Chapter 6: AI can’t Draw

Warning: Viewer discretion advised — AI still can’t draw.

Yaltarion despised the title of Archmage.

His reason was absurd: it was one of his own titles.

“Grandpa, your head’s messed up.”

“Not the hairstyle. What’s inside it.”

So declared Emil, his ever-impertinent granddaughter, now nine years old.

Naturally, people would ask: 

“Is it because the title of Archmage is hollow? Lacks prestige?”

After all, there were three Archmages just in the City of Art.

But those people didn’t know a damn thing.

The title Yaltarion held dearest—wasn’t Archmage.

 It was one that was ten times more common.

“My name is Yaltarion! I am a Riveyon Artist!”

A Riveyon Artist—a title reserved for masters of the art world.

 A badge of greatness in its own right.

Yet not as rare, not as coveted, not as “great” as Archmage.

Yaltarion could name thirty people with that title off the top of his head.

Even so…

For over forty years, Yaltarion had introduced himself as a Riveyon Artist.

Ever since he first earned the honor at age seventeen.

At the Archmage Conferment Ceremony.

Even when he was being praised for slaying a horde of 25,000 monsters.

And still, to this very day.

It was only natural.

Yaltarion had always considered himself, above all else, a painter.

“Live long enough and they go and call you Archmage anyway…”

He clicked his tongue as he slouched in a stiff-backed chair at the Mage Association’s annual meeting.

“Can’t blame anyone for losing affection at this rate.”

43rd of Sanghwa Moon.

The gathering of the nation’s most brilliant magical minds.

And the discussion?

It was less symposium, more marketplace brawl.

“This year’s artifact maintenance budget allocation—”

 “What the hell is this ledger? You guys skimmed half the mithril the Guild brought in?! Who opened the trade routes, huh?!”

“Thunder Tower Lord! I challenge you to a duel!”

“Fight the Flame Tower Lord instead—he’s stronger! You said you wanted a real fight!”

This… was the discourse of the country’s top intellectuals?

Yaltarion’s tongue-clicking grew more rapid, until he was practically pecking the air like a woodpecker.

“Tsk. Money-grubbing ghouls, the lot of them.”

All this petty bickering—reeked of gold and ego.

It was poison to an artist’s soul.

Quietly, he slipped out of the chamber and muttered an incantation.

A finely structured teleportation spell began to weave itself together.

Destination: his soul’s sanctuary—

The City of Water and Art, Yaltessance.

“Business handled, no one left to nag me… Time to go home.”

He didn’t want to spend another second in that vulgar den of squabbling bureaucrats.

He yearned for Yaltessance’s elegant drizzle—

To walk beneath it, soaked in inspiration.

But—

“Ten paintings unveiled today alone! And whose work do you think they are?!”

 “Saintess! Saintess! Saintess!”

“Ahh, Saintess of the Arts… was it you again…?”

“GRAAAAAAAHH!!”

“Why the hell are you people worshipping this trash like it’s divine?!”

Much to Yaltarion’s dismay, even the art capital of Yaltessance had become a screaming madhouse.

***

“What in the world…?!”

Yaltarion had barely stepped foot into the Painter’s Guild meeting hall when he froze, questioning the evidence of his own eyes.

And with good reason.

The guild—his beloved painters’ guild—was now being presided over by what looked like a cult leader.

“Such bold techniques! Such explosive productivity! This proves she is, without question, a true genius!”

“I believe!”

“I worship and repent! Apostates should kill themselves!”

Wait, did the teleport spell go wrong?

No.

These were his fellow painters. 

He recognized their faces.

Thankfully, where new fanatics rise, the old guard isn’t far behind to knock them back down.

Some painters were resisting the madness.

“AAAAAARGH!! You lunatics! Are your eyes just ornaments on your face?!”

“You call yourself a painter—this is disgraceful!”

“Who even is this artist, huh? All you know is that she goes by Cynthia!”

Cynthia?

Yaltarion perked up at the name.

He’d heard whispers.

A rising star in the art world, known for her blistering pace and unconventional style.

“What?! You just called her what?!”

