Standing at the outer edge of the crowd, craning his neck to look, Brian Bolton, servant of the Bolton Residence felt so embarrassed that he lowered his head, simply too ashamed to keep watching.

……

……

Henry Bolton clasped his hands behind his back and slowly walked toward the writing desk in the center of the field, his posture graceful and calm. But although his expression appeared calm and composed, inwardly he felt several pangs of guilt.

With his classical studies background from his previous life, composing a few ancient-style poems was not impossible. However, to stand out among a group of Tang dynasty poets would not be easy. At this point, he could only resort to borrowing, imitating, or even plagiarizing some “ancient” poems. In order to restore his reputation and thoroughly wash away the stains on this playboy’s name, he couldn’t afford to care about much else.

Walking up to the desk, Henry Bolton picked up the brush and pondered for a moment.

Philip Foster, standing to the side, immediately sneered, “What’s wrong? Just now you were boasting so loudly, but now that it’s time to act, you’re backing down?”

Henry Bolton ignored him, simply bowing his head and writing swiftly.

Chapter 014: A Chorus and a Wager (2)

After finishing, Henry Bolton handed his poem to the attendant beside him, but did not leave the stage. Instead, he continued to bend over the desk and write rapidly, surprising everyone. Even the attendant was quite astonished, thinking to himself that it was already impressive for this The Bolton Family prodigal to write one poem—how could he possibly…

When the second poem was finished, Henry Bolton still did not leave the stage. After a brief pause for thought, he continued writing.

As a result, the previous sounds of ridicule, whispering, and heavy breathing in the field all vanished, and over a hundred incredulous gazes were fixed on Henry Bolton’s upright figure, each person’s heart filled with a strange and indescribable feeling.

Finally, Henry Bolton laughed aloud, put down his brush, and stood up tall.

The attendant presented the three willow-themed poems that Henry Bolton had written in the time it took to drink a cup of tea to Keith Young.

Keith Young took them curiously, glanced over them, and then recited in a clear voice—

“Breaking the River Willows, in harmony with Harold Crane—Sorrowful to see the willows of Qujiang in spring, each time they are all broken, new ones grow again. This year I break them where I did last year, not to bid farewell to last year’s departing friends.”

After Keith Young finished reciting, the field instantly fell silent.

They were all men of letters—how could they not recognize quality?

Henry Bolton’s poem was extremely skillful, not only fitting the theme, but also intentionally echoing the mood of Harold Crane’s willow poem, and its level of difficulty even surpassed Harold Crane’s.

How could this be? This playboy actually produced a fine work? Most people found it hard to accept for a moment—if the author of this poem were not Henry Bolton, the whole place would probably have already erupted in thunderous applause and cheers.

Harold Crane’s lips trembled, and he suddenly looked up to gaze at Henry Bolton, only to see Henry Bolton smiling back at him, leaving him momentarily stunned.

He was not jealous, but shocked. Both poems expressed sorrow at parting, using willows as a metaphor, but in both conception and structure, Henry Bolton’s poem was superior—when did this prodigal develop such talent?

Frederick Shaw and Ethan Brooks were also surprised, but both still curled their lips dismissively, thinking it was just a case of a blind cat stumbling upon a dead mouse.

The notorious reputation of the Chang’an playboy was not built in a day, and to transform his name with just one poem was far from enough.

Quentin Wade and William King exchanged a glance, and both saw unconcealed astonishment in each other’s eyes.

Mrs. Grant, however, impatiently waved her hand, “Third brother, continue reading—aren’t there two more poems?”

Keith Young cleared his throat and continued to recite—

“Willows on the Embankment, in harmony with Frederick Shaw—Graceful by the ancient embankment, a tree of green mist. If only the strands would not break, I’d keep them to tie my lover’s boat.”

After Keith Young finished reciting, Quentin Wade could not help but slap the table and exclaim, “Wonderful, truly wonderful! Though this poem does not depart from the old themes, its conception is novel, the wording clever, the imagery unique yet fitting, truly refreshing.”

“On both sides of the ancient Qujiang embankment, willows hang in rows, noble ladies walk gracefully, tears streaming down their faces.” William King, who had remained silent, also spoke in praise, “A tree of mist—brilliant. Young Master Bolton’s phrasing is innovative, a truly superior work.”

William King rarely praised the poems of young scholars in public. Many had brought their collections to him, pleading for days, but could not get a word of praise. Yet today, he spoke for Henry Bolton—this was a clear affirmation of the quality of Henry Bolton’s poems, and William King’s attitude directly influenced the opinions of many scholars.

Thus, the appreciative comments from these two renowned scholars gradually resonated with the other scholars present and outside the field, and soon there were some voices of acclaim.

Of course, most people remained silent, casting incredulous looks at Henry Bolton.

“Remembering the River Willows, in harmony with Ethan Brooks—Too weak to sway in the morning breeze, slender waists arouse envy with every glance. Before the green shade covers the long embankment’s water, golden tassels first greet the spring of the imperial gardens. In several places, hearts ache for distant journeys, a branch in the rain sends off the dust of parting. Outside the east gate, farewells abound, sorrow fills the hearts of people day and night.”

Keith Young once again recited Henry Bolton’s final poem, then turned to Mrs. Grant with a sigh, “Third sister, they all say that the youngest son of William Bolton is a dissolute good-for-nothing, but seeing him today, I realize those are just baseless rumors. All three of Henry Bolton’s poems are outstanding works—such talent has been buried for too long…”

“Indeed, truly remarkable.” Mrs. Grant smiled strangely, a rosy glow flowing across her charming face. She turned to gaze at the slowly approaching Henry Bolton, her eyes shimmering with a certain mysterious light.