For one, although poems were shorter than the usual length of grimoires and so theoretically easier to write, the failure rate with them was much higher as well. Granted, this could just be because I was bad at writing poetry, but unfortunately I didn’t really remember many more of Shakespeare’s or other famous authors’ poems word for word and so I couldn’t rely on these things too much.

Secondly, usually nonfiction is easier to turn into a grimoire than fiction, though again, this could be more of a result of me not being able to write good fiction rather than a universal rule.

Third, a certain degree of mistakes and variations were acceptable while writing grimoires. Too many though, and the grimoire would burn up before you had even finished it. Not to mention that the actual text on grimoires didn’t seem to necessarily need to be entirely factually correct, else it would not be possible to turn works of fiction into grimoires at all.

Fourth, while making grimoires was mostly about what words you put on paper, there was a hidden element to it that I could only describe as ‘passion’ or ‘emotion.’

It was hard to describe or define - but the right amount was needed or else the grimoire would fail, and how much and what it was varied from writer to writer based on their writing style. The only way you could figure out the nuances of what worked for you and what didn’t was trial and error. That’s why I think even if I had an Artificial Intelligence to help me like I would’ve back on Earth to write stuff for grimoires, it really wouldn’t work because I would have to end up altering most of its output anyway.

Writing grimoires was ninety-five percent science and five percent art. I had gotten my success rate up to seventy-five percent after experimentation, but I don’t think I would ever get it higher than ninety-five percent because of this.

Coming to this contest - the word was ‘sword.’

There were several ways that I could approach this. One was to describe a sword itself, going into details on how a sword was made. Unfortunately, while I had read up on how swords were made back on Earth at one time, I had forgotten most of it so this would be unlikely to succeed.

Secondly, I could go into details of swordplay. I had never taken fencing up as a hobby so this was out as well.

Third, I could write a poem describing the sword - from my own experience this was unlikely to succeed.

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Fourth, I could go into how the sword did compared to other weapons like the spear in terms of range, expense, historical usage, etc.

Fifth, I could go into what the sword symbolized for people and why they were so popular. This was a bit more abstract than what I was used to writing and as such I felt it carried a higher chance of failure.

After some deliberation, I decided to go with the fourth option. I felt that I did have enough knowledge to go through with it, at least in order to write a Rank One grimoire.

I picked up my pen and began, to the shock of my opponent and referee. My opponent was likely still deliberating on what to do and had not even begun thinking of what to write.

The referee likely hadn’t expected me to start so soon either.

I paid them no attention as I focused on getting the words out onto the paper. What was the ultimate secret to making grimoires? To develop an understanding of what you were writing about - to use words to put it on paper, but also to use mana to embody that understanding of the concept.

And it was the mana shaped by the words that lead to its effects, which was probably why grimoires disappeared after usage, because while the words were important, it was the mana imbued within them that actually gave them their effects. And once the mana was used up to transfer that information to someone else, it was gone.

At least, that’s what I thought. No one had been able to give me a good answer on that ever since I had come to this world, so I could only guess. My theory didn’t explain why the lettering or the paper itself burnt up on reading a grimoire though - I mean, if it was just the mana that was important, you’d think the grimoire text itself would be left untouched, but it wasn’t. So, my theory could only be partially correct at best.

I did not write continuously, taking pauses at times wondering about phrasing or the like, though finally, I felt like it was done. With bated breath, I watched as the gentle blue aura turned green.

I relaxed - it had worked! I looked up at my opponent who had not even started yet.

Technically speaking it was still possible for him to win. Points were given for speed, yes, but they were also deducted for failed attempts, and the rank of the grimoire also mattered. If this guy managed to write a Rank Two grimoire, he would probably win.

But that was almost certainly impractical given how long Rank Two manuals were. Most people did not have the mana capacity to write one of them in a single setting even if you could get the words out.

I had clearly unnerved the guy by finishing so quickly and being successful on top of that, but he still picked up his ink brush, and began writing.

Halfway through the first page, he dropped his ink brush and said, “I concede.”

A feeling of elation soared through me, and I felt like jumping up and pumping my fist in victory.

Instead, I simply said, “Well played. Thank you for this round.” I extended my hand and he shook it.

He was disappointed, and was cursing under his breath that he got unlucky that he had been paired with a strong opponent.