Chapter 169: The Meeting of a Star and the Stars
Chapter 169: The Meeting of a Star and the Stars
The bar was spacious and vast, with an overall style leaning towards steel and toughness. It was frequented mostly by the working class, with hardly any aristocratic figures in sight.
Leonard approached the bar and inquired with the bartender for any recommended drinks.
Being new to Beckland, he was unfamiliar with this grand city. To avoid showing his ignorance, he ordered two of the bartender's suggestions, then settled on a Southwell beer.
Preferring to drink in large gulps rather than sips, each half or full glass helped to ease his melancholic thoughts.
The old man's words had indeed frightened him.
Looking up at the stars, he pondered his pretense as a follower of the stars. If the mysterious entity were watching, would it strike him down with a meteor?
Should he find a secluded place to quietly await his demise?
After all, a falling star could harm innocent lives, and he wasn't selfish enough to drag others into death with him.
Should he use this time to compose more poetry?
Even if he were no longer in this world, he could leave behind verses for minstrels to sing.
In his poems, he should deliberately describe his appearance and talents, then recount the legendary tale of his demise by a meteor.
Indeed, a person like him should die a spectacular death.
Half an hour passed before Leonard emerged from his sentimental mood, a side effect of using a sealed artifact.
Amplifying negative emotions was not advisable when harboring thoughts of death, as it could lead to an irresistible urge for suicide.
The chill in his body, caused by the alcohol, gradually dissipated, and his nearly frozen body began to warm up, another side effect.
Another negative effect was the propensity to encounter unbelievable events when wandering aimlessly, lasting for twenty-four hours.
Unbelievable events, while not always bad, often led to the horrific and inexplicable deaths of most artifact bearers.
That's why, upon being transported nearby, he dared not return directly to the church but chose this bar as a temporary refuge.
As long as the bar didn't expel patrons, he planned to stay until dawn.
Leonard rhythmically tapped his fingers on the bar, occasionally taking large swigs of beer with his left hand, his gaze scanning the faces around the bar.
After a full sweep, he retracted his gaze and began to compose new poetry in his mind.
Compared to playing the nightmare, he preferred his previous persona as the midnight poet, a path he chose for its perfect fit with his nature.
He, Leonard Mitchell, was born a poet, a romantic and grand one.
"Give me a Blue Romance."
While lost in thought, Leonard's attention was drawn by a voice nearby.
His gaze followed the sound, and at first glance, he was dazzled, then envious, and finally, he sighed in self-admission of inferiority.
In terms of appearance and temperament, he had always been confident. If he wished, he could grace the covers of magazines at any time.
As for his overall demeanor, it was effortlessly chic. His unkempt hairstyle added to his unique charm, and his eyes, slightly hazy and seemingly understanding of the world yet feigning nonchalance, gave him an air of a man with a storied past.
He described himself thus: Leonard Mitchell was the protagonist of the sung verses, he was poetry incarnate, and to be near him was to embrace poetry itself.
But the man before him, with hair like sun-dyed gold, a well-built and powerful physique, flawless features, and a constant gentle smile, exuded a sense of warmth and elegance.
Perhaps staring too long, the man approached and sat nearby, smiling, "Friend, is this your first time here?"
Leonard withdrew his gaze and lifted his glass with a smile, "Is it that obvious?"
"A bit. I'm a regular here, and I can tell newcomers from regulars at a glance."
"I see. Indeed, it's my first time here, and it's quite a nice bar."
"It's a paradise for the brave."
"That's precisely why I chose this bar."
Leonard, finding the man's conversation extraordinary and his demeanor gentle and elegant, and noting his youth, gradually let down his guard and began to chat freely.
They hit it off, and upon learning of the man's interest in poetry, Leonard couldn't resist asking for his name.
Hastur Campbell, a fine name that matched his mysterious and elegant character.
"Emperor Roselle's love poems are exquisite, especially 'When You Are Old.' The verses are concise, filled with emotion, and brimming with romance."
