Chapter 8: The Contest Knock Knock Knock

“You recommended Cynthia for this year’s concours?”

“I did.”

Inside the atelier of the Guild of Painters, the guildmaster’s top disciple struggled to keep his composure at the reply.

“But… with all due respect, weren’t you the one who despised her style more than anyone?”

“I was.”

The guildmaster cut him off and poured tea. The leaves were rare, a symbol of wealth and status.

“Are you wondering why I’d go out of my way to raise that child’s name?”

“If I may speak frankly—yes. I am.”

“My atelier must be filled with geniuses. No exceptions.”

“…Ah!”

The guildmaster’s protégé understood at last.

 His role was never secured by talent alone. 

Sharp intuition was just as essential.

“You mean to take her in as your apprentice.”

“Right on the mark.”

Chloe’s paintings were abysmal—barely worthy of being called art.

 Perhaps you could market them as products, at best.

But still—

“Art? Who cares. She doesn’t need to paint well. As long as her hands are quick.”

A painter doesn’t have to be an artist. If you’re just a pair of hands, speed is all that matters.

Painting is backbreaking labor. And those with power are always hungry for slaves.

“We’ll just make sure she wins something appropriate at the concours.”

“You handle the details. You’re used to this, aren’t you?”

“You mean that?”

The disciple grinned knowingly.

Rigging the results. 

Whispered praise to inflate an ego.

 Then, the fall—so much harder from a height you were never meant to reach.

From the days of being called a genius, to the disgrace of ruin. The benefactors who once praised you turning their backs.

It’s a kind of brainwashing—subtle, effective.

 Even grown adults find themselves stripped of pride and left powerless.

 A trick the guildmaster had used many times before.

After all, doesn’t art bloom best when it’s fed by the compost of mediocrity?

“Yaltarion… His Excellency doesn’t care either way. That means there’s nothing holding us back. Get moving.”

“Yes, I’ll begin immediately.”

Ruining a promising child’s future?

 To them, it wasn’t even a question worth asking.

“For a girl whose only talent is fast hands, this is more than generous.”

“Hmph. As it should be. We’re feeding her and giving her a place to live.”

“Hah! Even beasts understand the kindness of being fed.”

Chloe was just a girl. 

What, would she starve to death if she couldn’t paint?

If she has a brain, she’ll find a man and secure her future that way.

And when she does, she’ll have that glittering line on her résumé:

Former apprentice of the Guildmaster of Painters.

What a killer title.

Ten years of youth, given in service and labor.

A price more than enough for that reward.

Surely, with that on her side, she’d find someone.

As long as her face didn’t look like a smashed potato, anyway.

“…Hmm?”

“What now?”

“It’s nothing, really. But… you haven’t met the girl in person yet, have you, Master?”

“Never. Only saw her guild application.”

“Pffft… Is that so?”

Then again, who knows?

Maybe she was the kind of girl who should give up on marriage early.

If she were even slightly good-looking, that orc would’ve dragged her to the guild himself.

The disciple curled his lips into a smirk.

“That orc really didn’t know his place, hoarding something this fine for himself. Disgusting. I’m glad we finally get to do something about it.”

Doing good always felt rewarding—whether it was cleaning up garbage or improving employment rates.

As he rose to leave, the disciple tossed out one last request.

“Could I get one of Cynthia’s paintings too? Once the concours ends, people love to yap. It’ll come in handy.”

“Expected that. Here you go.”

The guildmaster handed over the piece.

 The disciple gave it a once-over… and snorted.

 He couldn’t help himself.

After all, he’d once been called a prodigy too.

“This? I could paint something like this in two hours.”

The ‘Saint,’ huh?

Honestly, the guild members were getting more pathetic by the day.

“Two hours? I could do it in one.”

“Wahaha! And here I was, flaunting my meager skills before my master!”

The guildmaster and his disciple shared a laugh.

There was nothing of artistic value in the painting. 

Nothing original, nothing stirring.

Unlike Groomrock—who had seen something entirely different in the same work.

And unlike true geniuses.

