The Artist Who Paints Dungeon-Chapter 299

“......”

Staring quietly at the canvas, Yoo Seong-Woon was asked by the portrait.

“What is here?”

“...Nothing. Just glaciers and snow.”

“Then there are glaciers and snow. What do they look like? If they’re cold, how cold are they?”

“Well... the garden keeps changing its shape...”

Yoo Seong-Woon gazed at the snowfield in the canvas.

“This current form... I might’ve seen it somewhere before.”

Just watching it made his stomach churn.

It was his garden. His snowfield. Snow falling below and above, in a world so cold the boundary between heaven and earth dissolved. In moments of silence—or not—even when he closed his eyes, he could hear the beating of a heart...

His fingertips tingled. His heart thumped. A heat and nervousness surged from his extremities up into his eyes. A strange kind of longing, like something important had slipped through his grasp.

“...It’s incredibly real.”

“You flatter me. To call a lump of paint realistic.”

“It’s certainly not the same as an actual landscape. It’s not a photograph.”

“You’re right, Mr. Yoo Seong-Woon.”

“But why do paintings exist?”

“Unlike photographs that capture objective facts, paintings... can hold feelings.”

“Exactly—feelings. Emotion. The heart. That kind of thing.”

That was the difference between photographs and paintings. Paintings contained time and spirit, and left space for interpretation. That’s what made all forms of art precious.

“Are you feeling the same emotions I’m feeling right now?”

“I don’t know.”

“How are you able to paint the world I saw and felt, just like that?”

“That too... I don’t know.”

“You’re so vague.”

That vagueness was, of course, part of a mystic’s charm.

“...It’s definitely not a realistic painting...”

The thick strokes characteristic of oil paints remained. Heavy blobs of color hardened quickly and protruded from the surface. There was no meticulous detail. He simply pressed down with a palette knife, not even adjusting it, and this scenery emerged.

It was from the gaze Yoo Seong-Woon had once turned toward his snowfield.

“...Maybe because I’ve become distant from reality.”

“Have you become distant?”

“You’ve been feeding me too well.”

“You need to gain weight. You’ve always been too thin—it makes me worry.”

“I keep telling you, I’m not that thin, Gio...”

Even as he said that, his eyes stayed fixed on the snowfield.

‘How is this possible?’

He knew it was a meaningless question—but he couldn’t help thinking it. He was in awe. Finding such a desolate snowfield in this shallow piece created by the child of something that resembled a person—how could that be?

My garden is being painted. It’s right there. On that canvas I could reach out and hold...

“You’re painting it very softly.”

The portrait didn’t let that comment pass unnoticed.

“Isn’t snow soft?”

“I mean, wouldn’t ‘cold’ or ‘crunchy’ come to mind first?”

“Snow untouched by human hands or feet is comforting.”

“Not exactly warm, though.”

“But left as is, without anything disturbing it...”

“Yeah. That’s how my snowfield is.”

No one could come and go freely.

‘And inside that place, I’m not really human either.’

He was just “the gardener.” Any act that might harm the scenery of the garden was strictly forbidden. Yoo Seong-Woon couldn’t leave any trace inside it—not a human’s footprint in the snow, nor the faintest warmth.

In that snowfield where sky and earth could not be distinguished, Yoo Seong-Woon couldn’t even melt the snow. Not unless the garden demanded or allowed it.

“......”

A strange feeling welled up inside him.

“...It’s the first time I’ve ever shared this sight with someone.”

“Not even with the other gardeners?”

“You can’t just drag a garden to where humans can see it.”

“Hmm...”

Gio tilted his head and asked,

“Not even through your eyes, Mr. Yoo Seong-Woon? Couldn’t that be considered ‘a place humans can see’?”

“Even if someone looked through my eyes, they wouldn’t see the garden itself. Probably only you can do that, Gio. Don’t get the wrong idea.”

Well, he could see why Gio might think that way. Yoo Seong-Woon gave a sheepish, awkward smile.

‘I thought he was used to imitating humans, but maybe that assumption only came from seeing the fragments he lets show. Internally, he’s still lacking in some areas...’

Still, it wasn’t a particularly shocking realization. Mystics—especially great ones—often got confused about things like this. They didn’t realize that things humans could do easily were, to mystics, miracles. Or vice versa.

It was a typical mistake of generalization. Just because something was easy for them, they assumed it was for everyone else. That kind of thinking could cause a great rift—and even fear—among humans.

‘Still, our portrait is at least good at appearances.’

With a chuckle, Yoo Seong-Woon smiled mildly. Feeling pride in the uniqueness of one’s own artwork was the curator’s occupational disease. He continued,

“No matter how beautiful a gardener’s garden is, we can never show it to anyone else.”

“There are skills that let you pull memories into drawings or photos.”

“Those skills don’t work on this kind of subject. And even if they did, they can’t convey the emotions I felt. Just like you can’t recreate the time, feeling, and gaze you had when visiting a famous tourist spot...”

