u/Determination7

Through a half-lidded stare of fading consciousness, Valeria watched as fire consumed the world around her.

An inferno of scorching flames invaded the room like a torrential flood. It didn't behave as fire should, moving with speed and purpose, as opposed to indiscriminately engulfing everything in its path.

Realm-based fire, then, she determined, her thoughts dulling by the second. Aspreay?

As if to confirm her theory, the Dark Lord of Penumbria's maniacal laughter echoed from nearby. He was having the time of his life setting the Dragons' Tower aflame. Emperor Ciro was frozen in a mixture between disbelief and outage, while Adam almost seemed...relieved.

Why relieved? Valeria didn't know. She couldn't figure it out. Not with the injuries to her Canvas caused by overusing Bloody Truth, or the sensation of blistering heat on her skin, or the literal holes in her body. It was all too much.

Her vision continued to fade by the second. She could sense Adam and Aspreay conversing with Divine Knowledge, but could no longer hear what they were discussing.

When she finally collapsed, Valeria's last thought was that she'd better awaken to learn what the two of them were plotting. She couldn't tolerate a mystery unsolved.

--

With the Grandmaster dead, there was precious little in the world Valeria hated more than knowing less about her surroundings than someone else.

Thus, her focus upon regaining consciousness wasn't on how grave her injuries were. Instead, it was split between where she was and how she'd gotten there.

"Fire," Valeria coughed out. The words ached in her throat, and she was distantly aware of how feverish she must sound. She felt sheets covering her, and a pillow beneath her head, indicating a bed. "Aspreay came and–"

Solara shook her head in annoyance, pressing a finger of warning to the detective's forehead. "You want answers? Well, that's just great. I want you to lie down and rest. Let's make a trade here."

Without waiting for a response, the Lady of Gama pushed Valeria down to the bed. It didn't seem to take much effort. "Not a word until you stop struggling."

In some ways, Valeria was almost glad for the threat. Easier to listen to reason that way. "Fine, fine! You've got me, my lady."

The Detective winced – even putting on her usual theatrical voice felt too much at the moment. "Now speak," she said, in an uncharacteristically annoyed tone, "What happened, where am–"

Two fingers stopped her this time. "Easy there. Let's not reopen your many wounds." Solara sounded far, far too pleased with being in control. "We're back in Penumbria. Adam used the fire to regroup – he needed time to adjust to the First Painter's soul. Things got really chaotic back there."

Valeria nodded weakly. I remember some of it. My consciousness left me just as the flames grew near. It's a minor miracle that I'm alive right now.

Though the word 'miracle' had only ever stoked her curiosity. Where others saw blessings of providence, she saw questions to be answered. How had she survived? How severe were her injuries? And most importantly...

"How did we escape?" Ciro was unlikely to just sit there as his most hated foes in the world fled. "Did anyone else die?"

"No," Solara said. "Aspreay's fire spread too quickly for the Emperor to ignore. Last we saw, Ciro was busy trying to save the Dragon's Tower from ruin so he could study its remnants."

That made some amount of sense. Investigating the Tower had why they all went there in the first place. Mayhaps I should ask what we uncovered – if anything.

Even in her head, the notion sounded foolish. Valeria knew her capacity for processing complex thought simply wasn't there at the moment. Everything felt so hazy and disorienting right now, like she was viewing her own mind through a smudged pane of glass.

Might as well focus on lesser matters, then. "What of my injuries?" This time, Valeria didn't bother trying to sound theatrical, prompting Solara to raise an eyebrow. "Am I dying?"

"I...don't know. You're alive now, at least."

Solara offered a weak smile, then sighed in weaker exasperation. "Not for your lack of trying, mind you. Bloody Truth removed entire chunks of your organs. A whole kidney, half of your liver – even part of your lungs is missing."

That's why my breath is so short, Valeria thought. Should keep that in mind.
Like I did before.

"Adam and the other Lords used their Realms to heal you as much as they could, but...." Solara cast her eyes downward. "They couldn't fix everything. Much of the damage is...likely permanent."

"Of course it is," Valeria immediately said. "A Lord's Realm may restore a person's body to match their Canvas, but my Bloody Truth erases the Canvas itself. You can erase badly-painted linework to restore a blank space, yet there's little you can do if someone rips a chunk out of the fabric with a sword, is there?"

For all her prior smugness, Solara paled at the question. Several heartbeats passed before she continued. "I honestly don't know how long you can last like this. Even now, the only reason you still live is because our Lords are using Orders to simulate some of your organ function."

Now, that, Valeria mused, was quite clever of them. She was surprised they'd thought of it without her around. "Why haven't they just created replacement organs for me?" she asked.

"Because those recreations only exist as long as their Lord Realms hold. If their Realms were broken, or if you took a step outside their Walls..."

Valeria considered pointing out that it would still be less strenuous to give her facsimiles of a lung and the like than to constantly drain Canvases by replicating their functions. After a bit more thought, however, she concluded it was better to remain silent. The Lords don't know enough about anatomy to Order a precise replacement. They're afraid they'll kill me in the attempt.

"It's nothing Puppetry cannot cure," she said, in a tired voice. "We cannot die so long as our Core remains intact, and there are Puppets with more wooden prosthetics than flesh. Aspreay survived being nothing more than a Core, if you remember."

Solara's glare showed that, unfortunately, she was more aware of Puppetry than her old prejudices would indicate. "Not every Puppet is created the same. I know that for some, the loss of their body can damage their soul as well. Something to do with when they were made and how advanced of a Puppetry process was used." Why must you be clever the one time I wish you weren't? "You might not die, but replacing most of your body...can't feel pleasant. You'd be lucky to retain what's left of your sanity."

Neither of them pointed out that Aspreay had done just that. Both were in silent agreement that the man had always delighted in his own madness from the start.

"Moreover," Solara noted dryly, "don't tell me that you didn't notice it."

She didn't need to elaborate. Valeria heaved a heavier sigh than before. "My Core was damaged during the fight," she conceded. "And that is not so easily replaced."

"Meaning we ought to avoid straining your soul if at all possible. Except...we can't really avoid getting you some prosthetic organs. Your state is–"

"Ah, ahhh, enough with the worries, damn you! Not all of my body will need to be replaced."

