Hearing Reyn's words, everyone present froze for a moment.
Yett, as if hearing the funniest joke in the world, stood stunned in silence for a few seconds, then burst out laughing:
"Ha-ha-ha... You, a bumpkin from the sticks, dare to compete with me in versification?" Contempt was written all over his face, and he added arrogantly: "Do you even know what poetry is?"
The surrounding priests shook their heads, chuckling and looking at Reyn like a fool who had made a spectacle of himself.
Even Viola felt awkward, wondering if Yett had provoked Reyn into a rash act.
She was confident in his fencing skill, but competing in poetry would be pure self-humiliation.
They had spent days and nights together, closer than ever, but she had never seen Reyn compose poetry. Aside from his exceptional musical gift, he showed virtually no talent in other arts.
Yett, however, was Longsand's most gifted poet, author of several masterpieces, repeatedly praised by Chairman Hasilin himself. His name was known throughout the Empire, his poems widely circulated, and admirers from all Empire cities often came to Longsand to see Yett in person.
If it were just about versification, even Chairman Hasilin wouldn't dare claim superiority.
It was thanks to these poems that Yett became director of the Arts Association, joined the Church of Beauty and Good, and became a priest.
Though lacking enough experience for the Long-Haired Lady's blessing, no one doubted he would gain divine arts sooner or later.
Viola took Reyn's hand and quietly whispered all this in his ear.
Reyn, having listened, just shook his head, unwilling to change his decision.
The source of his confidence was the complete poetry anthology on his phone, brought from Earth—a hefty tome of nearly a million characters, including classical poems of all forms and genres, ancient and modern, Chinese and foreign. A mental search query would instantly find the right piece.
No matter how talented Yett was, could he compare to the multitudes of past geniuses?
Moreover, poetry contests required quick wits and limited time. He had a ready anthology—copy any poem, and he'd trounce Yett in no time.
After all, copying music or copying poetry—same difference. No one would know the truth. He just needed the audacity to plagiarize shamelessly.
Since Yett wanted to beat him at what he considered himself the best, let him savor the bitterness of defeat when his own mastery was trampled!
Seeing Reyn and Viola's tender closeness, Yett burned even hotter with jealousy. Contempt reflected on his refined face, and he said:
"Competing with you in poetry would be an insult to me. I refuse."
He took a superior stance, genuinely believing a poetry duel with Reyn was beneath his dignity. Even victory wouldn't bring him glory.
"Won't write poems—no fencing with you."
Reyn had precisely guessed what Yett wanted and used his desire for a sword fight as leverage.
Yett faltered for a moment. He couldn't understand why Reyn was so stubborn. Hesitating, he decided he couldn't lose anyway and said mockingly:
"Seems Lord Reyn isn't entirely ignorant. Probably wants to enjoy my poems. Very well, I'll indulge you." "How do you want to compete?" he asked casually.
"As you like," Reyn replied even more casually, as if victory was already in his pocket.
Yett's gaze darkened. He thought Reyn was mocking him. Suppressing his anger, he turned to Hasilin and said:
"Your Grace, please set the theme for the poems and judge our works, determining the winner."
"Very well," Hasilin nodded.
He glanced at Reyn. This literary titan inwardly wondered why Reyn, knowing defeat was certain, still went ahead. Perhaps he had other intentions?
In his view, Reyn didn't seem like such a dim youth.
Hasilin pondered and said:
"You're both fighting for love, so the theme is 'Love.' One poem each. Time—ten minutes."
With that, he pulled out a pocket watch and started the countdown.
"Love."
Yett smirked. He was a master of love lyrics, having written countless ones, and immediately sank into thought as usual.
Reyn pretended to think too, but actually opened his poetry anthology and searched by the keyword "love."
In seconds, hundreds of love poems appeared before his mind's eye.
Among them were ancient and modern masterpieces. However, the imperial Auriensky language was alphabetic, and ancient poems lost charm in translation. Foreign love lyrics suited better.
Reyn had skimmed imperial poetic forms in academy textbooks once. They resembled Western poetry: strict canonical forms like sonnets, and completely free prose poems.
In under half a minute, Reyn selected one.
He didn't rush to announce readiness to Hasilin—it would seem too provocative and raise suspicions. He decided to wait a few minutes.
Barely half the time had passed when Yett loudly declared:
"Your Grace, my poem is ready."
"Recite it," Hasilin said.
But Yett had other plans. He proposed:
"Your Grace, I'd like to write down this poem first, then duel Lord Reyn with swords. After testing his fencing skill, we'll judge our poems together and pick the winner." He turned to Reyn. "What do you say, Lord Reyn?"
