The crowd parted, clearing the space in front of the temple. Hasilin announced loudly:
"Reyn, Yett, the striving for love is something the Lady is always glad to see. However, before her temple, I do not wish to see anyone's death because of it. Your sword duel must be restrained, and you must not damage the temple gardens."
"As you command, Lord Chairman."
Answering, Yett immediately sprang into action.
He ran his hand over the strings of the seven-stringed zither on his back. The strings vibrated, emitting a melodious sound.
This instrument turned out to be a unique enchanted item. The sounds it produced carried magical vibrations. A sound wave enveloped Yett, his eyes shone brighter, his spirit lifted, and his figure became lighter, as if he were about to dissolve into the music and move with it.
Reyn listened to the melody but took no action, instead watching Yett's techniques with interest.
Even upon close inspection, he noticed that this man's soul elements were quite rare—he belonged to a very uncommon class of magical swordsmen.
Usually, magical swordsmen, after soul transformation, chose an affinity element for some element to imbue their sword with elemental power and combine it with fencing arts, achieving immense might.
However, Yett had fused not with an affinity element, but with "Sound Form."
Reyn had recently finished studying the complete collection of the "Book of a Thousand Souls" and recognized this rare element at first glance. It belonged to the category of unusual abilities and could be activated by either soul power or physical stamina.
Sound Form allowed pouring soul power into sound, giving it materiality for self-enhancement or attacking the opponent.
Essentially, it was also a type of magic, just applied differently.
Yett had made Sound Form his core element, combining it with such elements as "Illusory Sound Art," "Psychological Suggestion," "Inspiration Art," "Slowing Field," and "Rev." By combining them around sound propagation, he achieved various combat effects.
It had to be admitted, this was a highly original concept.
Almost a new supernatural class, a branch of magical swordsmen. Reyn grew curious: what was this rare class called?
Bard? Or magical swordman-bard?
Reyn had long noticed that not only Yett possessed Sound Form.
Among the attending priests, there were three more who, like Yett, had made Sound Form their core, combining it with various sound elements.
"Probably a new class created by the Long-haired Lady for her followers, similar to the holy servants of other churches, but it's not yet perfected enough."
A multitude of thoughts flashed through Reyn's mind when suddenly the rhythm of the music changed sharply, filled with killing intent.
The seven-stringed zither on Yett's back, driven by soul power, continuously emitted sound waves that covered a vast area.
This sound pierced straight into the brain, like a demonic song, carrying a soporific effect that slowed Reyn's thoughts. Everything blurred before his eyes, and he lost sight of Yett.
In the next instant, the gleam of a long sword flashed from the side. The blade shone, vibrating at tremendous speed and emitting sound waves.
Each wave was almost material, like a transparent blade rushing forward.
Behind this storm of blades stood Yett. He gazed at Reyn with eyes full of icy killing intent.
The sword flash streaked and faded.
Almost simultaneously, Reyn's figure whistled away. The sword cleaved empty air, and a dozen sound blades struck the ground, leaving a net of scratches.
"He dodged with a Charge."
Yett reacted like lightning. He ran his hand over the zither strings again, and the melody changed once more, spreading in circles like ripples on water.
The sound waves caught Reyn mid-Charge. He felt as if stuck in a swamp, his speed dropping noticeably.
Reyn realized it was "Slowing Field."
Without turning, he continued rushing forward, changing direction and arcing. His short sword struck sideways like lightning, as if he had eyes in the back of his head, accurately hitting the pursuing Yett.
"How did he spot me?"
Yett was caught off guard. He had muffled the sound of his steps with the zither music and moved quickly—yet he was detected in advance.
Clang!
The swords clashed.
Reyn didn't want to damage Viola's excellent short sword, so he used only thirty percent of his power.
Even so, it was hard for Yett to hold. His sword hand went numb, the vibrating blade froze instantly, and the sound blades vanished.
Reyn made a sharp thrust forward, his short sword lunging—a simple straight thrust from Imperial Military Fencing.
Precise, fast, powerful.
The sword cleaved air, its tip flashing with chilling gleam that made the heart freeze.
Yett raised his sword to block and simultaneously unleashed "Rev."
Rev was a common ordinary element meant to intimidate the enemy with sound. Enhanced by Sound Form and issued by Yett, it had an effect comparable to a Fear spell.
However, Reyn remained utterly deaf to this roar, as if hearing nothing.
He felt no confusion at all. His short sword moved fast and precise, without the slightest pause.
Clang!
Yett barely managed to raise his long sword in time, blocking the thrust.