A measure of Valeria's strength returned to her, and with it a measure of her confidence. "You shouldn't fret so much. It'll be a simple procedure."

"I doubt that," Solara scoffed, "but I don't have any choice but to nod and hope for the best. More importantly – is there anyone else capable of organ replacement surgery, or are you going to have to operate on yourself?"

Valeria managed a grim laugh at the cost of some mildly debilitating pain. "I'm the only one who can create Puppets, but limbs are closer to cosmetic attachments. It is a popular hobby in the Mines to swap out body parts for party tricks."

It brought the detective no small amount of joy to watch the elven lady shiver in horror, yet attempt to play off her reaction as calm acceptance of her friend's culture. "That is...fantastic," Solara said slowly. "Nonetheless, the replacement of parts that were still 'alive', for lack of a better term, is a wholly different beast from an artificial-for-artificial swap, I take it?"

"Not entirely."

"Partially, then?"

Valeria hesitated. Were she not so drained, an argument would've reached her lips. As she was, though...

"Yes. It will be a little tricky." The Detective noticed Solara's concern and pressed forth. "Call on some of my people from the Mines and we shall have this matter settled in no time. I'll be up on my feet within a few weeks."

"Good," Solara nodded. "That means the next time you walk, it will be on a land free of all the issues that plague us."

Some things may be nonchalantly said, but not nonchalantly received. This was one of them. "Meaning?" Valeria asked, her voice tightening.

"The two original Painters are dead," Solara casually remarked. Too casually, some might say, to speak of dead gods. "There will be no further Rot created. We still need to find ways to contain what already exists and mitigate its impact, but...the world is safe. And with Adam's new powers, maybe the day will come when we can restore everything that was lost. Once he masters it, Ciro will lose any chance of winning."

"Meaning that if no further action is taken by any relevant parties," Valeria said, "the linear passage of time will crown us the victors of this war."

"A lovely thought, is it not?" Solara's voice was tinged with bitter amusement. "A month or two from now, and Adam will have solved all our problems. Mayhaps sooner, should he prove himself able to rewrite his past with the First Painter's ability. It's not really a Talent, so we aren't clear how that'll work."

There was a possibility that merely stealing Lawrence's soul wouldn't grant Adam access to the man's powers. Valeria felt little concern there; her studies of the Grandmaster's techniques had convinced her that there was no power in this or any world that some mild blasphemy and desecration of corpses couldn't accommodate for.

More pressingly, however, was what the Emperor's response would be. "Our impending victory is cause for concern, I fear. Ciro is an animal that I would have preferred to avoid cornering. Much like how you'd want to defeat your opponent in a single strike in that Espada-de-Guerra game you adore so very much."

Solara stared at her with a deadly sort of solemnity. "That would be a terrible strategy." There was no trace of humor in her voice. "Why risk everything on a dramatic finish? What if the dice don't favor you? Just starve them out after you've erased their chance for a comeback. There is no mechanic in the game that lets a defeated party mount a sudden turnaround—why would there be? Such a lack of balance would only reward careless play!"

Valeria needed to blink once, and slowly at that, to have the time to process Solara's reaction. Is this a joke? She tilted her head to study the woman better, the small motion hurting painfully. No. She looks completely earnest. Best I not engage with this.

"I meant it not as a full analogy," the Detective said, with an even tone. "Rather, my lady, I ask you to imagine a scenario where your beloved game allowed for a piece like Ciro to exist. Someone with enough power to wipe out cities, to eradicate armies by his lonesome, and—"

"Were the Wargaming guildmaster to introduce such a piece, the community would summarily have him executed."

Now the Detective required two slow blinks and one deep breath to compose herself. I am certain that was a joke. That hope was laid to rest when she gazed again at Solara and saw a burning intensity in her eyes. One might think she takes this more seriously than the actual war we engage with.

"Yes, of course, such a decision would be foolish," Valeria offered, as if appeasing an unruly monarch. "More importantly, it means that Ciro will forgo the financial concerns that held him back previously. He'll mount a full scale attack whenever possible. Between him and Valente, I doubt that he would need much of an army anyhow."

Solara held a silent gaze for a moment too long. Valeria could tell that the Lady of Gama's mind was still lingering on Espada-de-Guerra. She resolved herself to tread carefully, lest the other woman force her to play the damned game to learn of its intricacies. That would be unpleasant at the best of times, and more so now while Valeria was too injured to escape.

Her rescue came in the form of a knock.

"Ah." Solara stood up. "We can continue later. Your visitor has been waiting patiently for you to wake up."

"My visitor?" Valeria asked blankly. "I have a visitor?"

Solara smoothed her dark overcoat, then picked up a bright purple hat that in absolutely no way, form, or function aesthetically matched her clothing. "A novel concept, I am certain, for you to have people who care about you."

Valeria was tempted to play along, or even to tell Solara to burn in dragonfire. Instead, the strange feeling of aimlessness that'd haunted her since slaying the Grandmaster caught up with for long enough to admit the truth.

"Indeed. It is...novel."

She gripped her bedsheets with her Puppet hand. The sensation didn't feel quite right. Never did. Never would. "It's not the kind of sentimentality I permitted myself the time for, should it hinder my goals. Now that I have accomplished those...well, I seem to find myself out of excuses."

Valeria didn't know how she wanted Solara to respond. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that she wanted no response at all, and on some level regretted speaking to begin with.

Marvelously, her visitor came to her rescue again. "Pardon me," said a new voice, entering the room and holding an atrociously hideous bouquet of flowers. "I hear my favorite Detective has awoken."

And my gallant knight comes bearing a double-edged sword, Valeria thought tiredly. "Ferrero," she said. Nothing more came out of her mouth. How was one supposed to respond to that?

Solara appeared to have mistaken her silence for something else, for she glanced furtively between the two. "Adam requires my presence," she said, "so I shall leave you both alone. If you need me—"

Surely the woman had a plan for finishing her sentence, but she didn't seem inclined to inform either Puppet of what it was as she closed the door behind her and disappeared with spectacular speed.

