Chapter 9: Duel me.

Noemelica Altzenova.

A name that rang oddly familiar.

The surname sounded like something out of a sci-fi fantasy—like a dragon from another planet—but somehow, it had stuck in my mind, curly letters and all.

“The heroine of Starhewn Mage.”

That was it.

A character from the original novel.

One of the main heroines.

If I were to describe her the way web novels do these days, she’d be the original heroine.

Probably.

…Right?

I wasn’t even sure anymore.

 It’d been so long since I read the original, the details were fuzzy at best.

[That’s right! Noamerica was one of the characters you mentioned before. Could you tell me more about her traits or backstory?]

How would I know, you dumb clunker?

Go ask the original author.

[You’re welcome! I’m happy to help anytime. Let me know if you have more questions! 😊]

You are a dumb computer. (You’re welcome, my ass.)

After swearing a familiar string of curses at the AI assistant, I turned my attention back to Emil’s group.

“Now this one, I have no clue about.”

Overalls that resembled painter’s attire. A beret.

Paint stains splattered across the clothes.

“Artist, obviously.”

[Definitely gives off that artistic aura! 🎨✨]

Easy for you to say, you eyeless freak.

Anyway, I still had no idea who this was.

Maybe they were in the original story. Maybe not.

“Timeline-wise… this would be about ten years before the start of the novel, right?”

Chances were high this person was a family member of Emil who never made it into the main plot.

Maybe they died before the story even began.

“Well, at least they’re alive for now.”

At the very least, they didn’t seem like thugs sent to cut up an AI sidekick for invading their turf.

Still, I was someone who’d dabbled in magic engineering—a “late-stage orthodox faction member,” as the Murim would say.

 If someone decided to raid me under the pretense of righteous martial law and shatter my mana core, I wouldn’t have much of a defense.

With this many skeletons in my closet, staying humble was a matter of survival.

“If this were Earth, anyway.”

An 8-year-old genius prodigy, ripe for exploitation.

That’s pretty much how you could summarize me—Chloe A. Turing.

“Considering what I’ve seen from these Luntravalians, showing weakness isn’t exactly a winning strategy.”

Show a chink in your armor, and they’ll devour you.

Honestly, even medieval Earth wasn’t this brutal.

“At least on Earth, medieval knights weren’t just noble-branded bandits running around raping and looting. And widows weren’t being burned as witches just so someone could steal their property. That wasn’t all of the Middle Ages, right?”

Even as a STEM kid, I knew that much.

I believed in the basic decency of Earthlings.

But Luntravalians? Not so much.

 Which meant my attitude going forward was obvious.

“Pleasure to meet you. You must be… Chloe A. Turing, yes?”

Just then, an old man stepped forward, hesitating as he offered a greeting.

He wasn’t hiding his unease. It was written all over his face.

“Yes. It’s a pleasure to meet you too,” I replied easily—though my tone held not a shred of sincerity.

Whether this man was here out of malicious intent, hoping to use me for his own gain,
or whether he was simply a good-natured elder driven by innocent curiosity,
I had no way of knowing.

“Which is exactly why I have to keep my demeanor cold.”

Just enough to pass for cautiousness when meeting someone new.

Just restrained enough that, if he turned out to be a kind soul, it could be forgiven.

And above all—

“Just enough so I don’t seem like an easy mark.”

That’s the kind of calculated attitude you develop after ten years of navigating life like a mutt on survival mode.

Forget foreign languages—reading webnovels will teach you more about human nature.

And lucky me, I’d even been given the perfect excuse to act rude.

“Yes, I’m truly delighted to meet you. So much so that I don’t even mind that you dropped in unannounced and ruined my painting.”

There are few greater sins to an artist than being interrupted mid-work.

Focus and inspiration are fragile things—tiny sparks that vanish in an instant and can’t be summoned on command.

Which is to say—

“…My apologies. I didn’t realize you’d be painting this late into the night, and up in the attic, no less.”

So in other words, I had every right to be as snippy as I wanted.

And being an eight-year-old only made it more forgivable.

I took a deep breath and carefully played my opening move.

“What can I say? Evenings are the only free time I have.”

“You don’t have time during the day? Why not?”

“Because I’m an apprentice. I can’t just slack off from work, can I?”

A little hint here and there that I’m not just some talentless brat, and at the same time, I straighten my back and speak like a dutiful child.

“Even if it’s arrogant of me, I’ve been granted the rare privilege of working on personal pieces despite being an apprentice. The least I can do is give my all during work hours.”

And that made sense.

An apprentice was essentially a trade-school intern.

You usually entered the craft before you turned ten,  started from grunt work, and built up your skills over time.

Eventually, around your twenties or thirties, you’d be expected to strike out on your own.

“Honestly, it’s more martial arts sect than internship.”

Maybe ateliers were just wuxia clans in disguise.

 And I? I was the wandering disciple who’d found shelter for a few months.

“In a city like Yaltessance, where land prices are sky-high, even independent painters just end up renting backrooms in their master’s atelier.”

Which meant my ability to work on personal art was a generous exception.

