"Another poem?"
"Are you churning out verses like these in batches? How come writing poetry seems even easier than breathing for you?"
"This is fake, right? Fake, right? Am I dreaming??"
"Hiss hiss hiss... I'm frantically sucking in cool air! I'm about to turn into a draught pipe!"
The audience was buzzing, and a cacophony began to rise.
Everyone looked up at the noble seat at the top of the pavilion, where the Princely Heir sat high above, expression tranquil, dressed in brocade finery, seemingly an Immortal descending to the mortal realm. In their eyes now, not a trace of doubt or disbelief remained.
Having presented two consecutive poems that astonished all, both deemed peerless works, what further proof was needed?
Such level of poetry—if you even wanted to buy it, there's nowhere you could!
Who would sell it!
Who would dare to sell it!
A subtle shift began to emerge in everyone's mentality.
The noise gradually subsided, returning once again to silence.