Ferrero showed no reaction to the elf's vanishing act, instead flashing a wide, warm smile at Valeria. "Nice to see you in good spirits," he said.

"Mayhaps, but that's the extent of what's good about my condition." Valeria would've protested that she felt fine had he sounded more downtrodden. She couldn't help herself from disagreeing with the man out of habit. "Standing without a cane will be impossible for a few months. I fear you lot will have to handle Ciro without me."

"Ah! A chance for the rest of us to earn some glory, then." Just as she often liked to contradict Ferrero, he almost always insisted there was a bright side to things, even in the midst of a total eclipse. "You slew the Grandmaster, seized the Puppet Throne for yourself, and acquired the intel we needed to compete with the Empire. Enjoy your well-deserved rest and let us take care of the rest."

Valeria stared hard at him. "No." When he raised an eyebrow and tilted his head in too-obvious amusement, she said with more intensity, "No."

His amusement faded slightly, but not completely. Ferrero crossed his arms and said, "What would you do while bedridden?"

"Much." The enormity of her own lie had her clutching tightly at her bedsheets. "But I will allow myself to take a step back from the front lines, so that others can enjoy some of the glory, as you so sharply and impolitely demand of me."

Ferrero's features softened. He seemed delighted rather than offended as he ought to be. "On behalf of us all: I thank you, my lady."

He bowed, the motion a tad too formal and theatrical. When he looked up at her again, there was nary a hint of seriousness in his eyes. "I shall not waste this chance you have kindly bestowed upon me. Glory will be mine...or whatever the proper thing I should seek is."

She nearly asked him what he truly sought after, but her pride kept her silent. Valeria couldn't just ask him more about himself, she was a detective—the greatest detective in the world. Besides, why should she care to learn more of his dreams?

"I refuse to lay here as a useless lump, however. The Grandmaster's..." She paused, then nodded to herself. "My crows are still important for quick communication over long distances."

Ferrero narrowed his eyes and regarded her warily for a moment, evidently trying to decide whether this was enough of a compromise. "Very well," he said. "I suppose that shouldn't interfere much with your recovery."

"It should not." Valeria elected not to point out that her Canvas would be Stained for some time after she got her artificial organs transplanted. "But there is one more thing I need to do. Something I need your help with."

"Oh?" Ferrero leaned forward with eager interest, as she knew he would. "And what would that be?"

Valeria nodded at the back wall of the room, whereupon her scarlet blade rested. "I need you to use my sword."

Every part of her request had been calculated. From the appeal to his personal usefulness, to the way she emphasized that it was her blade that he would use. "I have discerned the secret behind Valente and his missing friend, Stella."

She didn't try to keep the excitement from reaching her voice. "Such a disgusting, abominable truth..."

Valeria knew most others would find her high-pitched note of happiness to be disconcerting. Ferrero chose to ignore it. "It matters not that Valente is 'The Strongest in the Painted World'," she continued. "His secret is dark and monstrous enough to topple even the greatest of titans."

"Truly?" Ferrero glanced over at her blade. Surprise colored his features, but it was enthusiasm that sang in his voice when he turned back to her and said, "And you think I'm the best option for handling such a power? My humble self with a low-Ranked, common Talent you'd find anywhere?"

She nodded. "I am certain that my sword has the potential to kill him, but we will have just one chance to unleash its power – a single shot. We need someone with skill in their blade and ice in their veins. Someone who can not only spot the perfect opening, but make use of it*.*"

Valeria leaned forward, making herself look as small as she could, and beckoned him to come closer. He did. "Only you can do this, Ferrero."

She seldom called him by name, and even more rarely to his face. This was a difficult mission to convince anyone of...yet one she could not afford him to refuse.

It was clear that her plan of attack had quite an effect on him. There was the quiet ambition within the man, the desire to prove himself as worthy of a place among the legendary figures his meager rank promised he would never earn. There was also the praise she always withheld from him, the admiration of the woman he loved.

His eyes glistened with joy and dreams as he stared at her blade. "Being entrusted with such an opportunity—such a power, by you..." Ferrero laughed with an embarrassed sort of modesty. "It is more than I could ever have hoped for. You honor me, my lady."

I know. "Good. We shall discuss with Adam how to best prepare you a chance to use the sword, and–"

Ferrero held out his hand to interrupt her. His head was hanging low, though not too deeply. Disappointment, rather than shame, spread over his features. "Stop, my lady."

She stared blankly at him. "Whatever do you mean, Fer–"

Again he held out his hand. "I am afraid I cannot accept this," he said. "In any other situation, I would be glad to do so. But I simply, regrettably, cannot."

Valeria's eyes widened in shock. "Why the bloody hell not?" Keeping the anger from her tone was hard enough – she didn't even bother trying to hide the annoyance. "This is everything you dreamed of, isn't it? Everyone will worship the ground you walk on after–"

Once more he interrupted her. Bloody bastard. "Because I cannot go back on an oath sworn. On a promise made."

"Is that so?" Valeria raised her voice. "What in the dragonfire could be more important to you than slaying the strongest man in the world?" She grasped him by the collar of his shirt and yanked him closer, agony lancing through her body at the sudden exertion. "More important than saving everyone's lives?"

Ferrero gently pulled her hands off his shirt and guided her back to bed. Despite her anger, the pain was intense enough for her to not fight back beyond what she hoped didn't come across as frustrated pouting.

After ensuring she was safely laying down, the Duelist tapped at the scabbard tied around his waist – at the one she had personally created for him. "There is another blade I swore to use first," he said. "And as such, I cannot fight him."

For a while she stared at him in quiet disbelief. First, there was confusion over what exactly he was referring to. And second, she couldn't comprehend him rejecting her request when...well...

"Do you not love me, you infernal man?" Valeria asked.

Silence fell.

Had it not been for her intense pain and the distracting fever she could've sworn she barely felt, such undignified words would never have touched her throat, much less reached her lips.

His feelings for her were hardly a secret, but the two rarely spoke of them aloud – at her request. Ferrero had only brought them up once, when he asked whether she would like him to distance himself until his feelings faded. At the time, Valeria told him not to bother, as his feelings hardly troubled her either way.

