unfolded them, showing them to the assembly.
"Lord Reyn chose an art course at Kleyden Academy. Here is his attendance and grade record."
"Over three years, Lord Reyn attended fewer than five classes, never passed a single exam, and submitted no worthy work."
"How could such a man create a piece as beautiful as 'Viola by the Lake'?"
Yett passed the sheets among the priests and finally handed them to Hasilin:
"Please review it, Your Grace."
Hasilin examined the record, and his face darkened slightly.
Doubt appeared in the priests' eyes. Most were women, and they too had heard that beautiful music. With that melody, Viola had touched their hearts and, promising other benefits, secured their consent—more than half had voted to allow Viola to hold the prayer ritual early.
But now, it seemed the author was someone else.
Everyone quickly reached the same conclusion: obviously, the real author was Viola.
Reyn kept a composed expression, but inwardly exclaimed: "Damn, this guy's sharp! Not only did he get my academy grades, but he guessed the truth!"
This time, there was no excuse. He really wasn't the author.
Seeing the people's reaction, Viola finally lost her composure. Anxiety gripped her heart.
She knew Reyn's standing at Kleyden Academy perfectly well and that he had been utterly unremarkable before. But she had seen Reyn's musical talent with her own eyes and heard the melody being born with her own ears. She had never doubted it.
Yet explaining it was impossible. No one would believe her.
"It's Reyn's piece," Viola objected almost helplessly. She glared angrily at Yett and asked coldly: "Yett, what's in it for you?"
"Viola, I'm not against you. I'm merely defending the Lady's dignity. Not every uncouth commoner has the right to enter the temple and defile the Lady's altar," Yett shrugged dramatically, his face full of sincerity, as if he truly cared for the Church's welfare.
He looked at Viola's beautiful face, and his gaze softened, admiration and madness flickering in his eyes.
"Oh, Viola, fairest and noblest violet of Longsand, I don't know what man is worthy of you, but I know..."
Yett spoke bombastically, like in an opera, with exaggerated emotions and shifting intonations, creating a strong impression.
Reyn, thoroughly fed up, was about to interrupt him, but Yett pointed at him and proclaimed on a high note:
"But I know this impostor is definitely not worthy of you! He must be thrown out!"
The priests seemed swayed by his words and looked at Reyn with disgust.
Viola laughed in fury:
"Throw out Reyn? Then who will participate in the ritual with me? You?"
"I would consider it an honor!" Yett immediately feigned flattery and delight on his face. "Of course, I would prefer that you, Viola, pray alone, without troubling yourself with a performance before the Lady. I'm sure you will receive the Lady's response."
Reyn could no longer tolerate this guy. A real poseur!
He had already figured out Yett's pathological obsession: he was madly in love with Viola, had surely been rejected many times, and deep down considered her his prize. A classic case of "if I can't have her, no one can"—hence this sabotage.
There's no talking to such people. Fists are the simplest and most direct argument.
As for not being able to enter the temple, Reyn didn't really care. The phonograph contribution was already made. Even without participating in the prayer ritual, there would be no issues.
Viola would become his sooner or later.
And he'd deal with this actor after the ritual.
Reyn calmly pondered this and was about to suggest Viola enter the temple alone when Yett shot him a challenging glance and said contemptuously:
"Lord Reyn, I hear you're a member of the Demon Extermination Squad. You must be quite strong and very skilled in combat?"
"I have some strength," Reyn shifted his gaze to him and asked: "Does Lord Yett wish to fight me?"
Yett smirked again:
"Actually, I don't like fighting. But I want to challenge you in what you're strongest at, to prove—you're not worthy of Viola. None of us is worthy of Viola."
Reyn had been looking for an excuse to teach him a lesson, and the guy had handed it to him.
But he didn't want just to beat the opponent—he wanted to crush this narcissistic type psychologically. So he asked:
"And what are you strong in, Lord Yett?"
Self-satisfaction flashed in Yett's eyes, and he loudly replied:
"In poetry and fencing."
Reyn's eyes gleamed. A plan formed instantly:
"In that case, let's compete in poetry and fencing."