Chapter 685: Request of the Wall God

Chapter 685: The Request of the Mural God

"Wow, Mr. Bede, look, this is truly a spectacular composition."

Piaget was currently lying prone on the balcony of a residence bordering the mansion's perimeter, peering through the railing at the scene ahead.

A black fur blanket was draped over him, adorned with a peculiar pattern that served as a specific marker for distinguishing friend from foe; without it, lying here could easily invite an arrow from the eagle-falcon knights circling above.

Beside Piaget, Mr. Bede received the same treatment, both of them propped up there like "war correspondents."

This was, of course, deliberately arranged by Alfred, who understood all too well the absolute devotion these two "artists" had for their craft, and knew even better that the lunatics of the Mural God Cult were capable of doing absolutely anything;

to Alfred, no matter how perfect a plan was, if it ended up sending the young master’s close friend and prospective father-in-law to their graves together, it would be an utter and absolute failure.

Mr. Bede asked, "Isn't this the very painting you produced?"

"Is it?" Piaget frowned in thought for a brief moment, then shook his head with conviction, "No, it's different."

"How is it different?" Mr. Bede shifted his body closer to Piaget's side, "Look at Karen in the sky, isn't that the exact image of the six-winged angel from your painting? The molten lava flowing below, the lingering fire of the undead, and the corpses clad in black divine robes and armor—it is entirely identical."

"No, it isn't like that, I don't think it is," Piaget stated firmly.

"Oh?" Bede felt a faint surge of excitement in his heart; he had a premonition that Piaget was on the verge of comprehending something profound.

"Mr. Bede, it's true that I was the one who executed that painting, but it was only because that exact image happened to be in my mind at the time, and my hands suddenly felt an inexplicable, overwhelming urge to give it expression. You also told me never to resist that feeling, but to cherish it and seize it tightly.

Yet in reality, I am not the true designer of this painting; I merely performed the work of a copyist. If you hadn't recognized it, I wouldn't even have known what place I was drawing.

I am not the true creator of this piece. Standing before me—no, standing before everyone—that painting has no soul, do you understand?"

"A soul?" Mr. Bede bit his lips, which had turned somewhat pale from excitement, "What is a soul?"

"A soul..." Piaget paused, not taking too long to ponder, but quickly delivering his answer, "For a painting, its soul should be its ability to let the admirer understand exactly what it depicts."

"But what some artistic schools pursue is often increasing the difficulty of comprehension for the admirer. They believe that only by doing so can they filter the audience, thereby raising the echelon of their own work."

"I find that to be a very foolish endeavor, truly, Mr. Bede. It shouldn't be that way, and I hope I never produce a painting like that again."

"But..."

"As its primary copyist, I feel I ought to have the best opportunity to decipher it. If I cannot perform my own deconstruction of a piece, if I cannot attain a personal understanding of it, I will burn it to ashes immediately after it is finished."

"But even if you do understand it, what difference would it make? Whether you comprehend it or not, it will still come to pass. Look, you have already successfully accomplished a prophecy of the future; you ought to feel pleased and proud."

Piaget shook his head and said, "What if my prophecy was merely a piece of the future to begin with?"

Mr. Bede fell silent.

"Mr. Bede, have you ever worried that the so-called mural prophecies might, at the end of the road, turn out to be entirely wrong, ridiculous, a false dream?"

"I haven't."

"I have."

"And then?"

"As long as it's interesting, that's enough." Piaget shifted from his stomach to lie flat on his back, facing upward, "For some matters, losing the outcome means even winning the process holds no meaning; yet for other things, the outcome is secondary, and one only needs to fully enjoy the process."

Mr. Bede mirrored Piaget's movement; right now, he felt deeply gratified.

"Mr. Bede, there is one thing I have never told you."

"What is it?"

"For some time now, I have been having a recurring dream."

"Did you dream of your wife?"

"No, it's not that. I always dream that I am walking into a palace rich with artistic atmosphere."

Hearing this, Mr. Bede’s eyes instantly widened.

Piaget continued to describe it, "I am captivated by its sense of design. Every time I dream of walking inside, I can detect new details. I know it has never changed in my dreams, but... perhaps it is because my dream cannot fully contain it."

"What did you see inside?"

"I saw many murals, but these murals were all burning. I couldn't get close, so I couldn't see clearly what was painted on them. But at the deepest part, right at the center upon a colossal wall, there was a single mural that was not burning. Every time, I could stand and admire it for a very long time..."

"What was the subject of that mural?"

"A person."

"Who? A deity?"

"Not a deity, a person."

"Then who was it?" Mr. Bede turned onto his side, his eyes tinged with bloodshot intensity as he gripped Piaget's hand.

"I know I gazed at it with rapt attention for a very long time on each occasion, but every time I wake up, I completely forget the contents of that painting. I only know that the mural features a person, someone very familiar to me, otherwise you couldn't explain why I would admire it for so long... You know that I am not particularly interested in those religious murals, and the images of those ancient deities fail to excite me."