Have...things changed since?

"I do love you," Ferrero said. There was neither embarrassment nor hesitation in his words, only a sort of sincere joy. "I love you more than anything else in this world."

"Wha—" Valeria's startled exclamation was cut short when she reached for a sarcastic deflection and found none. "That's more—more than you usually...or rather...."

She instead looked over to the side, praying to any god she could think of that the bedsheets hid her face from him. "If that is the case, then w– why are you refusing my request?"

He gave a low, raspy chuckle that sounded far too deep to have come from him, and shook his head. "Because, my lady...should I go back on this promise I made..."

Ferrero leaned over her. "Then I would not be able to love myself."

Hesitation touched him for the first time as he reached his hand over toward her side. Twice he frowned at her, as if expecting a protest of some sort.

Against herself, Valeria found herself nodding at him.

Only then did he ever so gently brush his calloused hands against her hair, trailing his fingers until they reached the side of her face. "And you deserve to be with a man capable of loving himself, my dearest Detective."

She scoffed at him, but did not pull her head away. "So you think yourself able to fill that title?"

"Aye, my lady Detective."

"How arrogant of you."

"Indeed." He tilted his face to the side. "It's what you like about me, is it not?"

Very much so, and that upset her all the more. How dare this infernal man violate the privacy of her mind? He wasn't supposed to know what she liked about him. He wasn't supposed to know there was anything she found positive about him at all!

That was the complaint she meant to voice. In her feverish haze, what she actually demanded of him was, "And what do you like about me?" Valeria sounded more puzzled than she'd ever felt in her life. "I never – I never gave you any reason to." Just the opposite, really.

Even now as she raised her voice like accusing him of a crime, his broad hand remained as it was, softly dragging over her face. "Terribly unfortunate, I know, but you couldn't keep your good qualities from me, despite a most valiant effort."

"What good qualities?" Valeria surprised herself with how loud the words came out. Her outcry was sudden enough that it caused Ferrero to flinch. "I am a self-centered creature who only does whatever she wants, who constantly insults everyone around me including you, especially you, who wantonly indulges my interests while ignoring the world around me, and who actively uses you whenever it would be to my benefit!"

Valeria knew her fever and wounds must have been severe, because not only was she speaking far more frankly than usual, doing so also felt physically exhausting – enough she needed to take a moment to catch her breath. Upon recovering, she glared up at Ferrero angrily, grabbed his hand, and pulled it back towards her face. "And just who gave you permission to move your hand away, hmm? It's warm! Keep it there!"

The crackling of the fireplace lingered in the quiet aftermath for a long while. When Ferrero eventually spoke again, it was in a tender, amused tone. "Alas, I find those aspects of you to be rather charming."

"Charming?" Valeria couldn't keep the sneering disbelief from her voice, but neither could she put much energy into it. Ferrero had a way of tiring her out sometimes. "Tell me, for the love of all that is good and evil in this world, just what kind of blasted lunatic finds this treatment amusing – let alone endearing."

"Not everything is a puzzle, Detective. Have you ever considered that you might not be as evil as you think you are? You ask me for favors, then darkly turn to the fireplace as though imagining you expertly manipulated me into helping you. The fact that you think any amount of clever wordplay was needed is quite adorable, I dare say."

Valeria recoiled away in her fluster, grabbing on to his hand to ensure that it didn't move. "Well—now—ergo—I—ah—"

She shook her head. "That is your moral failing for allowing me to order you around like that!"

"Of course!" he cheerfully agreed. "But my dear Valeria, that goes for both of us, doesn't it? You too would do nearly anything I asked of you."

Despite her exhaustion, a long-rooted annoyance flared up enough energy for her to speak. "Ah, if ooonly such a theory could have been tested! And yet I seem to have no recollection of you ever asking anything of me, nor showing that you trusted me enough – relied on me enough to ask!"

Ferrero paused. "Because I am not a genius detective. I didn't want to impose my feelings on you, lest you find them inconvenient."

Her grip on his hand tightened angrily. "Oh, of course. Pray tell, in that worldview of yours, is forcing me to embarrassingly speak like this not inconveniencing me somehow?"

The Duelist stared at her with a blank expression. "Whatever could be embarrassing about honesty? Lying is far more shameful, if you ask me."

"Sophistry. Revealing your innermost feelings is not so simple as that!"

"Truly? But I love you. More than anything in this world."

Only now did she free his hand, and only so she could fall back onto her bed and bury herself within its sheets. "Mistake not your talent to say such things for it being easy, duelist."

If it wasn't for the fever, she wouldn't have kept talking. Or so Valeria told herself. "Has it ever crossed that bloody mind of yours, my dear idiot, that in all these years we've known each other, I wouldn't have raised a single complaint had you dragged me to a bed and removed every stitch of clothing I had?"

"Of course I considered it!" He frowned. "But considerations are hardly confirmations. Such acts are not to be done without certainty."

"Yes, but—for goodness' sake, you could have...you could have..."

Valeria trailed off in an attempt to regain her composure. It didn't work. "You could have attempted to confirm it!"

Ferrero let out a huff of protest. "Now, be fair with me, I did. My feelings are obvious and plainly stated."

Feeling too sickly to find a proper counterargument that surely must have existed, Valeria instead said, "Then what is your excuse now?" She threw the blankets off and stretched her arms above her head. "I trust my meaning is clear."

"You are feverish and not wholly of sound mind."

That it was a fair point did little to blunt her frustration. "Will you always find an excuse for–"

Suddenly he leaned closer to her, bringing two fingertips to her lips. Valeria couldn't remember ever standing so close to him before. I would remember if I had.

"Remember your wounds, my dear Detective," Ferrero said. "Were we to do what you request right now, I would have you stretch your arms to hold on to the bedframe and move far more intensely than your body can handle."

Valeria closed her eyes and rolled to her side. "I suppose I should do as Solara suggested and focus on my healing."

For now.

--

Thanks for reading!

Author's Note:

Slightly shorter chapter due to the scene cutoff point, next chapter is slightly longer to compensate.

