The bar was large and spacious, its overall style leaning toward steel and rugged. Most of the people drinking here were working-class; it was rare to see anyone dressed like a noble.
Leonard walked up to the bar counter and asked the bartender if there were any recommended drinks.
He had just arrived in Backlund and wasn't familiar with this big city. To avoid seeming inexperienced, he ordered two of the bartender's recommended drinks, and after that only ordered Southwail beer.
Compared to sipping slowly, he preferred drinking in big gulps. Only when he downed half a glass or an entire glass at once could his melancholy thoughts be eased.
What the old man had said earlier had truly frightened him.
If the stars were right above his head, would pretending to be a follower of the Stars really catch the eye of that mysterious existence? Would it drop a meteor straight onto him?
Should he run somewhere with fewer people and quietly wait for death?
If a meteor crashed down and harmed innocent lives, that would be terrible. He wasn't selfish enough to drag others down with him.
Maybe he should use this time to compose a few more poems?
Even if he died later, he could leave behind a few verses for bards to sing.
In those poems, he should deliberately describe his appearance and talent, then write about the legendary experience of being killed by a falling star.
As expected of someone like him, even in death, he had to die spectacularly.
Half an hour passed before Leonard finally came out of that sentimental mood. This was one of the negative effects of using one of the Sealed Artifact.
It amplified one's negative emotions, something unsuitable to use when harbouring thoughts of death, or it would become impossible to resist the urge to commit suicide.
The chill covering his body was gradually driven away by the alcohol. His nearly frozen body finally began to warm up, another negative effect.
There was one more: wandering around aimlessly would make one prone to encountering unbelievable events, and this would last for twenty-four hours.
Unbelievable events weren't necessarily bad, but most Sealed Artifact holders died miserable deaths after encountering terrifying, inexplicable phenomena.
That was why, after being teleported nearby, he didn't dare return directly to the Church and instead chose this bar as a temporary shelter.
As long as the bar didn't chase him out, he planned to stay here until dawn.
Leonard drummed the fingers of his right hand rhythmically on the bar counter, while his left hand held the beer mug, taking large swigs from time to time. His gaze swept over the faces in the bar one by one.
After one scan, he withdrew his gaze and began composing new poems in his mind.
Compared to the current Nightmare sequence, he preferred his previous Midnight Poet. He had originally chosen that pathway because he felt it suited him too well.
He, Leonard Mitchell, was born a poet, a romantic, grand poet.
"Give me a Blue Romance."
As Leonard's thoughts were drifting far away, a voice beside him drew his attention.
He looked toward the owner of the voice, and at just the first glance he was stunned, followed by unwillingness, and then a sigh of self-awareness.
In terms of looks and temperament, he had always been confident. If he wanted, he could appear on magazine covers at any time.
As for overall charm, there was nothing to say. He rarely styled his hair, giving it a messy, carefree look with a unique aesthetic. His slightly dreamy eyes, as if seeing through the world yet pretending to be nonchalant, gave him an aura of having many stories.
He described himself like this: Leonard Mitchell is the protagonist sung in poems. He is poetry itself. Approaching him is to embrace poetry.
But the person before him now, with golden hair dyed by the sun, a well-proportioned and powerful figure, flawless features, and a constant faint smile that gave a gentle, elegant feeling…
Perhaps he had stared too long, because the man walked toward him and sat nearby, smiling as he said, "Friend, is this your first time here?"
Leonard withdrew his gaze, lifted his mug, and smiled. "Is it that obvious?"
"A little. I'm a regular here. I can tell whether someone's new or familiar with just one look."
"So that's how it is. Yes, this is my first time here. It's a pretty good bar."
"This is a paradise for the brave."
"That's exactly why I chose this place."
Seeing that the man spoke elegantly, warmly, and was clearly young, Leonard gradually lowered his guard and began chatting casually.
They found themselves unexpectedly compatible. When he learned that the other was also knowledgeable about poetry, Leonard finally couldn't resist asking his name.
Hastur Campbell, a truly fitting name. Just like the man himself, mysterious and elegant.
