Yarra’s Adventure Notes
Chapter 1001 - 116 Poet

Chapter 1001: Chapter 116 Poet

The area embraced by the World Tree was tranquil and peaceful, like a beautiful paradise from a fairytale. Points of light twirled around the aerial roots, flickering in and out of sight, reminiscent of stars twinkling in the sky. Below this canopy of stars was a flat expanse of lawn. Of course, if we were to measure by area, its scope of one or two square kilometers might more accurately be called a prairie. On the prairie, the grass just over ankle height was soft and tender. Occasionally, it would sway with the passing breeze. Stepping onto it felt like treading on softness itself, weightless as if about to fly into the clouds.

There were no surrounding fences on the grassland, yet many tables, chairs, and counters were scattered about, forming a variety of open-air shops, pubs, and restaurants. A large number of Elves and a small quantity of creatures from other races lingered on the grass, some searching for goods to buy at the counters, others seated in a circle around tables drinking and dining, and still others simply lying on the grass, gazing up at the starry sky formed by the tree canopy, looking utterly comfortable and thoroughly enraptured.

The merchants running these shops were mainly Elves, but occasionally creatures from other races could be seen among them. These members of other races were all professionals of the Upper Rank; perhaps tired of adventuring, they chose to retire to the Elven Royal Court, or maybe they were simply short on gold and turned to selling goods to alleviate their financial crises. Regardless of the specific reasons, their faces brimmed with happy smiles, clearly indicating that life at the Elven Royal Court filled them with joy.

In general, Elves still made up the overwhelming majority here, with members of other races amounting to at most one-twentieth, perhaps even less. However, this was understandable, as the Lost Forest where the Elven Royal Court was located also had a high level of danger. Lower Rank professionals found it difficult to enter, and even for those of the Upper Rank unfamiliar with the Lost Forest, the risk of death upon entry was high. Even if they managed to survive, without the Elves to guide them, their chances of finding the Elven Royal Court were no higher than those of a common person succeeding in becoming a deity. Thus, the proportion of other races within the King’s Court was not at all surprising.

"Whoosh," another firework soared into the sky. Strangely, it passed through several of the World Tree’s aerial roots, exploding in the space beneath the tree crown. The scattered flames brightly illuminated the canopy. This sight, which flew in the face of common sense, made Catherine turn her head abruptly and stare at Flare as she asked, "What’s going on here? This can’t just be a matter of the real versus the illusory. The things you said earlier are also problematic. You mentioned that you can decide whether others can see or touch the World Tree. Who is this ’you’ you speak of? Elves are individuals, each with their own thoughts. Like that firework just now, did that person decide that the firework could pass through the World Tree like a phantom? If he decided that the World Tree was an illusion, but it happened to conflict with other people’s decisions, what then? Moreover, does this decision apply not only to other races but to objects as well?"

Flare didn’t answer; she simply smiled faintly and shook her head. Her expression was not only full of the dignity and grace befitting a queen but also brimming with mystery and reserve. Catherine paused, then nodded with a wry smile, "Sorry, my fault. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s a secret deeply held by your race. I apologize."

"It’s fine. It’s indeed the highest secret of the Elf race, and I can’t divulge too much," Flare said. "So, for what remains, you’ll have to rely on your own understanding and imagination. Whether it’s real or illusion, it’s up to you to observe."

"I understand," Catherine nodded, then suddenly let out a surprised gasp. "That person... doesn’t seem like an Elf at all; he’s quite exceptional."

Catherine was looking at the Elf who had launched the fireworks. Throughout the years she’d encountered Elves, each one was elegant and noble, dressed impeccably, their hair neatly arranged, and regardless of the situation, they maintained their cleanliness. Such exterior features had almost become the hallmark of Elves. But the one playing with fireworks in front of her was distinctly different; his clothes were askew, hair and beard a ruffled mess, nails seemingly untrimmed for quite some time, and a dirty face, reminiscent of the scene when young girls first encountered Pannis, though Pannis at that time was even more exaggerated than this Elf.

"What... happened to him?" Catherine tentatively asked. "Has he suffered some kind of shock, and now he’s a bit off?"

After setting off the fireworks, the Elf simply sat on the grass, leaning against one of the World Tree’s exposed roots, and stared blankly ahead, his eyeballs still, only occasionally blinking, making others believe he could be a statue. As the girls passed by him, they could hear an unrecognizable stream of words coming from his throat. The language was not the common tongue and was extremely awkward to listen to, with a very slow rate of articulation. If one listened for a prolonged time, it certainly had a hypnotic effect. Yet, he spoke this awkward language quite fluently, without a hint of stiffness.

"Light, night sky, vanishing, meteor, blooming, wilting, river, life," Pannis whispered to the girls. "He’s speaking Elvish, repeating a few words, over and over again, and some content like mutterings I haven’t translated; probably just some random noise he made."

"He’s creating something," Freya, who had interacted with many poets and playwrights, spoke in a low voice, seemingly familiar with such a state of intense creation. "It sounds like a poem, not much like an opera."

"Yes, he’s creating," Flare nodded, affirming. "A few days ago, he was suddenly struck with inspiration to write a new poem, but quickly fell into trouble. The content he wrote always seemed to lack something, so most of his time is spent pondering, thus he is the way he is now."

"That doesn’t sound like a recent problem, though," Vivian, who took a scholarly approach to things, immediately pointed out. "Looking at his hair, beard, and nails, he must have been in this state for at least a year."

"Indeed, it hasn’t been two years," Flare casually stated. "That’s why I say it was recent."

"Alright, my mistake," Vivian patted the soft top of her hat and exhaled. "By your perception of time, it indeed was recent."

"What poem does he aim to write?" Freya asked with interest. "What’s the theme?"

"I don’t know," Flare shook her head. "He has never made it