--

Aspreay's candle had guttered out in a pool of wax, its last embers threatening to heretically graze the tapestry left by his long-dead gods. He could hardly muster up much guilt over that. For one, Valente had knocked it out of his hand while trying to kill him.

For another, Aspreay had never cared much for the gods of his youth.

"What—what did you do?" Valente's hands snapped upward, placing a single Orb over his thumb and threatening to send it shooting forward. "Don't you try to deny it! Something big just happened somewhere!"

Aspreay had no intention of denying anything. "This is where a more modest master would claim to possess no involvement with the matter," he told the Hangman with a sneer. "Modesty is the sin of cowardly liars, though, and I take credit in having taught my son how to slay gods. My Divine Realm has informed me that Adam just killed the First Painter."

Valente's mouth parted slightly. A huff of mocking disbelief came out of his throat, which the paleness in his face and the hoarseness in his voice painted as insincere. "Lies such as these will never make me waver, villain!"

"Wavering is all you ever do, Hangman." Aspreay laughed quietly and gave a carefree toss of his hair. "Whine if you must – but surely you felt it too, yes? That guttering feeling in your Canvas, like a pit had opened up in the bottom of your soul...something must have happened to the so-called god of this world."

Valente's face went rigid at the same time his fingers tightened around the Orb. His jaw clenched as if holding the words hostage. "Even if such a thing occurred..."

The Hangman paused. "Even, even then! You are not the one to have slain a god, Aspreay! Claim no glory over Adam's deeds!"

"Pedanticism is the last refuge of an outwitted imbecile who mistakes technicalities for wisdom."

Aspreay tilted his head with the malevolent amusement of a teacher who took pleasure in watching his pupils fail. "Nevertheless, you think me incapable of godslaying?"

"Adam is only capable of such feats because of his strange Talent – and stranger still mentality." Valente looked down and shook his head before glaring at the Dark Lord of Penumbria. "I have no true understanding of the matter, but His Imperial Highness informed me that Adam didn't grow up in our world. He fears not the gods because he knows not of his blasphemies."

The Hangman glared. "Yourself, however...you were raised in the Santuario! You'd have been more aware of the Dragons than most. Mayhaps respect would not stop you, but fear should."

Aspreay hummed softly, crossing his arms. "A bold theory. It shows a desire for higher thought within you." Glancing at the fallen candle, he raised an eyebrow and gave a quick flick of his wrist. "Mind you, desire is not enough to manifest into competence, dear mongrel."

The Dark Lord of Penumbria raised his chin and sneered. "FIRE, BURN—!"

At last the candle's embers danced onto the ancient Dragonic tapestry, its small, starving flames feeding on the cloth and swelling in size. "IN THE NAME OF HOUSE ARCANJO, I COMMAND EVERY FLAME TO BURN HOTTER THAN DRAGONFIRE ITSELF! LEAVE NOT EVEN ASHES BEHIND!"

Aspreay channeled his disdain into the growing conflagration. His fire tasted the domain of his old gods – and found that they liked it. Soon their hunger demanded more, and they burned hot enough to swallow even the dragonstone around them all.

"Are you INSANE?" Valente uselessly held an arm to his face in an attempt to shield himself from the sudden heat. " What if the Ancient Dragon notices and–"

"Burn the notes." Aspreay spread his arms wide. "Burn the Gods!"

He cackled madly amongst an inferno of his own making. "BURN IT ALL!"

--

The King of Arts and the Emperor of the World found themselves at quite the bizarre stalemate.

On one hand, I now have the power of a god, Adam thought.

On the other hand, you now have the power of a god, Ciro thought.

Stealing the soul of a deity felt like trying to hold back a storm inside his own heart. Adam thought he'd prepared himself for this exact moment...but then again, how exactly could one prepare themselves for this insanity?

His breath felt heavy. His entire body felt heavy, really, the air around him becoming thicker. As if his very existence held more weight than before, warping the world with a gravitational pull of fortune and fate. It was a strength beyond reckoning, beyond comprehension.

And he didn't have the slightest clue how to harness it.

The First Painter's power isn't a Talent, necessarily, Adam thought. I'm not sure if I can use it easily – if at all. Definitely not right now.

And that wasn't the only pressing issue he had to deal with.

"Lawrence yet lives," Ciro said. It wasn't a question. "And should you die, his soul will return to his body, yes?"

Adam hesitated, his mind racing for a lie...then gave up. Even if he thought of a semi-plausible excuse, his Canvas was too frail after taking in Lawrence's soul to prevent Ciro's Divine Knowledge from revealing his secrets. May as well save himself the effort.

"It's how my Talent works," Adam admitted. "If I die, the Talents I've stolen – and their owners' souls – will return to their original bodies, provided those people are still alive to begin with. It's...not a delicate process, though. Most people won't survive the shock of their soul reverting to them."

The Emperor's brow lifted slightly, but his eyes did not widen. "Ah, yes." His pupils briefly shone golden as Divine Knowledge sifted through the book of Adam's memories without its writer's permission. "Aspreay survived the ordeal, and the elven wench who cursed me in her Realm did die, although she revived herself using her Talent. But Edmundo*,* the late Lord of Crepusculo...he perished when his soul attempted to return to his body."

Adam grimaced. "I didn't want him to die."

"Nor did you care much that he did."

That was true, and it stung all the more. "Edmundo was–"

Ciro waved the matter away with an uninterested flick of his hand and lazy toss of his head. "Irrelevant, anyhow. Let us focus on more important matters."

Adam narrowed his eyes. "Such as?"

"Such as how you cheated against Lawrence."

Immediately after making his accusation, Ciro cocked his head and gaped open-mouthed at Adam in a theatrical sort of confusion. "Oh? Do you deny the charge laid against you, Painter?"

Adam's body stiffened. His throat went dry, yet it didn't stop him from answering. "Weird question. It wasn't possible for me to break the rules of our Contract, so why are you–"

Ciro shook his head. "Lawrence was many things, but a fool was not one of them. Should he not have anticipated that gambit of yours? Rather, he was moving as though he had no choice but to follow your script. Like an actor on a stage. Like a Puppet whose strings had been moved along by someone...by something else."