“That’s unfortunate.”

The portrait, having captured even the flawless shadows of the snow-covered field, asked,

“Would you like me to gift it to you?”

“A gift like this doesn’t really mean anything to me. The garden and I share the same body.”

“Then shall I display it?”

“Where would you display it?”

“Aren’t you tired?”

“...Uh, well...”

As he looked up to meet the gaze, a deep compassion shone within those vast black eyes. So deep and immense they couldn’t be measured...

“I just...”

This being’s compassion could manifest in any form.

He could sweep aside a monstrous tidal wave with one hand, or heal a deathly ill patient with a single glance. So it made sense that he could also offer a “gift” to a “friend.”

The curator realized what his portrait was saying.

“......”

He understood what the compassionate Origin was trying to show this weary gardener.

“...I’m still okay. Really.”

Mystics, after all, were mystics.

They tossed riddles like casual remarks, but they were too heavy to answer right away.

“If we displayed a piece like this, people would pass out in shock.”

“They wouldn’t faint.”

“Wouldn’t the world become more chaotic then?”

“Probably not.”

“Try to understand—I'm just a weak person with a small heart. Your art is so realistic and beautiful that for someone with a fragile heart, it could be fatal.”

“You flatter me.”

“Will you ever admit that it’s not flattery?”

Maybe when the earth flips over.

“...I don’t know... maybe I’m overstepping, but I think the way things are right now is fine...”

That was what humans were like. They craved stability. Even a single change was frightening—how could they possibly accept the world changing? That was a fear far too great for a single human.

“Gio.”

“Yes.”

“Gio’s portrait.”

“Yes, I’m listening.”

“What kind of world do you want Earth to become?”

“I cannot create it.”

“Then what do you want to do?”

“I want to do what I want to do.”

“And what’s that?”

“As you know, Mr. Yoo Seong-Woon...”

Gio dipped his palette knife into a silver tin reeking of oil paint.

“Eat meals, take naps, play with friends, then wake up late the next afternoon.”

It was a remarkably peaceful answer.

“Please don’t misunderstand. I’m simply doing what I want. And I happen to know that the result doesn’t harm my friends, acquaintances, or good people...”

It sounded both irresponsible and profound.

“If there’s no reason not to do it, then why should I hesitate?”

“Because people are afraid of change.”

“That part... I have trouble empathizing with.”

“Well, you're a pretty unusual case in many ways.”

Even the various Gio personas who had once been human had displayed radically inhuman thought processes. Giovanni, who considered carving his own flesh to be easier than breathing. Argio, who would overturn dimensions just to share his rage with the world.

And Sergio, the art teacher.

“...Teacher, huh.”

“You called?”

“...Teacher?”

“Yes, did you call for me?”

“......”

Yoo Seong-Woon looked at the portrait.

Even though he wasn’t a student or disciple, the portrait responded to his call. That quiet and gentle reply... didn’t sound like it belonged to a human at all.

And it was at moments like this that he felt a bit afraid.

‘It’s like a doll that reacts precisely to preset values.’

Of course, that was what a mystic was.

‘There’s nothing to be afraid of, so why am I scared? Is it just because I’m a meaningless, ordinary human?’

He couldn’t simply acknowledge, accept, and agree like they did. Every time that subtle logic brushed against him, a chill ran down his spine and cold sweat beaded on his skin. His eyes widened, pupils shrank. The corners of his mouth twitched upward.

So no matter how he thought about it, Joo-Hyun was destined not to be human. Someone who didn’t respond to things humans were supposed to respond to. Someone chosen by a god.

“...Mm...”

His thoughts were starting to spiral.

“...What exactly did you do?”

“Are you asking this teacher?”

“Yeah, teacher. I don’t know what you’ve done.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to call it something I ‘did.’”

“But you know... considering what happened with the others, right?”

Giovanni and Argio both brought forth their insane legacies. The dimensions perished, life and death took form, and the portrait was using them to shape Earth anew.

‘He says it wasn’t his intent...’

Claims it wasn’t on purpose.

‘But if you act a certain way knowing the outcome, how’s that any different from intent?’

Yoo Seong-Woon couldn’t find the distinction.

“What did you do?”

“Could you be more specific?”

“What did you do to make you the first one?”

Why was ‘Sergio’ the foundation and origin of the portrait? Why did his students become Earth’s guardians? And why had the mystic returned in the form of a portrait?

The one who mistook himself for human—what was the cost of all his countless powers?

‘Did he become the Origin from being human? Or was it the other way around?’

A truly strange friend.

“...Let me say this again—please don’t put this painting on display.”

“Then I suppose it’ll end up in my room’s storage.”

“That’s a bit sad, but... better than having something like this wandering the streets.”

“But our snowfield says it wants to see the outside world too...”

“Ugh, I don’t know if you’re serious or joking, but that just gave me goosebumps.”