Everyone understood Yett's scheme: he wanted to defeat Reyn, then recite his poem for maximum effect.
Such staging was even more theatrical, like a carefully rehearsed show.
Reyn couldn't help smirking. This poseur was full of tricks, never missing a chance to show off before the audience, further elevating his flawless image.
"I agree," Reyn declared immediately.
"Reyn..." Worry flickered in Viola's eyes, but Reyn subtly shook his head, radiating confidence and calming her.
The priests, who had been watching, buzzed. The priestesses looked at Reyn with some sympathy, thinking he had despaired and decided to surrender; the priests gloated, anticipating his humiliation.
Hasilin produced paper and pens, offering them to both to write their poems.
Yett wrote extraordinarily fast, impatiently finishing and handing his sheet to Hasilin.
Reyn took his time, copying the poem onto paper, word by word. Viola, standing nearby, glanced at the writing, changed expression at the first lines, boundless surprise in her eyes.
When she finished reading, unable to contain her excitement, she rose on tiptoes, tilted her head back, and gave Reyn a long kiss.
An astonished gasp rose from the crowd.
This scene of public love confession, with Viola as the initiator, stunned everyone.
Dead silence fell before the temple. People watched the kissing man and woman with mixed feelings.
All were followers of the Long-Haired Lady and naturally sensed the aura of beautiful, pure love emanating from the kiss.
It perfectly matched the Long-Haired Lady's teachings: Viola unhesitatingly displayed her beauty, awakening true love in people's hearts with sincere feelings, finding and multiplying good and beauty in all things.
Sparks lit in the priestesses' eyes, their hearts fluttered. Even the few male priests couldn't help admiring. Though they still envied Reyn for winning the beauty's favor, the hostility in their hearts noticeably subsided.
Only Yett was beside himself with rage, as if flames of jealousy would burst from his eyes.
He clenched his teeth so hard they ground. His right hand gripped the sword hilt in a death grip, knuckles white.
After a long time, Viola, satisfied, pulled away and hurriedly handed over the sheet with the poem.
Hasilin took it, scanned it quickly, and his face changed.
He finally understood why Viola was so moved.
Any lady seeing this poem would struggle to contain her emotions and react just as passionately as Viola.
Hasilin couldn't help looking at Reyn with new interest, as if seeing him for the first time, not hiding his admiration.
Seeing His Grace the chairman's reaction, everyone burned with curiosity: what poem had Reyn written?
Yett sensed something amiss, but there was no other way. He stepped to the center of the clearing, drew his long sword with a ring, and pointed it at Reyn.
He said nothing, but inwardly resolved firmly:
"Now I'll not just defeat Reyn, but do it beautifully. And if the chance arises, I'll feign a miss and finish off this vile gigolo."
Reyn also stepped into the clearing, feeling surprisingly light.
Competing in poetry, even by copying, felt awkward and clumsy, not his style.
He preferred a real fight, where he could set people straight with fists, convincing them by force.
"Anyone lend me a sword?"
Reyn asked because his dragonhide belt held only the "Icebreaker" warhammer. But since they agreed on fencing, let it be a sword.
Viola immediately pulled an enchanted short dagger from her spatial necklace. It was her spellcasting weapon, an item of the highest quality costing ten thousand gold, with several magical effects and built-in spells.
Such an enchanted dagger could also be used in close combat—it was very sharp and durable—but it was still a caster's weapon, not ideal for fencing, and it could easily be damaged.
However, Viola felt no regret at all, immediately tossing the dagger to Reyn.
This sparked envy among the watching priests: to give such an expensive spellcasting weapon for a sword duel—what extravagance!
At the same time, the people realized how deep Viola's feelings for Reyn were—money was nothing but dust to her.
Reyn caught the dagger and immediately felt a flow of spiritual power fill his body. He sensed a surge of vigor, realizing it was the spell acceleration effect and spiritual power recovery.
At that moment, one of the priestesses stepped forward and said:
"Lord Reyn, you may use my sword."
Her supernatural class was Pathfinder. She was very beautiful, with a seductive figure, second in beauty only to Viola among those present.
As she spoke, the beauty stood with her back to Viola and cast a coquettish glance at Reyn, making her intentions unmistakably clear.
Reyn firmly refused:
"Thank you for the kindness, but this dagger is enough for me."
The priestess's gaze fell. She turned and stepped back, giving Viola a friendly smile.
"People from the Church of Beauty and Goodness are all born actors," Reyn noted mentally.