* * *

A genius born of a magical kingdom, raised in the city of art.

Yaltarion stood in a quiet corner of the Artisans’ Quarter.

A sunlit two-story building—his granddaughter Noemilica’s atelier.

“Emil! It’s Grandpa!”

Beaming, Yaltarion called out, arms full of gifts.

At least until he noticed… no reply came.

“Noemilica?”

Strange.

Was she out early for errands?

Then he turned the key in the door—and froze.

“…Damn it.”

The lock hadn’t been set.

Click—bang!

He threw open the door and dashed into the living room— with a speed that defied his age.

“Emil!”

His voice cracked like thunder as he burst in.

And when he saw it—his expression turned cold enough to freeze even a demon lord in place.

The painting, nearly complete.

The one his granddaughter had poured her soul into for the concours.

It had been shredded—ripped apart with savage fury, still hanging in torn pieces on the canvas frame.

“Who… who the hell DARES—!”

The Archmage’s furious roar made the mana in the room crackle dangerously, threatening to tear the house apart.

“…Grandpa?”

“Emil!”

His granddaughter’s voice reeled him back from the brink.

“You’re here?”

“Of course. It’s my atelier.”

“You’re not hurt? I was worried! Who the hell would do this to your painting—!”

He followed her voice into the dimly lit room.

And stopped short.

There she was, sitting on the floor, a blanket pulled over her like a tent.

 In her hand—was a pencil-sharpening knife.

But that wasn’t why he couldn’t speak.

“Grandpa.”

It was because she wasn’t looking at him.

She was staring blankly at a single painting.

“You called me a genius, remember?”

She was the one who tore the painting apart.

She had destroyed her own work.

As the realization hit, he looked past her—through the tangle of her unbrushed hair and hollow gaze—

 at the painting she was staring at.

“You still think that? Even after seeing this?”

“What… what are you talking about? What happened to you…?”

Her voice led his gaze to the painting.

Sloppy strokes. Standard technique.

A third-rate canvas, lacking any finesse. A painting by a nobody.

But Yaltarion was no nobody.

He was not like Chloe.

Not like that toady disciple, or the guildmaster.

Not even like the Spirit King.

Yaltarion was, without a doubt, a true genius of the arts.

“…Hah.”

And because he was, he could see it.

Hidden within what looked like the work of an amateur… were the echoes of the masters.

Generative AI.

At first glance, the name sounded like some cutting-edge technology.

But the principle behind it was surprisingly simple.

It crawled the web for data, then took those styles apart and stitched them back together on demand.

Ask it to paint a cat, and it would piece together fragments from files labeled “Cat.”

That’s all it was.

Want to boost your artwork’s quality effortlessly?

Just plagiarize—more obviously.

That’s why the higher the quality of an AI-generated piece, the more… familiar it feels.

Because underneath it all, The styles of the original, real artists used in the training data still clung to the can

“This is… uglier than any magic I’ve seen— and more beautiful than any painting I’ve ever known.”

Yaltarion swallowed hard.

This “amateur’s” painting held within it a magnum opus—a grand work.

He saw fragments of humanity’s greatest masterpieces scattered across the canvas.

The Renaissance techniques of Mona Lisa.

 The dreamlike reinterpretation of reality in The Starry Night.

The bold, cubist structure of Les Demoiselles d’Avignon.

A flood of inspiration surged through the soul of the grandmaster.

It wasn’t even strange, really.

It was like throwing a 19th-century film director into a modern-day theater.

The chaotic fusion of data that had shaken even the Elemental King—

To Yaltarion, it was nothing short of breathtaking.

For a genius like him, the painting pulsed with the lifeblood of its predecessors— the sweat, tears, and lives of true masters who had come before

And yet…

“Could this really have been painted by one person…?”

Even a legendary artist couldn’t have guessed the mechanics behind an AI-generated artwork.

Who would?

The idea of an artificial intelligence rearranging millions of images like puzzle pieces?

Even humans from Earth before the year 2022—when AI first became mainstream—would’ve found it hard to believe.