Yoo Seong-Woon rummaged in his pocket. He chewed on a candy, then spoke.

“I know what your ‘intent’ was.”

“There wasn’t really one.”

“Right. If the garden became known to the public, it might ease some of the gardeners’ burdens. In the big picture, maybe it really would be the right thing. Spreading awareness of the Origin...”

But still—

“But it hasn’t even been a full century since the Great Cataclysm.”

Even now, outside Korea, there were more areas that couldn’t even be called nations. No one called them countries anymore. They were just wilderness. The world was still that unstable.

“Do we really need to exhaust people further by making them aware of the Origin right when they’re barely adapting?”

“I didn’t think you’d react so seriously.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

“Once /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ again, I just wanted to put it on display.”

The portrait blinked twice.

“...Because your snowfield is too beautiful, Mr. Yoo Seong-Woon.”

“...You...”

Yoo Seong-Woon laughed weakly, almost bitterly.

“You... You really know how to dig into a gardener’s heart, don’t you...”

“When did I ever? That’s slander. I’m deeply wronged.”

“No, no, I mean it in a good way. You dig into it in a good way.”

“That doesn’t sound very positive.”

“Depends on who’s saying it.”

It was a bit embarrassing.

“If that was your intention, then I guess I gave you a lecture for nothing.”

This portrait had only been trying to be considerate of him.

‘Was it trying to make sure I wasn’t the only one who saw this scene?’

That truly was the aching part of a gardener’s life. They were fated to love alone. Reverence, obsession, compassion, mercy, greed—all the emotions that fell under the name of love—they could never reveal them.

Even if they wanted to, they couldn’t. It was a sight they couldn’t show, a reality that didn’t exist. What they saw wasn’t some common tourist destination or beautiful scenic spot. It wasn’t a physical space. And that... was really, quite a hard thing.

“......”

Yoo Seong-Woon spoke slowly.

“...Do you know how gardeners were treated in the beginning?”

“About thirty years ago?”

“Yeah, back then. And across many dimensions.”

“Hm.”

The portrait, of course, gave the right answer.

“They were probably thought to be insane.”

“Yeah, you’re right. We were treated like the sick.”

They saw, heard, and feared things that didn’t ‘exist.’ They were drawn in, and eventually fell in love with it. How insane must they have looked to others?

“The only way we could prove the garden’s existence was through ourselves. Our eyes. Our hair. Our temperature. Changes to our bodies—or rarely, even our scent.”

“None of those seem like convincing proof.”

“Exactly. Like I said, this can’t become ‘a place humans can see.’”

Even among gardeners, the same applied. Just because humans looked into each other’s eyes didn’t mean they could see souls, or inner mysteries. No one had such a convenient power.

That’s why “Gio’s portrait” was so extraordinary. Just by seeing, he made it possible to perceive the great mystery. As the Origin’s eye, perhaps that was expected.

Yoo Seong-Woon continued.

“But that really is all. There’s no way to show more than that. And if we push past our limits trying to do so, the only vessel we’ve got—us—just dies.”

“They say gardeners, once bound to their gardens, don’t even get death.”

“They can vanish, just like that.”

Isn’t that just unfair?

“You can’t tell anyone about something that clearly exists.”

“That must be tiring.”

“And lonely. It’s, well... almost a job hazard for gardeners.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“Uh... I’m sorry?”

Maybe he’d been irritable lately.

“You’d never force a change on someone who didn’t want it, would you.”

This portrait wasn’t trying to change the world—he was simply walking a path he hadn’t intended. Maybe it resembled the terrifying holy beings who reshaped Earth, and that’s what made him fearful. Even though he knew that wasn’t who Gio was.

His heart felt a little lighter.

“......”

It was the same kind of hazy feeling he’d had when he finally admitted and accepted that he’d become friends with this portrait.

“...Then could we just show it—without people being able to visit?”

“I’d have to check with the involved party, but I can convey your opinion, Mr. Yoo Seong-Woon. Would you like that?”

“......”

Yoo Seong-Woon asked,

“Does this piece have a name?”

“It’s Yoo Seong-Woon.”

“Aha.”

He laughed.

“Of course.”

No wonder it felt like he knew me so well.

***

That day, in Yoo Seong-Woon’s house, a large painting of a snowfield was hung.

“Wow.”

“That’s all you’ve got to say after seeing such a magnificent painting, Joo-Hyun?”

“This kind of dangerous object that makes you dizzy just by looking at it...”

“It’s a Gio painting.”

“You hung it in just the right spot. It looks great.”

“Right?”

Sometimes, change wasn’t so bad. 𝚏𝕣𝕖𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚋𝚗𝐨𝐯𝕖𝕝.𝕔𝐨𝕞

“...Looks like an actual home.”

“This does?”

“Just let me have my moment, okay?”

Who knew where this painting would run off to next.

Still, it was a day when Yoo Seong-Woon’s loneliness lessened by a single piece.