“He insulted the Saintess!”

“Kill him! Offer his head at her sacred altar!”

“The Saintess desires crimson paint—AAAGH!!”

…They were painters, right?

Not leaders of some newly sprouted doomsday cult?

“You psychos! If you’re offering human sacrifices, you’re worshipping a Demon King, not a saint!”

“I’m telling you—Cynthia had to make a pact with a demon!”

Artists screaming “woo-woo-woo” around a makeshift altar.

Other artists fighting back with paintbrushes and canvas boards like makeshift weapons.

It was absolute chaos.

And to Yaltarion’s horror, both sides had Riveyon Artists among them.

His vision swam.

“Ah, Lord Yaltarion. You’re here.”

“Guildmaster… What in the blazes is going on? Have I gone senile overnight?”

“No, sir. Unfortunately, you’re seeing the world quite clearly.”

The Guildmaster let out a long, suffering sigh and turned away from the shrieking crowd.

“A few recent paintings seem to have… sparked this conflict. Debates about their inspiration and meaning escalated.”

“Debates?”

“Yes. Debates. Since there are no fatalities… yet.”

It was unreal.

Painters were supposed to be the archetypes of the tortured artist—

Walking egos wrapped in second-hand cloaks, Fame-starved souls who lived and died by pride.

And yet here they were,  

Losing their minds over the work of a junior artist.

Just how much of a genius is she…?

Yaltarion felt the stirrings of awe.

But he masked it with pomp and a slow stroke of his beard.

“Hmph. Youngsters these days… no backbone at all.”

“Couldn’t agree more.”

“You’ve seen her work, haven’t you? What did you think?”

“You mean… Chloe A. Turing?”

Yaltarion didn’t need to ask who that was.

He knew.

That was Cynthia’s real name.

Not because she’d been investigated or anything—

She had simply used her legal name when registering with the guild.

Well, of course he knew her real name.

Who goes so far as to falsify documents just to hide their identity?

 There are limits to this whole “secret genius” act.

It wasn’t even like she was committing a crime—just making everything way harder for herself.

That’s how the Guildmaster had learned Chloe’s name.

But even so—

“She hasn’t even mastered the basics.”

The Painter’s Guildmaster’s brows furrowed—

A contempt laced with academic refinement.

“Calling that mess art? These kids today love attaching meaning to chaos.”

That smeared canvas.

Disjointed fingers, mismatched eyebrows, random trinkets scattered across the frame.

It was revolting from start to finish.

 Looked like the fever dream of a third-rate junkie.

“I was actually planning to take action soon.”

“Take action?”

“If she’s chasing ‘inspiration’ with illegal substances, we can’t risk it turning into a scandal for the guild.”

“Tch… of course.”

Yaltarion responded curtly.

But the Guildmaster could sense the curiosity hiding in his voice.

“Would Your Excellency care to see the paintings yourself?”

“Ahem… hmm-hmm. Hrrm.”

Honestly?

He did want to see them.

There isn’t an artist alive who isn’t starved for inspiration.

But Yaltarion shook his head.

“No, I’m here to see my granddaughter first.”

“Ah, of course. Miss Noemilica is preparing for a concours, isn’t she?”

“Indeed she is.”

The old man’s face softened, stroking his beard with unconcealed pride.

“Heh. She’s already got victory in the bag, so there’s no advice I can really give her—but if I don’t at least show up, wouldn’t she be disappointed?”

“…She probably wouldn’t be… no, wait, she probably would. Yes, of course. Please, go see her.”

The Guildmaster quickly corrected himself and bowed out with strategic grace.

 He had an impeccable sense for self-preservation.

“Chloe…”

Chloe A. Turing.

 Yaltarion repeated the name in his mind.

A name full of promise—

And, more importantly—

“How would she measure up… to my little Emil?”

His beloved genius of a granddaughter.

The girl he adored needed rivals, needed competition.

Though surely they’re not the same age.

Surely…

He chuckled softly to himself, then exited the guild.

Had Chloe seen the guildmaster’s disdain, she might’ve strongly agreed on one point—but she wouldn’t have condemned the other painters.