Here, at the implication, the ruined hallway fell as silent as it had been since the Dragons of Old abandoned it.

It took the power of Lords to shatter this silence. "Within my Realm, Adam Arcanjo may not touch me without five seconds of forewarning."

The Emperor enjoyed a monstrous advantage over his many enemies. Ciro's Realm encompassed the entirety of the known world, and thus he was always shielded from surprise attacks with his Noble Guard, as well as privy to the thoughts of those around him with his Divine Knowledge.

But it also made the act of enabling a single Realm Law incredibly taxing on his Canvas.

And Ciro was the kind of rich bastard that would normally avoid taxes at any costs.

Have to be careful. If I don't watch out... Adam closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. I might end up starting to respect this monster. "Can't get much past you now, can I?"

Or worse...I might start to enjoy this stupid game we're playing against each other.

Ciro did not allow him the privacy of his own mind, and answered the thought aloud. "Such concern is unwarranted, Painter," the Emperor said. "Someone who thinks of this clash of divinity as a game already trivializes life and death far too much."

Adam felt a chill creep up his spine as he found that not only had he failed to come up with a counterargument, deep inside, he didn't want to.

"And what of it?" Valeria asked.

Among the piles of dust and splintered dragonstone, the Detective stirred at last. Bloodied, dying, half-buried in rubble, but alive.

First came effort, then motion, finally followed by laughter's cousin – the grin of a devil. It was the sort of expression worn only by those who enjoyed lying about their own pain as if it were a private joke they refused to explain.

Her wounds were severe, her condition critical – yet she now spoke with renewed vigor.

"Must kings and gods truly think like the average person?" Valeria staggered to her feet, pressing her blade of Bloody Truth to the shattered stone like a duelist's last cane. "Whingings of morality and humanity are but pointless shackles. Are any of us hypocrites that pretend at normality? HA! I say, let the devils rule if they are clever enough. What does it matter if King Adam sees this as a game? His goals are just, meaning his ego is of no concern to us."

"That you would even question why this matters only proves the point, Detective." Ciro raised his chin and took a few pensive steps inside Adam's Realm. "The Painted World is a cursed existence. Once you obtain enough power to become one of its chosen few, you realize how little everything else matters. That you think the same only shows that you have risen to my level after slaying the Grandmaster and stealing their Talent."

Oddly, Valeria didn't respond. Whether this was because she lacked a real counter or because of her debilitating injuries, Adam couldn't tell.

What he could tell was that there was some truth to Ciro's words. The stolen divinity inside of him felt worse than an invader; it was closer to a weary traveler attempting to decorate a new home. Sandpaper trying to file down the edges of his humanity, removing whatever it considered imperfect and unnecessary in a soul. It was intoxicating, cruel, and—

"I'm done with all this sophistry," Adam said, forcibly interrupting his own thoughts. "Let's just get on with killing each other, shall we?"

"Oh, dear Painter, I am eminently fine with that. However, I am surprised you would place yourself at such a disadvantage."

Ciro turned one unceremonious hand toward Lawrence's husk. "Inside our Realms, we are both immortal, yes. Yet even a temporary death would return Lawrence's soul to its body...and I dare say the stubborn god is likely to survive that fate. All I need is to kill you once for all your efforts to have been for naught."

There was logic in Ciro's assessment. Valeria lay wounded, nearly motionless, and Adam himself had barely any control over the soul he'd just stolen. Fighting Ciro wouldn't be impossible, but defeating him without dying even once might as well be.

"I could just kill our so-called god," Adam pointed out. "If Lawrence dies, it won't matter whether I die a thousand times. His Talent stays with me."

Ciro inclined his head in cheerful agreement. "True enough. Yet, though thy brush has stained many Canvases in red, I must still wonder...have you the ruthlessness, Painter, to murder a defenseless, unconscious man in cold blood?"

Adam wished the answer hadn't come so quickly to him. Would it really be any different from the other lives he was responsible for taking already? He looked at the soulless husk and thought of how easy it would be to snuff the life from it, how little that would weigh on his conscience...

And it was only this very thought, more so than the act of killing itself, that gave him pause.

Is this...a normal thought for me to have? Or is it Lawrence's soul coloring my decisions? Another thought, a more concerning one that he tried to push down, came forth. Damn it, could it be that – that I've always felt this way? That I'm trying to blame my worst impulses on Lawrence?

He knew that this hesitation was a failing, that it would just give Ciro the opening he was looking for. But even so, Adam couldn't help himself.

Not even as Ciro grinned and snapped his wrist forward.

"—ADAM!"

And not even when a crossbolt bolt flew over his shoulder and sank into Lawrence's eye, violently bursting through the back of his skull in a wet impact against the half-shattered dragonstone.

A second bolt followed; a third came before the last had finished slithering through the dead god's flesh and lodged itself into his mouth.

"Most dishonorable of you, uncle," spoke a new voice. "To attempt to use someone's good heart against them."

Tenver, the Puppet Prince, stalked into the battered wreck of the Dragons' legendary castle with a scarcity of reverence and a surplus of weapons. His oversized Puppet arm was fully uncovered like an unleashed bloodhound, and he advanced through the broken stone with the dreadful poise of a nobleman skilled in the art of butchery.

"Fear not," he said, "for murdering my father has crafted mine own heart into one as blackened as yours."

The Puppet Prince loosed another brutal volley into the dead god's corpse, each bolt another desecration meant to leave no room for resurrection or miracles. He smiled at his handiwork – then unleashed a second storm at Ciro, who responded by bending Gravity to shield himself from both the debris and his nephew's trickery.

"What are you—when did you—Tenver?" Adam's eyes widened. "Why are you here?"

His knight, his prince, his friend smiled gently at him. "Memories are faster than words, Adam. I welcome you to see mine." The expression on his face looked innocent, too pure for someone who spilled a dead god's brains on the floor. "But make haste. I fear my accursed kin over there shall spare us little time."

A glimpse into Tenver's thoughts was more than enough.

I...anticipated this, Adam realized. To a point. The discovery was simultaneously reassuring and horrifying. I figured that Ciro would read my mind and learn if I had reinforcements waiting in the wings...