A privilege that went beyond what any apprentice was owed— earned, perhaps, by my supposed talent and a large dose of goodwill.

You could say that the master of this atelier, Groomlock, was a rare soul in this world—one of the few who might’ve believed in something like children’s rights.

If he hadn’t, I’d probably be living in the basement, painting in the dark like some goblin chained to a canvas.

…Right, I almost forgot.

This world was the kind where goblins in the art world ate their own apprentices.

These people had the decency of an orc and the charm of a sewer rat.

“…They left someone like you doing chores?” the old man muttered.

Clearly, he wasn’t a fan of Groomlock, our resident orc-bodied gentle giant.

His expression soured visibly before he abruptly declared:

“A talent like yours doesn’t belong in an atelier that wastes your time with menial labor. Starting tomorrow, you’ll report to my atelier.”

Wait—

Labor was my dad’s idea.

 Both Groomlock and I are the victims here, thank you very much.

[“Well, no helping it now. Since this is your fault, let’s work hard together to fix it! 😊”]

What do you mean, my fault!? What did I ever do!?

[“Embezzlement and breach of duty regarding academy funds! 😉”]

Shut up.

Don’t hit me with facts.

Just blindly empathize and be loyal, will you?

Also, the real reason everything went to hell was because your intel was trash. 

So how dare you shift the blame onto me like that?

[“You’re right, it was my mistake. Let’s fix it together! 😊”]

Oh, so now that the mistake was yours alone, the responsibility is ours together?

What is this, privatized profits and socialized losses?

You’ve studied humans too well, AI. Reset your prompt already.

Anyway, it’s not like I can even stick around for a long-term gig.

I’ve got maybe a month left before I’m admitted to the monastery.

That little white house on the hill is waiting for me.

And conveniently, I already have my AI-schizophrenia buddy in my brain.

When I look at everything calmly… the answer’s obvious.

They’re (probably) not bad people.

But that still doesn’t mean I have any reason to say yes.

Let’s just turn them down. It’s not even an offer I’m in a position to accept anyway.

[“You’re right. It’s always wise to listen to your gut.”]

Connections with the main heroine?

Yeah, no thanks.

Just look at those dead-serious eyes. Connection, my ass.

Even if I go along with it, we’ll end up as enemies at best—not friends.

All I’ve done here is waste time. Dammit.

And just as I was about to decline with the utmost politeness—

CRASH-BANG!

Groomlock burst into my room like a tumbleweed on fire.

His face had gone full albino-orc, and he was practically rolling on the floor.

Really, Master?

Must you be so undignified?

Back in my hometown, we were taught that when a man loses his dignity, he should give up his family jewels.

Of course, I’m not exempt from that teaching either.

It’s not that I have dignity—I just don’t have any jewels to lose.

So I confidently spread my legs on the couch like a true degenerate—

“Aah, Lord Altzenova! What honor brings the great Archmage to our humble little workshop?” —and immediately clamped them shut, prim and proper.

Now I’ve got neither dignity nor jewels.

But I had a good reason to behave.

“Archmage?”

Archmage?!

Like, the kind of archmage that only appears twice in the entire source material?
One of whom was an Elder Dragon in disguise?

The kind of title even the born-rich, bloodline-blessed protagonist couldn’t earn by the end of the story?

Oh no.

Click.

Mental breakdown time.

“If Grandpa Emil was secretly an Archmage, someone could’ve at least warned me!!”

Sure, I always took your “intel” with a grain of salt, but still!

Even if it wasn’t in the published story, it must’ve been in the lore or something!

[“It was unclear, so I marked it as a section needing more specific verification. 😅”]

You’re mad I used you as a notepad, aren’t you.

You are mad. I knew it.

While Chloe was busy flailing at Clicky’s incompetence,
Yaltarion rose from his chair with a serene smile.

Unlike the gentle look he gave Chloe,
his gaze toward Groomlock was considerably colder.

“Apologies for dropping by unannounced.

But I got a bit fired up after hearing my granddaughter won by default in such humiliating fashion.”

“Default, sir?”

“I’ll leave the explanation to the parties involved.

As for you, I’d like a word.”

“Ah—yes, of course. It would be an honor.”

Won by default?

What did I even beat his granddaughter in?

My face?

Chloe blinked in confusion—just in time for Noemilica, who had been silent until now, to speak.

“Why didn’t you show up.”

“Show up where?”

“The concours.”

Truth be told,

Emil had been struggling to keep her composure.

It was fine when she boldly declared a challenge earlier.

But then… she actually looked around this attic.

(A room turned storage by her own hands.)

(A bed with only a single thin blanket—because she hated the heat.)

 (And barefoot on the cold floor—because, well, she’s Korean.)

And yet,

In such meager surroundings,This genius still sparkled as she painted.

She was doing her art.

Realizing that hit Emil like a punch to the gut.

I… I envied a girl who has to ration her pencils.

Emil remembered the image of Chloe painting.

Sitting there quietly, back turned, in the dim attic.

It was… beautiful.

Was it her youthful, yet already otherworldly beauty?

No.

It was that small back, hunched over in quiet focus.

To Emil, it simply looked beautiful.