The immense force of the strike made him involuntarily retreat. But before he could regain balance, Reyn's short sword was before him again.
Chilling gleam flashed, sharp threat struck the face.
Yett had no choice but to block with the long sword again. This exhausting defense left no room to use any of his many advanced fencing techniques.
Clang-clang-clang!
Reyn unleashed a series of thrusts, overwhelming the opponent with power. Using only this simplest straight thrust, he forced Yett to retreat helplessly, denying even the chance to dodge.
Though Yett's zither continued playing, constantly shifting sound waves and trying to affect Reyn with various magical effects, it was all in vain.
Reyn's gaze was focused; he moved like a deaf man, hearing no sounds at all.
The watching priests were stunned.
They all knew Yett's fencing art—in the Church of Beauty and Goodness of Longsanda, he had no equal. They hadn't expected that after his first strike, barely showing his power, Reyn would press him so hard.
What shocked them most was that Reyn used only one technique, yet its power was overwhelming.
The space before the temple was small. After enduring a few more straight thrusts, Yett was pushed to the edge. One more step—and he'd be in the garden.
He felt suppressed, nearly driven mad, but couldn't think of a way to break free.
His sword hand had almost lost sensation, and the skin between thumb and index finger had long been torn by the terrifying force of the strikes and was bleeding.
"What the hell kind of fencing is this..."
"I can't lose!"
Yett roared mentally. Suddenly, his long sword emitted a sharp crack, and the blade broke.
His mind went blank for a moment. His sword was a quality enchanted weapon, extremely durable—how could it break from a strike of a simple caster's short sword?
Then Yett saw the flying sword fragment caught bare-handed by Reyn.
The sharp blade couldn't cut Reyn's hand. Instead, it spun and plunged into his chest!
With the pain came disbelief. He was defeated just like that, and his life hung by a thread.
Reyn stepped back two paces and calmly said:
"The sword tip is just an inch from your heart. If you don't move, you won't die."
Hearing this, Yett trembled all over and froze in place, afraid to even twitch lest the fragment pierce his heart.
He looked at his chest, at the protruding sword fragment.
Only now did he realize that every straight thrust from Reyn had struck precisely the same spot on the blade. That's why it broke.
Yett's heart pounded wildly. He coughed, his face paling from pain, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.
The surrounding priests also heard Reyn's words. All were shocked by his fencing art—seemingly simple and crude, but in reality incredibly precise and requiring unimaginable control.
Chairman Hasilin approached to check Yett's wound and confirmed Reyn told the truth: as long as he didn't move, his life was not in danger.
There were several priests here skilled in divine arts. It would be enough to carefully extract the fragment to save Yett.
Reyn returned the short sword to Viola and said:
"Lord Chairman, I have won the sword duel. Shouldn't we also announce the results of the poetry contest?"
"Yes."
Hasilin nodded, looking at Yett with sympathy, and immediately announced:
"Reyn's love poem is better; he has defeated Yett."
Even those who vaguely suspected this couldn't believe their ears upon hearing the result.
Longsanda's most talented poet, Yett, had lost in his signature genre—love poetry—to some youth from the provinces!
"I... don't... believe it!" Yett forced out through the pain.
He was on the brink of insanity, wanting to snatch the poem sheet from Hasilin's hands, but he didn't dare even move. He could only glare at Reyn with bloodshot eyes.
His once handsome face twisted in a grimace.
Reyn frowned, noticing the Bloody Soul Curse in Yett's soul stirring. Fueled by negative emotions, it grew rapidly, extending several dark tentacles.
This was a sign the curse was about to activate.
Reyn hesitated whether to warn, but Hasilin had already noticed. He raised his hand and applied Calming Art, easing Yett's pain and dispelling his negative emotions.
The Bloody Soul Curse in his soul shrank immediately.
Yett himself noticed nothing and continued:
"I don't believe this ignorant barbarian could write a better poem than mine..."
Not only he, but the other priests also found it absurd. All eyes turned to the poem in Hasilin's hands.
Everyone wanted to know what Reyn had written.
Viola had long wanted to show the poem to people. She bowed to Hasilin and said seriously:
"Lord Chairman, please read it aloud."
"It would be my honor," Hasilin was glad to spread the poem. He adjusted his pince-nez and read loudly:
"When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true;
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face..."
Under the sounds of the touching poem, Reyn and Viola entered the temple doors hand in hand. This time, no one tried to stop them.
Yett watched their backs disappear into the temple, his face pale. Hasilin's recitation, word by word, hammered his heart like blows.
The poem wasn't even finished when he coughed up a fountain of blood and collapsed to the ground.
***