"Emperor Roselle's love poems are excellent," Leonard said with admiration. "Especially When You Are Old, concise lines, lingering affection, overflowing with romantic sentiment."
He spoke with clear reverence for Emperor Roselle. In his view, even if all later poets combined their talents, they couldn't surpass a single Emperor Roselle.
Even though Leonard was confident, he knew he was still far from Roselle's level.
Hastur smiled. "Emperor Roselle truly was a remarkable poet. Whether love poems or narrative works, he excelled at all. It's just a pity he couldn't devote himself fully to being a poet. For someone with such romantic brilliance, that's quite unbefitting."
Leonard's eyes lit up, that was exactly how he felt.
He also believed that in his later years Roselle became irresponsible, going off to serve as the consul of the Intis Republic instead of focusing on poetry. Wasting his limited time on such trivial things truly squandered his talent.
In terms of being a dedicated poet, Leonard believed he was much better than Roselle.
"For a long, epic poem, it's a flaw," Hastur continued. "But for the long human history, it was inevitable."
"After all, Roselle not only displayed talent in poetry, but also achieved extraordinary feats in technology and single-handedly ushered in the industrial age."
"The only unfortunate part is that he seemed rather indiscreet in his personal relationships, though that's fairly standard in Intis culture."
Listening to him speak so fluently, Leonard couldn't help asking, "You seem very familiar with Emperor Roselle's life?"
"I specialize in studying the history and culture of Roselle's era. For a man who opened a new age, I indeed know him quite well."
Leonard nodded and continued chatting. This time they moved from Roselle to the topic of poetic creation.
On this subject, Leonard was very confident.
Poets who wrote better than him weren't as handsome. People more handsome and youthful than him couldn't write as well.
Hastur smiled and shook his head. "I'm not very skilled in poetry."
"Writing poetry requires inspiration, freedom, unrestrained spirit. Anyone can try."
Leonard encouraged him to try composing a poem, then planned to show one of his own.
If he couldn't win in appearance, he intended to reclaim victory in poetry.
"Can I hear one of your works first?" Hastur asked.
He indeed had many beautiful poems in mind, but who knew whether Roselle had already written similar ones? It would be embarrassing if they overlapped. Better to let Leonard go first.
"Alright."
Leonard thought for a moment and chose his second-best poem. That way, even if it wasn't well received, he still had his best one held in reserve.
"The swallow sweeps across the vast earth,
A traveler walks along the banks of the Rhine,
Steam still rises from the café on the left shore,
Yet you can no longer find your way home.
The whip that once commanded galloping horses has lost its hunting grounds,
The hound waiting outside the house awaits a master who will never return…"
Loosening his collar slightly, holding his Southwail beer, Leonard lifted his head and began softly chanting.
His voice carried romance with a thick, unresolvable sorrow, as though letting go of something or reminiscing.
The bar's noisy chatter quieted noticeably as people turned their eyes toward him.
Bathed in attention, Leonard drained his beer in one gulp and slammed the wooden mug heavily onto the counter with a thud. His voice rose, becoming passionate and forceful.
When he finished, the bar erupted into applause and cheers.
A few customers even ordered more than a dozen beers for him. Leonard accepted them all, drank another full glass, and began chanting another of his poems.
After performing three poems in a row, Leonard lifted his mug, bowed slightly, and thanked his audience.
Hastur applauded as well. Leonard's poetic skill and fine singing voice were top notch.
"That was spectacular!"
Leonard took another big gulp of Southwail beer. His face was slightly flushed, and his spirits high, clearly enjoying himself tonight.
"Hastur, what about your poem?"
With his emotions settling, Leonard looked at Hastur. Though he didn't believe the man could produce a poem superior to his own, he was still curious to hear it.
Hastur gathered himself briefly, then recited softly:
"O winding, flowing Tarsok River
O black steed racing into the distance
O white lightning vanishing in a flash;
In haste, You gallop
Where are you running, never to return?
You crash headlong into a desolate grave
Awaiting a miracle in slumber
Like fertile flesh crossing over decayed bone
O girl holding fresh flowers
Whose arrival are you waiting for…"
His voice was gentle, part lament, part sorrow.