All-rounder Artist

Chapter 1065: Chapter 971: Counting the Heroes of Style and Grace Chapter 1065: Chapter 971: Counting the Heroes of Style and Grace At that moment.

The twenty-minute composition time had just ended!

Inside the ten pavilions.

The literary figures showed a variety of expressions.

Some confident, some tense, some sighing, some resigned, their individual efforts seemingly written across their faces.

Among them.

The Seventh Pavilion.

Shu Ziwen had already regained his composure, a faint smile hanging from the corner of his mouth, his handsome and carefree demeanor prevailing as if he had forgotten the earlier disdain from Xian Yu.

The Tenth Pavilion.

Hua Weiming, clad in a long gown, stood with his hands behind his back, his demeanor self-assured, an air of a literary giant made manifest!

Judges’ seating area.

An Long opened up solemnly, “Please all esteemed figures from each pavilion pass around your compositions for mutual perusal, and those who feel outmatched may voluntarily withdraw.”

Instantly.

The ten pavilions noisily exchanged their works with one another.

During the exchange, as everyone looked at the poetry and verses composed by others in the pavilions, some clenched their fists in lament, some wore expressions of surprise, some looked doubtful, some voiced their praises…

“Excellent poem!”

“Exquisite verse!”

“How embarrassing!”

“I concede!”

“Inferior indeed!”

“Brother, what fine prose!”

“You don’t understand my poem!”

“There are allusions in this one!”

People in the pavilions either exchanged compliments on their work or became flushed in heated debate with others, seemingly convinced of their own superiority. In the end, not many opted out of their own accord, the vast majority chose to let the judges arbitrate. Some harbored a sliver of hope, after all, to some extent, the appreciation of poetry carries a subjective element, each to their own understanding, and unless there’s an utter domination in skill, it’s rarely clear-cut who’s better or worse. This very reason is why the poetry conference sought the presence of so many judges!

Of course.

There were undisputed winners, too.

For example, inside the Seventh Pavilion, everyone praised Shu Ziwen’s work lavishly;

Likewise, in the Tenth Pavilion, everyone bowed to Hua Weiming, showing a sense of inferiority and willingly taking a back seat;

And then there was the Third Pavilion…

There were the outstanding.

And the mediocre as well.

Once the list of those voluntarily withdrawing was confirmed, the organizers finally arranged for staff to collect all the poets’ works, inviting eight judges to evaluate the poetry from each pavilion.

At this point.

Some had noticed that judge He Qinghuan hadn’t returned to his seat – he was still standing by Xian Yu, looking for all the world like a…

Statue?

Judge Yu Chang couldn’t help but speak up to remind him, “Judge He Qinghuan, it’s time to assess the poetry!”

He Qinghuan didn’t budge.

As if he hadn’t heard at all.

Judge Qin Xiaotian furrowed his brow, feeling a touch of strangeness stir within as he also called out, “Judge He Qinghuan?”

Still, He Qinghuan didn’t move.

He fixated on Xian Yu’s poem.

Everyone on the scene couldn’t help but look at each other and then voice their discussions aloud, wondering why He Qinghuan was behaving so oddly.

“Judge He Qinghuan!”

A staff member simply ran up to him and called out to him, finally snapping He Qinghuan…

Awake?

Indeed.

Awake.

He seemed bewitched, and it was only now, after the staff member’s reminder, that he barely returned to his senses, looking back at the judges’ area and the literary figures with a slightly bewildered expression.

He opened his mouth.

He Qinghuan seemed about to speak, but then, as though remembering something, he walked towards the judges’ seating area with a smile:

“Ha ha ha ha…”

His laughter grew louder, and by the time he reached the judges’ area, his laughter had taken on a hint of crazed fervor.

Had he lost his mind?

A few judges looked at He Qinghuan in astonishment.

The gaze of the literati was thick with puzzlement.

What had Xian Yu done to cause such an abnormal reaction in He Qinghuan?

Clearly.

He Qinghuan’s peculiarity was related to Xian Yu.

He had looked at the poetry Xian Yu had just composed and then became like this.

The live broadcast cameras loved suspense.

From beginning to end, the camera never directly showed any poem.

…

At this moment, not to speak of the live audience.

Even the online viewers felt utterly baffled.

“What’s wrong with Judge He Qinghuan?”

“What exactly did Xian Yu write?”

“It feels like after he read what Xian Yu wrote, he just wasn’t the same.”

“Never mind that, the judging has started.”

“Just now in the Tenth Pavilion, everyone was extolling Hua Weiming’s work, which made me very curious!”

“Shu Ziwen seems to have written quite a remarkable poem, too.”

“We’re about to read it.”

“Why isn’t He Qinghuan sitting down?”

“Here it comes!”

“The first two winners from The First Pavilion are out!”

As the discussions among several judges unfolded, the winning compositions from The First Pavilion were soon selected.

The literati were excited!

The audience thrilled!

Everyone was no longer concerned with He Qinghuan’s oddity; all that remained was boundless anticipation!

“The topic for The First Pavilion was ‘love!'”

Love, a topic that everyone, past and present, cannot evade.

Such a prompt is by no means obscure or difficult to write about, and it’s easy for it to yield brilliant works.

At this moment.

Brilliant works had indeed emerged.

Judge An Long’s gaze sparkled with awe, “The winners are Bian Huan and Chun Zheng. Now, let us have one of our reciters present Bian Huan’s magnificent piece!”

This was the poetry conference.

The production team specially invited several highly skilled reciters to perform the outstanding works that emerged from the poetry conference!

As the voice of the judge fell.

One of the reciters took the poem and began the recitation, full of emotion, perfectly conveying the poet’s feelings.

“Spring mountains’ rain about to cease, the sky grows pale with distant stars scarce. The waning moon shines faintly bright, as tears by dawn greet parting’s plight. Though words are few, sentiments yet persist, turning back I heavy tread insist: Still remember the green skirt’s sway, everywhere the fragrant grasses beg to stay.”

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