Santos's unusual behavior immediately caught the attention of others, and at that moment, they all moved closer to him.
"Hey, Santos, what's wrong with you? Are you possessed or something?" Cory touched Santos's shoulder with his hand and said.
Santos only realized this at this moment, then smiled and said to everyone, "Everyone, this work is amazing."
"What? Santos, you said the work in your hands is too good? Come on, let us have a look too. We've been struggling to find a satisfactory piece."
After speaking, Cory took the manuscript from Santos's hands and began to read it.
"Reflections on a Broom" - A generic title.
Continuing, Cory kept reading: Don't you see the broomstick standing alone, desolate and timid in the corner, once thriving with vitality and lush foliage in the forest in the past. However, now, alas, its vitality has long withered, humans are always meddling, placing a dry branch on its bare trunk, foolishly attempting to defy nature with artifice, only to end up in vain.
Cory felt the author's writing style as soon as he read the beginning. By the time he finished reading the whole piece, his expression was the same as Santos'.
"Indeed, this is a very impressive piece of work, well-founded, with profound insights into life and worldly affairs. What's most remarkable is his ability to spontaneously wield such a pen, he can be considered a genius."
The other judges, upon hearing this, also picked up the work and started reading. Then they nodded in satisfaction as well.
"Not bad, you all have made good points. In my opinion, this piece of work can be rated as the first. Compared to the others, it's like night and day."
"I think we shouldn't make decisions so quickly, there are still some manuscripts that haven't been reviewed. Let's wait until all the manuscripts are reviewed before deciding."
Cory is a meticulous person, so he takes things quite seriously. In order not to miss out on any British genius, he won't make decisions so hastily. Perhaps there are better ones than him in the next draft.
However, the fact proved that after all the judges had read all the semi-final manuscripts, there was not a single work that could compare to "Reflections on a Broom."
"Ladies and gentlemen, there is no doubt now. This 'Reflections on a Broom' truly deserves to be the champion of this literary competition," Santos said first.
"Indeed, in terms of content, writing style, depth, and originality, 'Reflections on a Broom' is also the most outstanding among these more than twenty semi-finalist essays."
"Well, I agree with what you all are saying."
"Alright, then it's settled."
Therefore, all eight judges unanimously agreed that "Reflections on a Broom" won the championship of this year's London Literature Competition, while the other two slightly decently written pieces respectively won second and third place.
For the sake of fairness, even if the rankings are determined, they still cannot disclose the authors' information. In other words, they have to wait until tomorrow to announce the results, then open up the information of the ranked works on the spot and announce the list publicly.
"Our British literary world has not yet declined, and this article can truly be described as a stroke of genius."
After walking out of the judging room, Santos still couldn't stop praising "Meditations on a Broom." In his mind, he even thought to himself: this could be considered one of the best essays in England.
"Yes, we thought this literary competition would disappoint us, especially with one person writing less than a hundred words. Sigh... Fortunately, this piece, 'Reflections on a Broom,' is so outstanding."
"Hmm, I'm really curious if this will turn out to be a masterpiece. Haha, I must have a good chat with him when the time comes, how he managed to come up with such rich content in such a short time."
"Once the results are announced tomorrow, we'll know. Let's go, I'll treat you to tea."
Santos still couldn't contain his joy in his heart, as if this championship belonged to him. Of course, the young Santos had once made a name for himself in the British literary world. At the age of nineteen, he published a very successful work and gradually climbed to the peak of British literature.
Santos was drinking tea in the teahouse while browsing his Twitter. He then posted the following message: "A person who only wrote a hundred words and handed in the paper, and a person who wrote a prose that can be considered a classic. This is the situation of the semi-finals of this literary competition."
Due to the confidentiality of the semi-finals information, Santos can only say this much. However, just this simple piece of information inevitably reminds people of something.
The first person to retweet Santos' tweet was his loyal fan, who casually mentioned: undoubtedly, the guy who only wrote a hundred words must have left in just over ten minutes.
"Yeah, I also think it would be that guy who hands in his work in just over ten minutes, after all, you can only write about a hundred words in just over ten minutes."
"We can't blame him, it's already good that he can remember a hundred words in just over ten minutes. Haha, could these hundred words be poetry?"
"This guy must be a lucky bean sent by God. I really don't understand how he made it to the finals."
At one point, Twitter started speculating about Kevin again, with everyone thinking that the author who only wrote about a hundred words would be Kevin.
Zela was the same, constantly refreshing on Twitter. When she saw that some authors only wrote a hundred words, her expression became even more proud. In her heart, she thought: When did I, Zela, become so blind? Hmph! How dare they participate in the semi-finals with just a hundred words.
Upon seeing this news, Zela became even more certain that she had not been wrong in the beginning. And then, her whole being lit up with joy.
However, Editor Ennie began to worry when he saw Kevin's article. He recognized the young man's talent and greatly admired his confidence. But if the author of that hundred-word piece was really Kevin, then winning first place would be absolutely impossible.
She took out her phone, ready to call Kevin, but realized it was already very late. Would calling abruptly like this affect the other person's sleep?
"Regardless, maybe I should figure it out."
So, Ennie still made the call.
Kevin had just finished showering, feeling happy today, so he went out for a stroll in London Square, returning later than the previous few days. He was surprised to see Ennie, the editor-in-chief, calling him.
This woman in her thirties has been calling me way too often recently, hasn't she? And it's already late at night, could it be that she has taken a liking to me?
"Hello, respected Editor Ennie, good evening."
"Kevin, I'm sorry to disturb you. It's been said that in this year's literary competition, there's someone who only wrote a little over a hundred words for the second round. Can you tell me if that person who submitted their work in just over ten minutes is you?" Ennie went straight to the point with a question.
"Don't worry, I assure you, that person is definitely not good. Oh, thank you for your concern."
From what he had seen in the past few days, Kevin knew that Ennie had always been helping him. Therefore, he was very grateful to her in his heart. After all, no one is obligated to help anyone.
"That's good, I was worried that author might be you. Well, everything's fine now. Look forward to a good outcome tomorrow. Good night."
"Good night."
After saying "goodnight" to Editor Ennie, Kevin suddenly lost his sleepiness. He walked out to the balcony of the hotel, gazing at the night in this luxurious London city, where football, business, arts, fashion, finance, and everything else coexisted. This is the special thing about Britain, positioned at the pinnacle of the world, making people yearn for and admire it.