Mr. Bede's eyes suddenly narrowed as he asked, "Why are you telling me this now?"

"I..."

Piaget fell silent.

"Have you been touched?" Mr. Bede looked toward the distant sky, "Touched by the scene before you, or rather, by that person?"

"I don't know."

"You don't need to hide it from me, Piaget. If it really involves Karen, he is my future son-in-law; how could I possibly bring harm to him?"

Piaget turned his head to look at him and said, "More than your family, more than your kin, you love your faith."

Mr. Bede's expression froze.

"However, you are right. At this very moment, I feel a similar sensation, hah, it feels almost as if..."

Piaget stopped speaking again.

Both men fell into silence.

For Mr. Bede, it was because Piaget's words had stripped away the defensive disguise over the scars of his own heart, leaving him momentarily wounded and ashamed.

For Piaget, he faintly perceived a wave of negative emotion; accompanied by his recollection of that feeling, he dimly realized that within that forgotten dream-mural, what was depicted did not seem to be anything worth rejoicing over...

Otherwise, he wouldn't have scrutinized it for so long, nor would he find his bedding drenched in cold sweat and his throat parched every single time he awoke from that dream.

This was the manifestation of enduring prolonged, agonizing anxiety.

After a long while, when the Whiplash of Order squads began entering the field below, Mr. Bede let out a long breath and said, "You are right, I am a selfish man."

"Ah, Mr. Bede, I didn't mean to reproach you, please don't take it to heart."

"If my heart truly held my family, I wouldn't have looked forward to painting that canvas of the manor being reduced to ashes back then; if I truly wanted what was best for my family, I shouldn't have taken you with me to wander the world. I should have stayed at the manor, or stayed by the side of Karen, my son-in-law. I should have gone to help out with a few tasks, so that my daughter could be happier.

But I didn't do that...

Deep down, I have always rejected these emotions.

Furthermore, what you probably don't know is that Karen's delay in getting married isn't because he feels resentful or still yearns to pursue some kind of freedom in love; he is truly very busy, and perhaps he is also in great danger, facing extreme urgency, which leaves him no choice but to temporarily shelve certain matters.

And I... actually don't want to see my daughter marry him either."

"Why, Mr. Bede?"

"Heh..." Mr. Bede let out a laugh.

In his mind, there emerged that afternoon when he stood on the third floor of a detached villa on Mink Street, inside the study.

Behind the desk in front of him sat an old man dressed in a priest's cassock, who set down his teacup and cast a glance at him.

That single glance left him almost unable to breathe.

At the same time, despite his inherent piety, lofty aloofness, and an emotional detachment that bordered on a total lack of feeling, a surge of elation actually swelled within his heart, as if merely standing here, before this old man, was the crowning moment of his life, one truly worthy of grand remembrance and artistic depiction.

"Your daughter is my chosen granddaughter-in-law."

The old man's decision had exerted its influence all the way to the present, and even his grandson would never dare to defy or disobey it.

But what truly struck him with horror was the gaze

Continuing downward led to the performance grounds, where the Dragon Queen was executing a magnificent dance, adding a touch of voluptuous allure to the banquet; though she was the exalted Mother of Dragons, here, she was reduced to nothing more than a inherently wanton dancing girl.

A young dragon crouched in a corner, its gaze coldly fixed on the center of the dance floor, eyes overflowing with a burning resentment.

Yet when the Mother of Dragons turned toward it in her dance, her eyes narrowed slightly, forcing it to close its eyes and conceal its irreverent glare.

On the periphery, numerous attendants bustled back and forth, offering the grand deities the finest, most mellow wines and the most exquisite delicacies.

A stray thread of consciousness swept toward the God of Order, only to trigger an immediate backlash; among the gathering of artists currently capturing today's spectacle, a young girl let out a tragic shriek, collapsing over her easel and dropping to her knees.

She had just dared to proactively use her consciousness to pry into the great, newly ascended Chief God.

The God of Order halted his steps and looked toward her.

"I am guilty, Chief God," the woman offered her repentance.

The gaze of the God of Order fell upon the scroll on the ground, where the silhouette of his own figure had already begun to take shape.

"What is your name?"

"My name is Relilsa, and I am an artist who paints for the gods."

To either side, the artists of all the other races fell to their knees, collectively begging for forgiveness because a member of their ranks had dared to profane the Chief God.

"You wish to paint me?"

"Yes, Chief God." Summoning her courage, the girl lifted her head and looked at the God of Order. "I wish to paint you, because I feel that you are quite unique here."

"Then paint."

Everyone around let out a long sigh of relief at those words; it seemed the Chief God had not been angered.

A smile blossomed on the girl's face as she clutched her drawing paper close, making her request with eager anticipation:

"Great Chief God, if one day I manage to paint you, could I present the scroll before you... to... to give to you!"

The God of Order did not look back, but his voice drifted over nonetheless:

"You may."

The girl called out to the magnificent figure that had already begun to fade away:

"Please do not worry, I will absolutely not disappoint you, I will surely paint a scroll that satisfies and pleases you!"