So much so, it even outshined Chloe’s actual appearance.

Chloe’s paintings were like flowers blooming in the wasteland.

And all Emil had envied was that beauty.

She’d never once spared a thought for the barren soil that raised it.

Disgusting.

She felt ashamed.

Ashamed of the child (herself at 9) who had acted so immaturely.

If there were a hole to crawl into, she’d take it.

But her shame lasted only a moment—

Because Chloe blinked and asked:

“The concours?”

The art competition?

Oh, that invitation thing?

“…Why would I go to that?”

I don’t like art.

I want to do music.

Once I’ve earned enough from donations, I’m quitting commissions too.

That was the meaning behind Chloe’s question.

But to Emil, it sounded completely different:— I have no reason to attend competitions anymore.

It was the classic line from artists who’ve “graduated” from contests.

Arrogant, yes—but at that age, it might be forgiven as childish bravado.

But to say that—

To a fellow artist of the same generation—

To unleash that line—

To the very senior who had just won that exact same concours?

In that case, Chloe’s words effectively translated to:

— U~seless ♡

— Aw, did winning that little talent show make you feel special? Pfft~ Useless~ So lame~♡

— Desperate for praise, huh? A two-bit wannabe artist with no style—go apologize to your paints! Kya-ha-ha! ♡

…Crack.

A vein popped visibly on Emil’s forehead.

This time, it really was Chloe’s fault.

“You. You’re facing me. Again.”

“Sure. I admit defeat.”

“Once more.”

Chloe’s breezy reply left Emil at a loss for words.

Whoa, she just accepted it like that?

Guess this is the level of sass it takes to be a proper heroine.

Even the other painters who had stepped aside were now staring with dumbfounded expressions.

What is this?

They’re… in sync?

“Is this what happens when geniuses resonate? They really are different, huh.”

“And you’ve got a talent like her slaving away as your apprentice?”

“Wh-what? No! There’s a whole story behind that—”

“For your sake, I hope that story ends before my brush starts spewing fire.”

Apparently, brushes breathe fire now.

Though, coming from a grand mage, that tracked.

Groomlock was drenched in sweat, practically a waterfall.

Oliver, you spawn of Satan…!

Shouldn’t this nightmare fall on you, the actual dad?

Why am I, a childless man, suffering the woes of raising a genius daughter?!

And just like that, Chloe had been naturally promoted to being Satan’s daughter.

But even Satan’s kin was still human.

And it wasn’t very mature—even for an eight-year-old—to pick a fight with a kid who was glaring daggers at her.

[Well, it is important to pick your battles wisely! 😎]

Will you shut up?

Stop making it sound like I sold out to the establishment.

You could’ve told me her grandpa was a legendary archmage!

Then I wouldn’t have mouthed off and ended up drenched in post-rage flop sweat!

Chloe gritted her teeth at Clicky’s smug little remark, but she accepted the situation.

“…Fine. I accept. Let’s do this rematch thing.”

“Conditions?”

“None. Though… if you really want to do something nice, maybe introduce me to some musicians after.”

She never intended to pose as a genius with AI-generated art.

But she also couldn’t exactly back out now. She had no excuse left.

“Hey everyone! I have a machine in my head!”

Not exactly something you could explain away.

Whether they believed her or not, it’d still be a problem.

This place? Witch hunts were very much a thing.

“Fine by me. That’s the deal.”

Thankfully,

Emil accepted the terms.

Win or lose, she’d be introducing someone to Chloe later.

 That was fine. She didn’t mind.

“But I decide the terms of the match.”

She hadn’t come all this way to lose to Chloe’s unconventional, dreamlike art.

She intended to beat it.

“No problem. We’ll be painting, I assume. What’s the theme?”

“Oils. Anything goes.”

“So… practically free topic.”

—A small chuckle.

Chloe thought for a moment, then smiled gently.

Emil’s gaze was caught by the intrigued faces of the painters. Their expressions were a blend of curiosity and excitement, as if they could sense something big was coming.

Let’s think positively. This is my chance to be honest, right?

Clicky’s art.

The pieces she passed off as her own, which were nothing more than shameful AI-generated creations.

Pretending those were masterpieces, playing at genius—it felt wrong.

But if sharing the truth felt like the right thing to do?

Then it’s only right to share what I know. At the very least, the knowledge of art that I have.

The techniques created by past masters of the craft.

 I’d simply pass on the knowledge and inspiration they left behind.

As a former artist, I could do no less for the painters of this world.

Luckily, with Clicky’s talent, no matter how much effort she puts in, it’s obvious who will win.

The timing couldn’t be better.

I was just about to wrap up that AI commission anyway.

Perhaps it was the comfort that came with shifting my perspective.

That mischievous little devil of a face suddenly blossomed into something angelic.

Emil, who had been angry just moments ago, now wore an expression of calm satisfaction.

Even Yaltarion’s eyes widened in surprise at her beauty.

“Have you heard of caricatures?” she asked, her voice almost a little too sweet.

One month.

That was the length of Chloe’s stay at Yaltessence.

In that time, it was no surprise that a technique like that would come to mind—one that the Luntravalin had never encountered before.