Vulgar

Duke Gran scanned the crowd—announcing the Literary Duel’s content loudly.
Hearing it, the audience remained calm.

Poetry on love? A very standard theme for such contests.

In the Dragonheart Empire, noble gatherings often featured these cultured games.

But common themes were harder to excel in.

The imperial literary world had thousands of love poems—excellent ones too.
Audiences had seen the best. If your poem was weak? The contrast would be obvious.

The key to winning? Craft an unconventional poem from a conventional theme.

“Haha! Heaven favors me!”

Seth inwardly rejoiced.
Love-themed poetry? Too easy!

Among his followers—one specialized in romantic poetry.

With a subtle glance, Seth signaled him—the man immediately began writing on a note.

To Seth—victory was guaranteed.

Yet he didn’t notice—Black, standing opposite behind Alice, now covered his face with both hands.

Hiding his expression.

Why hide it? Simple.

He was laughing uncontrollably inside!

Hahahaha!

Black wanted to roar with laughter. He’d never felt so joyful!

When he heard the theme—love poetry—he’d been overwhelmed with delight.

He wasn’t good at writing romantic poems—but that didn’t matter.
He could use someone else’s masterpieces!

Back on Earth—he’d read many poetry collections!
Eastern and Western alike.

Even memorized famous Western poems—to impress girls during dates.

Any one of those—would dominate the Dragonheart Empire’s literary scene!

Yes, Seth had scholar followers.

But sorry—Black had an entire truckload of Renaissance-era Western poets behind him!

How could fireflies compete with the full moon?

Dozens of love poems instantly flooded Black’s mind.

Now—calmly selecting the best.

While Black and Seth prepared, other noble youths grew eager.

Marrying the princess? Too tempting.

One by one, they stepped forward—reciting freshly composed poems.

Some even recited while gazing deeply at Alice.

Their eyes—dripping with longing.

Alice shivered—wanting to draw her sword and cut them down.

But their poems? Terrible.

Poor writing, shallow meaning—typical “fake sorrow” poetry.

So awkward—you could dig a 3-bedroom house with your toes.

Even Krystin—still upset earlier—wanted to cast a Silence Spell to shut them up.

Even Elaina—the little glutton—put down her fork, abandoned her food, and covered her ears.

Seth quickly received a note from his follower.

It contained a freshly written love poem.

Duke Gran noticed—but ignored it.

The Literary Duel had no strict rules.
If you wrote it yourself—great.
If someone handed you a pre-written poem? That counted as your work.

This was commonly accepted.

After all—true, proud scholars wouldn’t give away their creations.
Only low-quality people did that—and they were ignored anyway.

“Ahem!”

Seth cleared his throat dramatically.

Most fell silent—knowing his ruthless nature.

“I can do poetry too. Just composed a love poem—now I’ll share it, despite its flaws.”

Seth held the note in one hand—other hand behind his back—chest out, head high—pretending to be a poet.

Though—his large, muscular frame clashed with the image.

Clearing his throat, he recited in an affected “poet’s tone”:

“To the Rose Under Moonlight”

Your eyes shine like morning stars,
Your lips sweet as honey,
I’d become night wind caressing your hair,
Or a stream reflecting your beauty.

Ah! If you’d pity this humble knight,
I’d crown you with sword and blood!

As the poem ended—applause erupted.

His followers clapped loudest. Others joined—some genuinely impressed.

“Seems not bad—has some charm!”
“Indeed, much better than the previous ones!”
“Never thought Seth had literary talent!”
“Pfft, I think it’s just average!”

…

Chatter filled the air—mixed opinions.

“This poem is excellent compared to earlier ones—I give it a top rating!”

An elderly noble stroked his beard—nodding slowly.

Other old-school nobles agreed.

To them, the poem had good rhyme, clear theme—far better than those “fake sorrow” youths.

“Hmph. You old fools—judging by status, aren’t you?”

Another elderly noble scoffed—mocking.

He knew—they were giving a high score because of Seth and his father’s status.

Flattery of power!

“Heh. What’s your opinion, Lord Lambert?”

The others flushed—angry at being exposed.

All eyes turned to Lord Lambert, the critic.

Lambert saw Seth’s warning gaze—but didn’t fear.

He’d always despised Seth and his father—straightforward, fearless of authority.

Lambert stood—launching a scathing critique:

“One word: Cliché! Unbearably clichéd!”

Black jumped—shocked.
Besides Alice—who dared oppose Seth?!

“This poem is utterly unoriginal—a disgrace!”

Lambert’s voice burned with passion. As a once-prominent literary figure, his words carried weight.

“How so, Lord Lambert?”

Seth’s face turned black as coal—voice full of threat.

But Lambert ignored it—criticized even harder:

“The language? Overused tropes!”