Leonard's words carried admiration for Emperor Roselle, believing that no modern poet could match his talent.
Despite his confidence, he knew he was still far from reaching Emperor Roselle's level.
Hastur smiled, "Emperor Roselle was indeed a great poet, skilled in both love and narrative poems. It's a pity he couldn't devote himself solely to poetry, which is quite unbecoming for a poet so full of romance."
Leonard's eyes brightened; the words struck a chord with him.
He too felt that Emperor Roselle had become distracted later in life, taking up the role of Intis Republic's chief executive, wasting his precious time on such trivial matters, squandering his talent.
In terms of a poet's integrity, Leonard felt he far surpassed Emperor Roselle.
"For the lengthy verses, it's a regret, but for the long history, it's an inevitability."
"After all, Emperor Roselle not only excelled in poetry but also made extraordinary achievements in the field of technology, even ushering in the industrial age."
"The only real disappointment is his seemingly indiscreet relationships, although that has always been part of the Intis Republic's traditional culture."
Listening to Hastur speak at length, Leonard couldn't help but ask, "You seem to know a lot about Emperor Roselle's life?"
"I'm dedicated to studying the historical culture of Emperor Roselle's era. I do have a deep understanding of this great figure who ushered in a new age."
Leonard nodded and continued their casual conversation, shifting from Roselle to the creation of poetry.
In this regard, Leonard was quite confident.
Poets who wrote better than him lacked his handsome appearance, and those younger and more handsome didn't write as well as he did.
Hastur, smiling, shook his head, "I'm not very skilled in poetry."
"Poetry requires inspiration, freedom, and unrestraint. Anyone can try."
Leonard encouraged Hastur to write a poem, then to share his own work.
Unable to outshine in looks, he sought to win in poetic creation.
"May I hear your poetry first?"
Hastur hadn't thought of a suitable poem yet.
His mind indeed held many beautiful verses, but who knew if Roselle had already claimed them.
It would be awkward if they coincided, so he let Leonard showcase his talent first.
"Alright."
Leonard didn't insist, recalling his second-best poem, so even if he embarrassed himself, he had a better one in reserve.
"Swallows sweep across the vast land, travelers walk along the Rhine, the café on the left bank still steaming, yet you've long lost the way home, the whip driving the horses loses its hunting ground, the hunting dog outside the house awaits its master in vain…"
Leonard slightly opened his shirt collar, holding a Southwell beer, and began to chant softly, his voice romantic yet laden with an unshakable sorrow, as if letting go, yet reminiscing something.
The bar's previously boisterous noise quieted down, with many eyes turning towards him.
In the spotlight, Leonard drained his Southwell beer in one gulp, slamming the wooden empty cup onto the table with a bang, his voice rising with fervor.
When Leonard finished chanting, applause and cheers erupted around him.
Several patrons ordered him dozens of beers, and Leonard, not one to refuse, drank another full glass and began to chant another of his poetic works.
After three consecutive poems, Leonard, holding his glass, bowed slightly to the patrons in front of him in thanks.
Hastur joined in the applause; Leonard's poetic talent and voice outshone Alger's hoarse voice and lack of poetic gift.
"What a thrill!"
Leonard took another large swig of Southwell beer, his face slightly flushed, his mood elevated, clearly enjoying the night.
"Hastur, what about your poem?"
As Leonard's mood gradually recovered, he turned his gaze to Hastur. Although he didn't believe Hastur could produce a poem superior to his own, he was still interested in hearing it.
Hastur pondered for a moment, then recited softly:
"The winding Tasok River, The dust-raising black steed, The fleeting white lightning; In haste,
Rushing, Where must you go without looking back?
You crash headlong into a desolate grave,
Waiting for a miracle in slumber, A robust body crossing over decayed bones,
The girl holding flowers, Whom are you waiting for…"
His voice was soft, tinged with lament and regret.
(End of Chapter)