At that moment, in a wagon at the rear of the caravan, Louise and Jose were chatting. To be precise, Jose was enduring the jolting of the wagon while listening to Louise’s rambling and painting, occasionally interjecting a few words. Fortunately, the painting was nearing completion; this torment would soon end.

  Having just been informed by a god, "You're awake? You've died twice, but it's alright, someone's doing it for you," Louise was slightly distracted, casually starting a conversation.

  "Speaking of which, why did you want to become a painter?"

  This was a casual question, much like asking what someone wanted to eat, but Jose was taken aback. He pursed his lips, adding the final touch to his painting with a delicate stroke, and seriously replied:

  "I don't know if I've mentioned it… but it can be summarized as: I encountered a master's work and was filled with admiration, naturally leading me down this path."

  "Which master? Erwin, Louisa, Abel, or perhaps even earlier, one of the classical masters?" Louise asked.

  "None of them," Jose softly replied. "It was an unknown, poor, struggling little painter, but in my eyes, he was a true master."

  Louise was momentarily speechless. After a few seconds of gathering her thoughts, she carefully began, “Because of… inspiration?”

  "That's one way to put it," Jose said, a reminiscent expression on his face. "Back then, I was just a child, and I happened to come across his work in a book. Even now, despite my lack of talent in painting, I can see many technical flaws in that painting—plenty of room for improvement. The reason he was so poor… was precisely because of his imperfect technique. But that doesn't matter; as long as it’s a work created with passion, at least in my eyes, there's no distinction between high and low. Technique is important, of course, but the artist’s emotions, experiences, and contemplation—whether they're expressed in the work—are even more important. I believe the latter is the key factor in judging a work's excellence…"

  "Seems like I went off-topic. Ahem. When I was a bit older, I left my birthplace and went to the city. That was during the early years of Her Majesty Orantes’ reign. Law and order were far worse than they are today, but opportunities… opportunities presented themselves."

  “You might have heard of that city, Paris, the City of Art. I initially worked as an apprentice in a paint factory there, doing menial labor. At that time, I never thought of becoming a painter… Making a living was difficult enough; I didn’t have the energy to ponder such things. The daily labor alone consumed most of my energy; the monotonous factory work could wear down anyone's dreams. I occasionally daydreamed, just to rest. Initially, I dreamed of becoming a great painter, leaving my name in history. Gradually, gradually, my dreams changed from painting to earning a little more money tomorrow, finding a purse, getting lucky and striking it rich… It's funny, even my daydreams became cautious, never daring to overindulge.”

  Jose twitched the corner of his mouth, as if recalling something amusing.

  “The turning point was 1435, eleven years ago.”

  “…That famous competition,” Louise murmured.

  “All the city's painters participated. Although I was a small fry, I managed to get involved on the fringes, so naturally, I witnessed a lot,” Jose tilted his head, his gaze blocked by the wagon, unable to see anything outside.

  “By then, I'd already abandoned my unrealistic fantasies about the painter's profession. But after witnessing that scene, I was still moved,” Jose said vaguely. “Painters from the entire city and beyond, all gathered… all the painters preparing for battle."

  “Some were hunched over animal skeletons, exuding a foul odor; some were perched on rooftops, setting up easels; some were lost in thought, hesitant to put brush to canvas, their impatient models maintaining their poses… Each person was disheveled, sweat-drenched, their hair a mess, their mouths clamped onto pipes, fiercely exhaling smoke, cheap liquor spilling onto their clothes. They worked with paint in every conceivable way, their palettes a mess; some even mixed paint directly on their hands.

  “At that moment, I felt they were all fanatics, performing a self-sacrificing heretical ritual. From the delicate initial sketches to the rapid brushstrokes, from relaxed expressions to frantic gestures nearing collapse, even the most dignified individuals displayed contorted features. Some lost their inspiration, frantically overturning their easels; some couldn't contain themselves, their expressions bordering on madness.

  “Everyone was painting—standing, kneeling, sitting. Few uttered a sound; the air was usually filled only with the rustling of brushes. But putting myself in their place, I heard other sounds—flames burning, radiating intense heat; emotions unleashed, suppressed feelings and anguish mixing freely; cries and laughter intertwined, indistinguishable.

  “They were laborers, butchers, some even homeless, forced to sleep on the streets. They were disheveled, dirty, and frenzied, only finding release in a joyful roar upon completing their work. I wondered at the time, was beauty communicating with each of them? Otherwise, why would such an unseemly, ungraceful, yet sublime and sacred act exist?”

  “Some were hunched over animal skeletons, exuding a foul odor; some were perched on rooftops, setting up easels; some were lost in thought, hesitant to put brush to canvas, their impatient models maintaining their poses… Each person was disheveled, sweat-drenched, their hair a mess, their mouths clamped onto pipes, fiercely exhaling smoke, cheap liquor spilling onto their clothes. They worked with paint in every conceivable way, their palettes a mess; some even mixed paint directly on their hands.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  “At that moment, I felt they were all fanatics, performing a self-sacrificing heretical ritual. From the delicate initial sketches to the rapid brushstrokes, from relaxed expressions to frantic gestures nearing collapse, even the most dignified individuals displayed contorted features. Some lost their inspiration, frantically overturning their easels; some couldn't contain themselves, their expressions bordering on madness.

  “Everyone was painting—standing, kneeling, sitting. Few uttered a sound; the air was usually filled only with the rustling of brushes. But putting myself in their place, I heard other sounds—flames burning, radiating intense heat; emotions unleashed, suppressed feelings and anguish mixing freely; cries and laughter intertwined, indistinguishable.

