The location of the gathering was the home of one of Rocca's writer friends, Stuart.
This guy was said to be from the family of an oil tycoon. However, he did not like to inherit the family business in a company, so he ran away to pursue his literary dream as a writer.
Among those who were down and out, he had the most money. He was often teased by Rocca as someone who would go back and inherit the family fortune if he did not work hard.
Stuart's home was a two-story wooden villa, located next to a beautiful lake.
According to him, he had to walk around the lake every day to find inspiration.
When Rocca parked his car, he saw that there were already a few cars parked around. Clearly, most of his friends had already arrived.
Seeing this, he hurriedly parked his car, adjusted his clothes, and knocked on the door of the villa.
"Rocca, you're the only one left."
The person who opened the door was Stuart. He was very tall, and his cheeks were thin and long. When he smiled, there were dimples on his cheeks. "Sherra brought some fortune cookies today. You should try them …"
"Okay, okay."
Rocca agreed and walked into the living room. He saw that many people had already arrived. They were surrounding an unfamiliar man and watching him paint.
He wore a slanted painter's hat, a sky-blue shirt, and plaid suspenders. His facial features were handsome, but overall, he was not much different from the wandering painters who made a living painting portraits that could be found everywhere in the square.
"Who is this?"
Rocca asked as he picked up the last fortune cookie from the tray next to him.
"His name is Simpson. He just came to Orsay and was introduced by Dick …" Stuart was slightly displeased. "He claims to be a wandering abstract artist."
"He stole the attention of too many girls, even Sherra …" Rocca knew why Stuart was like this. He teased him and broke the fortune cookie in his hand with a crisp sound. He took out a piece of paper. "Misfortune?!"
"Huh?"
Stuart took the piece of paper and snickered. "A prank by the merchants? You're too unlucky, bro! We've never eaten this before. You've hit the jackpot! "
"A … prank?"
Rocca looked at the word "misfortune" and suddenly felt a sharp pain in his temple.
I … What did I forget?
Misfortune? Why does it feel so familiar?
"Bro, what's wrong? The aftereffects of the car accident? "Stuart asked with concern.
"I … I'm fine!" Roca supported himself on the sofa and sat down. His headache felt better, but more questions followed. I … I was in a car accident? Why did I forget? '
"Everyone … it's done!"
At this moment, Simpson's brush stopped, revealing the complete painting.
Red, black, yellow, green … All sorts of bright colors gathered on the canvas, making Roka feel a little nauseous.
Apart from that, there were also those irregular and twisted lines. If one stared at them for a long time, they would feel dizzy, as if they were constantly wriggling.
"Amazing … I can almost see the charm of Grandmaster Constantine."
A girl in a red dress exclaimed.
"I can see the burst of inspiration. This is too wonderful. This perfect color combination …"
"And these lines …"
Praises came from all directions.
However, Roka suddenly felt a little dizzy. The surrounding buildings seemed to be revolving around him.
The silhouettes became blurry.
"Everyone here is a figure in the literary world. I feel that a beautiful painting must be matched with a beautiful poem …" Simpson smiled, his eyes filled with anticipation. "I wonder who will be performing next?"
"If it's improvisation, of course it's Roka!"
Stuart saw Shayla's gaze on him. He blushed and hurriedly pulled Roka's arm.
He knew his talent. If he did not think for a whole night, he would definitely make a fool of himself if he suddenly took out his work. He could only ask his good friend for help.
"Yes, Mr. Roka, I've long admired your literary name. I've even seen your three-line poem in a magazine …"
Simpson smiled, handed over a piece of paper and a pen, and stuffed them into Roka's hands.
Roka's hearing was already a little blurry.
Although it was daytime, this was a literary salon.
But in his eyes, the silhouettes became mottled and alienated, like the branches of a black tree in the night.
The numerous voices also turned into dark, hoarse whispers.
Crack!
There was an explosion of flames. It was a bonfire. There were black silhouettes and slightly crazy ravings …
A desire seemed to have been accumulated in his chest. It was about to burst out uncontrollably from the strokes of the brush.
Roka held the pen and began to write his poem on the paper in a dream-like manner.
No, this was not his poem. It was originally engraved in his body, engraved in his spirit. At this moment, he was just using this posture to reappear in the world!
Roka can still write poems. It seems that he's fine. It's just that he's a little fanatical …
Stuart muttered in his heart. He moved forward and saw the slightly messy words on the paper.
The first few words were a mess. He could not see them clearly at all. It was like a child's scribbles. A few words were written and then quickly crossed out.
Towards the end, the places where the scribbles were gradually reduced and became understandable.
It was like a process of continuous creation.
After organizing it slightly, Stuart felt that he saw a line of a poem. He read it out softly.
"I've experienced rebirth and death, but I can't reach the other side …
"Death chases after the shadow. There's no youth that doesn't wither …
"But this poem will grow and grant you immortality …"
Some parts of these three lines of the poem were scribbled, but it had a strange charm that made the eyes of many people present light up.
"That's it, that's it!"
Simpson's expression was fanatical as he shouted, "Immortality! Immortal existence! "
His voice was strange and seemed to be out of tune. "But this poem will grow and grant you immortality …"
After being read by him in strange syllables, everyone present felt that something was wrong.
Their bodies were fine, but their minds seemed to be pressed down by a huge black rock.
Stuart was just about to say something when he realized that he had already collapsed to the ground. He did not even have the strength to say a word.
Most of the people present were the same.
The only ones who could still maintain this posture were Roka and Simpson.
Roka rubbed his temples and looked at Simpson, who had been snatching his poem. "I seem to have … seen you before?!"
"You remember now, survivor of the ritual?"
Simpson's expression turned cold. "It's your honor to be able to listen to the voice of a great existence. Now … you're useless."
He took out a black dagger and slowly walked forward. "Death is the end of everything!"
In this strange atmosphere, Roka was shocked to find that he actually had no strength. He was unable to resist and could only watch as Simpson came before him.
As if it was an illusion brought about by death, he saw a screen of light appear before him.
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