To the people of Runtravahl, it was near impossible.

And so, to their eyes… this was simply another kind of talent.

“…A genius,” he murmured.

So brilliant, it made one doubt whether the artist was even human.

 A portrait of undeniable genius.

“Emil. Whose work is this?”

“Cynthia. A rookie. She debuted just recently.”

“…What?!”

This girl?

This was the one driving veteran artists to madness?

Only now did Yaltarion fully understand his granddaughter’s feelings.

So that’s it. After seeing something like this… she must’ve been furious enough to tear her own painting to shreds.

Emil’s piece had been excellent—there was no question.

It was a fine work, skillfully done.

But in the end, it was still only that—a fine piece.

It lacked the innovation of this painting.

If he had come face-to-face with this piece when he was nine…

Yaltarion might’ve burned his own work too, out of sheer despair.

“Emil.”

And so, he didn’t speak much more.

Yaltarion simply placed a hand on his granddaughter’s shoulder.

“Go. Seek out your rival.”

A genius doesn’t need comfort.

“And then… return victorious.”

“…!”

There was no point in asking how.

They were artists—

people who had devoted their very lives to the canvas.

Nor was there any need to ask where.

A rising star had appeared like a comet in the art world.

Talented, yes—but still green, still untested.

So how does someone like that—brimming with potential yet lacking legacy— rise to fame so quickly?

Emil reached the answer in an instant.

“…A concours.”

“Exactly.”

Art concours rarely had age limits.

Late-blooming talents weren’t uncommon.

Established masters often held back from entering— an unspoken rule born from quiet respect.

Which meant, if Emil went… she was almost certain to meet her.

That mysterious genius.

A worthy rival she could claim as her lifelong nemesis.

Chloé A. Turing.

“…I’ll go.”

The young prodigy didn’t cry.

Didn’t let herself break down.

It was too soon to offer thanks.

“I’ll go, I’ll fight… and I’ll win.”

Gratitude could wait—until after she had defeated her rival.

A brilliant light flared in Emil’s eyes.

The spark of something fierce.

The fire of determination.

But—

That fierce determination… never had the chance to clash with Chloé.

“And the winner of this year’s concours is—! The artist, Noemilica Altzenovaaaa—!”

“…Why.”

“…Excuse me?”

“Why am I the winner?”

Emil, having never encountered Chloé throughout the entire competition,
ended up sweeping the finals effortlessly—like a bad joke.

A victory… by default.

***

“…A concours? Oh nooo, that’s a bit much for me.”

Around the same time, Chloé was casually brushing off her nonexistent conscience, feeding a giant middle finger to both the Artist Guild President and a certain Archmage.

The weather in Yartessance was beginning to cool.

BOOM!

Top floor of the Groomlock Atelier.

The door to Chloé’s attic studio slammed open with violent force.

An assassin attack—like something mass-produced and mailed straight from hell!
But the so-called “crusty old shut-in” responded with lightning speed.

“KYAAAH—! I’M SORRY! PLEASE DON’T KILL ME!”

Flinging her brush into the air, Chloé dove beneath her bed in a panic, shrieking all the while.

“I SWEAR I WON’T SELL THAT TRASH FOR MONEY ANYMORE! I’LL DONATE EVERYTHING I MADE TO THE CHURCH—JUST PLEASE, SPARE ME—huh?”

Begging for her life had been a solid first move.

But then… something felt off.

The uninvited guest—who Chloé had expected to be a burly thug with brass knuckles and a debt ledge turned out to be a tiny girl with fiery orange hair.

“It’s you. You’re Cynthia. I know it. Don’t even try to deny it.”

A genius girl, forced to forfeit before the fight even began.

In other words: Emil.

And she was trembling with righteous fury, her face flushed bright red.

With two full canvases strapped to her side like weapons.

“So you’re the one everyone says is such a great artist?”

“N-no! You’ve got the wrong person! I swear—!”

“Fight me. Right now.”

If she wasn’t going to listen to the answer, then why ask in the first place?

Chloé gave up and slipped right back under her bed.