  “They were laborers, butchers, some even homeless, forced to sleep on the streets. They were disheveled, dirty, and frenzied, only finding release in a joyful roar upon completing their work. I wondered at the time, was beauty communicating with each of them? Otherwise, why would such an unseemly, ungraceful, yet sublime and sacred act exist?”

  Jose smiled, mirroring the painters he'd described.

  “I have little talent, and my starting point was lower than anyone else's. I can hardly even say I'm diligent. It's hard to explain, but upon witnessing that scene, I was deeply captivated.

  “Unconstrained by material things, wealth, status, ability—all insignificant. Everyone was burning with inspiration, burning with skill, burning with their own light, dazzling and intense. I thought, I need to become someone like that.”

  Louise listened silently. She keenly sensed that in 1446, Jose wouldn't have opened up to someone like this, nor would he have shared these things… But it didn't matter.

  “After making a silent vow, I didn't immediately act, because I felt my goal was too vague. I decided to be practical and find short-term goals,” Jose tilted his head slightly. “With that excitement still in my heart, I made a plan. My first priority was to bring my parents to live nearby… I was able to support them by then. While it's difficult to say how much parental love I received from them, I still couldn't abandon them.

  “So I took the train—the one designed and recommended by Grand Mage Delight—back to my hometown. I was confident and filled with emotion. When I arrived, I traveled on foot, along rough and uneven paths; returning, I rode something new, a miracle: a magical train. When I left, I knew nothing; upon my return, I'd found my life's purpose, my salary had exceeded the average, and I felt confident that I'd seized the reins of my destiny."

  "Destiny… No god claims to control destiny. It's as if they deliberately leave a gap in their power, for mortals to grasp. But how many mortals are there? How complex are human relationships? Who dares to claim control over destiny, even their own? Naturally, I didn't possess such power, so I was struck by an unwarranted arrogance.

  “I returned to my hometown, only to find it reduced to ruins by a flash flood.”

  Louise froze, about to say something, but held back.

  “I stood there, dumbfounded, in disbelief. The small river near my hometown hadn't flooded in hundreds of years; the mountain behind the village was barely a small hill. To call it a natural disaster was almost laughable. I asked around, encountering obstacles everywhere, finally receiving the cold reply, ‘They angered someone.’ I punched the person who answered, breaking his nose and knocking out three of his teeth… but what good did it do?

  “I eventually returned to the village entrance—what was left of it. I sat on the ground, lost, with a large bag on my back, weighing me down.”

  “The culprit…”

  “The culprit is dead,” Jose said calmly. “Her Majesty the Queen ordered it.”

  “That’s good.”

  A long silence filled the wagon.

  “What did you do in the end?” Louise suddenly asked, her voice very low, as if she’d done something wrong.

  “I painted them,” Jose replied, equally softly. “Right there at the village entrance, I used my money to buy an easel, paper, brushes, and a large quantity of expensive paints—paints I couldn't even tell apart—and I painted. I painted clumsily, incessantly, shifting positions when I got tired; switching hands when one ached; even using my mouth to hold the brush when both hands were too tired… I painted like a clown.

  “When that hideous painting was finished, when I couldn't add another stroke, I suddenly understood those painters—there were no gods communicating with them. I also understood what I wanted to pursue, what I needed to become.

  “The painting is the manifestation of my ideal—eternal, recorded, preserving the beauty of the past.” Jose closed his sketchbook, putting away his brush.

  “…It's somewhat… well…” Louise hesitated. “The God of Wisdom teaches us that eternity is not something to pursue; all things have an end; death is the natural order…”

  From the moment Louise sensed that malicious gaze, Jose's smile seemed to change subtly. He slowly said:

  “Including the gods? If the God of Wisdom teaches us this, and if His ‘All Things’ encompasses everything, doesn't that imply that the gods aren't eternal? If so, why do the major religions proclaim the gods' eternity, immortality, and invincibility? Don't their doctrines come from the Holy Texts, and don't the Holy Texts come from the gods themselves? Could the gods be self-contradictory, violating their own principles?”

  The question was sharp; Louise opened her mouth, speechless.

  “I feel like I’ve forgotten a lot of things,” Jose said, avoiding putting Louise on the spot. “Vague, my memories are obscured as if by a veil… I think you know why.”

  Louise hesitated.

  “You seem to… doubt me? Suspect me? Am I some kind of murderer?” Jose chuckled slightly. He was almost self-deprecatingly humble, but in this regard, he was confident: he would never be a villain.

  But since Louise didn't want to speak, he wouldn't press her.

  Louise suddenly asked hesitantly:

  “Those… villagers, you probably don’t remember most of their faces, do you? Did you paint them?”

  “I painted them, but if I don’t remember accurately, it’s a distortion of memory and the past, so I deliberately avoided painting their faces; I plan to add them later.” Jose replied casually.

  Louise fell silent for a moment, then pulled him out of the wagon, pointing to a merchant who was looking at them and asking:

  “What do you think?”

  Jose was somewhat puzzled, but considering that it wasn't necessary to fight outside the wagon, he didn't resist and followed her, looking in the indicated direction.

  “It’s just…a flowing white line, and also…”

  A chaotic mass of lines suddenly appeared in his field of vision.

  An icy gaze emanated from within.

  Jose fell silent, his gaze dropping to the human body below.

  “Possibly, maybe, perhaps, by chance… it might be just that.”