So I destroyed those memories beforehand. At some point before coming here, I killed and revived myself without allowing those memories to be integrated with my new resurrected body. It was the only way to ensure that Ciro wouldn't know Tenver was here too.

This heralded a number of conflicting thoughts fighting for Adam's attention.

'Good plan,' was his first thought.

'Can I...not trust myself anymore?' was his second.

'Wait, is – is that a tornado of fire headed our way while Aspreay laughs maniacally?' was his third, winning thought.

--

Thanks for reading!

Some silences are too loud for any sane person to ignore. Others are so deafening that even madmen and fools can't help but take notice.

In that ancient castle of a race long dead, a race yet to live, and a race never to be born at all, the ruined dragonstone bore scars of Gravity with a stoicism none of its occupants shared.

Ciro, the second maddest of them all, crackled an electric purple aura of Gravity around his wrists as he considered the impasse he found himself in. I took too long. If I attack the Detective while the Painters exchange Talents, I might as well invite them to assassinate me with the opening I'd give!

Valeria, a strong contender for third place in her lack of sanity, pursed her lips. Ah, just one second too late. That ought to teach me to hesitate less in the future. I suppose I must hold off until Adam finishes up. My theory is correct – that's enough for now.

Lawrence, the First Painter, the creator of the Painted World, was perhaps the most stable among them...at that exact moment, anyhow. He had no reason to hurry, no frenzied rush pressing him forward. All his wishes would come true merely by waiting.

Come now, Adam. Fail, and bequeath control over the annals of History to me. Give me the Second's Talent – nay, give me the WORLD!

Adam, the maddest of them all, was the only one to ignore the weight of this silence.

"Hmm, don't like how it looks, but it should still win me your soul," he muttered. Adam tapped two fingers against his tablet, then raised an eyebrow at the self-proclaimed god. "Not that either of us can back down or anything, but just for the fun of it...how confident do you feel, Lawrence?"

"I have only indulged this noble suicide of yours because of our shared passion for art, boy." Lawrence's voice was judgmental, carrying a lecturing tone rather than a mocking one. "We both understand how your Talent functions, yes? You need to know the core essence of a person before you can commit their soul to ink."

Adam knew little of the First Painter beyond the grandiose facts that made the infernal man everyone's problem. Lawrence had created the Painted World, dreamed of a reality free of life and death, and was a terrible fucking judge for art contests.

Kinda wish I didn't rank that last point as highly as the first two, but, eh. Shouldn't be surprised. Eric taught me that I can hold grudges for a really, really long time.

Regardless, that wasn't a lot to work with. How could Adam – how could anyone – paint a picture of a man's life, a man's soul, based on nothing but those passing observations?

It was downright impossible.

Adam didn't need to reach for Divine Knowledge to know what everyone in the shattered ruins of the Dragon's ancient stronghold was thinking. 'Despite everything, Adam bet his Talents on getting this painting right. Why?'

They were probably wondering if he had somehow investigated Lawrence in secret. Maybe he'd used Divine Knowledge to read the First's mind and learn more about his past.

Fair assumptions, but wrong on both counts.

Adam didn't know anything about Lawrence that the others already didn't as well. His attempts at reading the man's mind were half-hearted at best, ending in predictable failure..

Wish I'd gotten more time to work on this, Adam thought, looking at his tablet. I've had the idea in the back of my mind for a while, but it's barely a sketch right now.

Although a better drawing wouldn't improve his chances. His Talent didn't work that way. It wasn't about that. Adam just felt disappointed that the artwork he meant to capture the soul of a god with was a rough draft he'd made in ten minutes.

That's how it has been for a while though, hasn't it? Every time I need to take someone's soul, it's more about the portrait's intent than quality. Which is...fine, I guess. Probably for the best. Wouldn't want to die because vague magic decided I wasn't good enough.

Still, it bothered him.

When he first inked Aspreay's soul into a painting, Adam had spent nearly a month laboring away at his masterpiece. Even then, he'd thought of it as too hastily drawn; a concession he was only willing to make because of the extraordinary circumstances he found himself in at the time.

Good joke, that one.

Wasn't a person's soul worthy of at least a little more effort? Shouldn't the distilled essence of a person deserve more than a quick sketch?

Maybe one day, I'll get to do just that. It was a comforting thought, and in spite of himself, a small smile forced its way to Adam's lips. Maybe the day will come when I'll have all the time in the world to work on my art again.

Just the mental image alone was enough to make his heart ache with nostalgia. Doing the things he loved without care for the obligations of daily life, with nary a thought given to the grim reaper of the future....he missed that. Only the unfounded confidence that it would eventually return motivated him onwards.

But those dreams of his had to, and would wait. First, he had a contest to win. Admittedly shoddy artwork or not.

"Right, well – how about we get to killing each other?" Adam angled his tablet with loose confidence. "Let me speak of my painting before I present it. There is just so much about you, Lawrence, that picking an exact theme was actually quite difficult."

"Is there?" the First Painter asked dryly. "Please, elaborate."

"Shall we start with your childhood?"

Lawrence's lips curled into a threat of a much stronger reaction, before the man stopped himself. Instead, he asked in a mild tone, "Do you mean the childhood you have no way of knowing anything about?"

"Precisely!" Adam said, jabbing his index finger at the First Painter in vigorous agreement. "That one. Your childhood was just full of trauma and tragedy, wasn't it?"

Lawrence's features shifted from confused to offended. "You cretin, that's not even remotely accur–"

He closed his eyes. Stop with the tricks. God I might be, but I am also from Earth. I know better than the medieval buffoons you tricked so often.

"Is this truly your best effort?" he said. "An attempt to infuriate me? A blind guess hoping to hit the one-in-a-million shot where you just happen to be close enough to my real past?"

Adam held out his palms to prevent further outburst. "Can't blame a guy for trying. My best-case plan was to read your mind with Divine Knowledge during those ten minutes and figure out a perfect painting. Guess it makes sense you could block me, though."

"Of course I could. I only allow you passage into the library of my mind now when it will no longer affect our wager."

