The Unrivaled Playboy of Great Krythoria

Chapter 8 A Frontier Poem That Ascended to Legend

The moment the words left his lips, the guards leapt into action.

Three meters from Emperor Alaric, they placed a small square table—about one meter long and sixty centimeters wide—made of top-tier golden nanmu wood, its polished surface cool and flawless under the fingertips.

Whispers erupted among the nobles: "Care to wager the third prince will lose?"

"I'll bet five hundred taels!"

"A thousand taels on my end!"

The scions of noble houses buzzed like restless bees, placing their bets. To them, August had to be out of his mind—waving his axe before Lu Ban himself—daring to show off before an emperor who'd carved his throne through his father's blood, his brothers' corpses, and a lifetime of war's unflinching brutality. This was suicide.

Andy's lips curled into a frosty smirk, his eyes twin shards of black ice. In his view, August was just a fool—a tyrant before his near-drowning, not a shred of wit or warrior's instinct in him, and now, after his brush with death, deranged enough to challenge the literati's authority publicly.

But Samuel, lurking in the shadows like a specter, saw through the act. That earlier poem, Thoughts on a Quiet Night, had been deceptively simple—a verse to echo through eternity. Krythoria hadn't seen such brilliance in years. How did a wastrel like August know a genius capable of this? Unless—he wasn't the simpleton he appeared to be.

His gaze darkened. The palace exam had already revealed August's arrogance was backed by confidence. Now came the moment of truth.

If August remained the same good-for-nothing playboy, not only would he flunk the Lumina Culturae, he'd be barred from future competitions—and any shot at the throne. But if he produced another timeless verse today... Samuel's path to power would split like a snake's fork—with August blocking the way.

Though the odds were slim.

As the crowd exchanged calculating glances, their minds teeming with schemes—boom! boom! boom!—the drums shattered the silence, their thunder shaking the very air.

"Dong! Dong! Dong!"

"Let the imperial examination commence!"

The eunuch's piercing voice carried through the grand hall as every gaze fixed upon August. Most spectators wore smug grins, anticipating his downfall.

Emperor Alaric's brow furrowed at August's brazen confidence. "For years, Krythoria has endured foreign invasions," he declared. "Compose a frontier poem within the time it takes an incense stick to burn."

A frontier poem? This was clearly testing his political awareness. Simple enough. August's mind overflowed with timeless masterpieces—any one would shame these so-called scholars.

With a glint in his eye, he announced: "Your Majesty, this humble son shall present 'Going to the Frontier' to honor our border troops." Then his voice—rich, powerful, stirring—resounded through the chamber:

"Through Qin's old moon and Han's frontier gate;

Our warriors march toward fate.

If Dragon City's generals still stood tall,

No nomad hordes would breach our wall."

Smirks froze. Eyes bulged. Every line landed like a war drum's beat, turning the crowd's mockery to stunned silence. Their earlier disdain vanished as if slapped away.

This wasn't mere verse—it was a battle cry given form, erupting from the notorious prince like a sudden summer storm. Whispers rippled through the crowd like wind through bamboo. Was this truly the dissolute third prince? Or had a literary genius been concealed among them?

Each word burned with patriotic fire, laying bare Krythoria's humiliation—how Vespera extorted their silken treasures while cowardly generals stood idly by. That final couplet—"No nomad hordes would breach our wall"—ignited long-buried defiance. Here was a nation's bottled rage, transformed into devastating artistry.

By the last syllable, even the most jaded nobles stood mesmerized. Not merely by technical brilliance, but by the raw conviction shaking the palace foundations. August had transformed their shared shame into something terrifyingly sublime.

In that moment, August was no longer the spoiled young noble—he had transformed into a renowned commander destined to lead Krythoria to glory.

A force to be reckoned with!

Gavin stood frozen, his eyes wide as saucers. As a revered master of letters, he instantly recognized the poem's flawless structure, mesmerizing rhythm, and heart-pounding national pride—a masterpiece destined to echo through the ages.

What terrified him most was how the verses burned with battlefield valor and unshakable resolve. Only a prodigy could weave such fire into words.

Yet this timeless masterpiece had spilled from the third prince’s lips—casual as a passing remark to the emperor!

August’s genius struck Gavin like a winter gale.

Krythoria hadn’t seen a talent like this in centuries.

With the emperor personally issuing the challenge before witnesses, all suspicions of cheating evaporated. After today's trial, August would undoubtedly claim the poetry crown.

The realization sent Gavin’s heart plunging into an icy abyss.

Thankfully, the policy debate remained—his last hope. Otherwise, he'd be drafting his resignation by sundown.

Now his only hope was Andy trouncing August in the debate, which carried seventy percent weight. Victory there would secure the sixth prince's triumph.

Andy gaped like a fish out of water, his expression mirroring a man seeing ghosts.

Since when had his third brother become this formidable? Had August been playing dumb all along?

But if so, why had he fallen into the river so easily?

Regardless, once this trial ended, August would need watching. That bastard had just become his most dangerous rival.

Samuel snapped his folding fan shut, staring at August with the stunned disbelief of a man meeting a stranger. Though proud of his own literary prowess, he now felt like a novice daubing paint next to Rembrandt.

For the first time in his life, raw, primal fear flooded his chest.

For the first time in his life, Samuel had never felt truly threatened—until now, by August. This unfamiliar sensation chilled him to the bone.

If left unchecked, August's rise would bring unimaginable consequences.

Yet no one was more stunned than Emperor Alaric. For a moment, he doubted his own hearing. How could that insolent brat compose such a masterpiece as Going to the Frontier?

The emperor stood frozen, then clenched his fists, eyes glistening with emotion. This insolent child... is indeed my worthy heir. The poem perfectly captured Alaric's determination to conquer Vespera—yet none of his ministers had ever dared voice such ambition.

"Good! Good! Good!" The emperor rose abruptly and clapped vigorously. The hall erupted in thunderous applause, though Andy's face darkened as he reluctantly joined.

"Your Majesty must believe your son now, yes?" August's eyes shone with pride as he scanned the room. "I told you—everyone here except His Majesty is worthless trash! None of you are my match! Still don't believe me?!"

The applause cut off abruptly.