Resist cruelty, but don’t impose your virtue.

That, she would’ve said, was the true path of a righteous wanderer.

Of course, Chloe had forgotten one important thing:

This wasn’t some dusty old martial arts tale.

This was Runtravalle—

a land ruled by gods and magic.

And on this continent, kings weren’t always human.

***

“Hah. The more I see her work, the more I’m impressed. That Cynthia girl…”

In the cluttered marketplace of Yaltessance, a merchant named Chenseps clapped his hands in genuine awe.

His amazement was directed at a single painting.

A commissioned portrait from the daughter of a wealthy merchant house.

The finished work had left Chenseps deeply, viscerally moved.

“Three pieces like this… in a single day?”

It wasn’t awe from the perspective of an artist.

It was the stunned reverence of a businessman and broker.

Is she even human?

Or is she secretly some kind of tentacled monster wielding a brush?

And that wasn’t even the scariest part.

What truly terrified him was the way she painted.

Normally, a portrait session takes hours. The subject has to sit for ages…

But Cynthia?

From the very beginning, she broke all conventions.

She only looked at her client once.

On the day of the meeting.

Wearing her hooded robe.

And then she said:

“Thank you for coming. You can go home now.”

“Eh?”

“I’ve already finished the painting. In my head, that is.”

She promised the portrait would be delivered by the next day.

And sure enough—

She delivered. And it was perfect.

Was there any other monster like her in all of Yaltessance?

At least, from what he had heard, there was no one else like her.

A legendary genius.

Even the exaggerated praises made sense in this context.

And that made it all the more exhilarating—

The fact that such a monster was now his competitor.

‘Of course, it’s not exactly a masterpiece.’

Objectively speaking, Chenseps, the art critic, could easily have torn apart Cynthia’s paintings.

The color palette is clumsy.

The understanding of objects is lacking.

The reinterpretation of details is excessive.

The balance of completion is inconsistent across works.

And yet, and yet…

There were so many flaws that were tagged on to her pieces.

But for the average person, they would be satisfied.

Cheap, quick, and pretty.

‘But for someone who loves art, these paintings would probably make them curse.’

What if he kept mediating these works?

The Guild might slap him with fines.

That was something he could deal with.

But—

‘So what?’

Chenseps decided to keep up his merchant’s mask.

He had thick skin.

So what if the colors are grotesque?

So what if the proportions are off?

So what if you can see the twisted human forms if you look closely?

None of it mattered.

‘They’re cheap!’

The paintings would sell.

That’s what mattered.

If there were fines, he’d just skim them off the top in commission fees.

He didn’t even understand what the Guild was thinking—

How could they keep demanding fines when there were so many buyers?

Ding-

“Owner. Mind if I take a quick look?”

Perhaps it was because of his earnest ambition,  but another customer walked into his store.

Chenseps greeted the visitor with a beaming smile.

How could he not?

The woman before him practically radiated nobility.

“By all means. Perhaps you’d like to make a deal? We’ve got a new contract with a famous up-and-coming artist!”

“Up-and-coming artist?”

“Cynthia. Haven’t you heard of her? This is one of her pieces.”

For truly valuable items, the introduction had to be subtle.

 Chenseps slyly offered one of Cynthia’s paintings.

But—

‘The reaction isn’t great.’

The beautiful woman, once she laid eyes on the artwork, froze.

Chenseps quickly adjusted his strategy.

As he had mentioned before,  the more one loved art, the more repulsive Cynthia’s works would appear.

This woman was certainly an art connoisseur, or so Chenseps assumed.

But in reality, it was somewhat different.

What… is this painting?

The woman—Elain, the Spirit Queen—took a sharp breath, stepping back.

A cold shiver ran down her spine, and she fought to suppress the primal fear rising within her.

She didn’t understand.

As a spirit, her view of the world was fundamentally different from humans.

She could see the heart and soul of an artist in their work.

So, she couldn’t comprehend it.

‘Beautiful? This?’

Elain wiped the cold sweat from her brow as she stared at the painting.

This horrific painting—how did it appear to human eyes?