Lawrence looked at the back of the tablet and scoffed in anticipated disgust. "It seems like you truly had no idea what my life was like – you merely took a shot in the dark."

"Hey, easy now. Don't go judging before you see it," Adam barked out, sounding deeply offended. Perhaps he was, on some level. "Remember our Contract. You're supposed to give my feedback after I finish presenting my Painting, not during my presentation."

Adam huffed in disappointment. "Honestly, it's kinda getting me down to realize just how much of my life happened the way it did because you were this bad at judging art contests. Like, come on. Read your own fucking rulebook or something."

A heartbeat passed by. Then another, and another. Within all three of those hung the same unspoken truth: that Adam was insane, petulant, not entirely wrong, and probably shouldn't be harping on this particular point so much.

The First Painter does appear rather poor at the job, however, Valeria thought, almost forgetting the gravity of her own wounds.

Someone with such rank incompetency should not sit upon the throne of gods, Ciro agreed.

Adam clapped his hands together excitedly and spoke with theatrical showmanship. "In any case, where were we? Ah, right! Tragically, you had to drop out of school early. Bleak little rooms, empty cupboards, a mother coughing blood into handkerchiefs. Then there was you, young Lawrence, noble and hungry, trudging to school in the rain with genius in your satchel and misery in your shoes. If only your father hadn't succumbed to a terrible addiction to...drugs? Gambling?"

He shrugged. "Anyhow, and your teenage years – oh my lord! Those were tragic as well. You were the leader of a gang, it seems. The only painting you did at that time was with the blood of–"

For the next few minutes, Adam prattled on with his – if nothing else – internally consistent yet absurd story about Lawrence's childhood. Every detail he added was just another piece of misfortune as he built a tale of the most woeful person to have ever lived.

Confronted with this odd sight, the three observers nearby experienced very different reactions.

Ciro wore a frown of uneasy confusion – the same he'd once aimed at a jester who had somehow wandered into the Empire's council meeting. Pity I had to execute the imbecile, it was indeed quite the jest he pulled. He would execute Adam too, in due time, but at the moment he felt entertained in much the same way.

Valeria watched her king with academic interest. The two of them were in possession of the same puzzle pieces, yet she couldn't grasp the picture that Adam seemed to have put together. She would have been entirely unconcerned with her king's whims, were it not for the sharp absence she felt inside her torso.

Would be a pity to die before I can reveal the truth behind Valente's old friend. She hoped Adam would finish his presentation before then, but she of all people could not blame someone for partaking in the joys of showmanship.

As for Lawrence...Lawrence could barely contain his irritation. Here was a man who enjoyed dressing himself as a god, roleplaying at being a divine being. He considered himself important enough to decide the fate of millions of souls according to his 'art.'

Having his noble visage be played for a joke was worse than treason – it was heresy.

And I'll see you dead for it, Adam, thought Lawrence. No, worse. I will eradicate your soul from existence. Never again will you reincarnate. Not here, and not in any of the worlds that I–

"But enough about that," Adam said, interrupting his own lecture. "Let's talk about a different side of Lawrence's life. How about his awkward adult years, when he picked up a random bird watching phase? Thing is, he didn't even like birds. Feels like sociopath behavior to me, but who am I to judge?"

"STOP!" Lawrence thundered. "You have explained the rationale behind your painting for long enough. Show it to me and get this farce done with!"

Adam raised a finger in what he thought was a polite objection. "Ah, but the Contract says you have to criticize it first before I show it to you."

Lawrence's eyes shut tight, as if desperately trying to shield him from an intense, incurable migraine. "Fine. Remember that you cannot alter your painting afterwards."

"Of course," Adam agreed. "That was in the Contract too."

The First Painter drew a deep breath. "We need a clown for this circus," he muttered, "and I for one am not much for theater."

"Really? Huh. Huh." Adam tilted his head in sincere surprise. "Could have fooled me."

"Cease this waste of time!" Lawrence snapped. "Peer into my mind with your Divine Knowledge and witness my past. I have nothing to hide, and nothing to fear."

The Contract had been very precise on this point. To prevent any form of cheating, Adam was forbidden from performing further work on his painting the moment he announced its completion. Whatever he discovered now wouldn't matter, and there wasn't a hidden loophole written in, either. Even tricks like using multiple paintings of different meanings wouldn't work here, for he could only present one.

Just as well.

"Alright," Adam agreed. "Let's take a look, then."

And so he stepped into the First Painter's mind with Divine Knowledge.

Gaspar had once shared his memories with Adam this way, and it'd felt like being swallowed up by a strong wave. This, however, was closer to drowning. He wasn't just learning from those memories – he was nearly being conquered by them. Each of Lawrence's recollections drove into him like steel through his heart, and there were oh so many of them.

He saw Lawrence as a boy, then as a man, then as an inhuman monstrosity, then as a boy again. Always with the same calm boredom in his eyes. In his many realities, never had the First Painter ever suffered true injustice, or experienced true hardship.

He was the hardship.

He was the injustice.

Adam heard screams in languages he didn't understand, languages that didn't exist, languages that had yet to exist – and somehow understood it all. He felt the awe of kneeling crowds, the panic of conquered armies, the heat of blood on his knuckles, the intoxicating calm of someone who ruled over many different lives. For a fleeting, intimate moment, Adam wore Lawrence's soul like a cloak, and felt closer to him than he'd ever felt towards anyone.

It took all of his own soul to push that feeling away.

As it turned out, the Second Painter's explanation of Lawrence's life had been, if not wrong, then at least partially incomplete.

Lawrence had indeed obtained the godly right to rule upon the Painted World, much like the Second Painter. The First, though, had gone through adventures on other worlds. Other realities, each with their own unique form of magic.

Every single one of the man's adventures would have been a fuller life than most could dream of. Sailing upon a sea lit from below by a blue fire. A city of ladders and bridges strung between the ribs of dead gods. A continent of flying islands with only clouds between them. A world where swords and duels – he was merely a visitor in that one – governed everything.

Different sorceries in each. Different rules. Different catastrophes.

All an instrument for Lawrence's amusement.

He had lived many lives, and taken just as many. His was a road with many stops along the way; from a heroic savior of kingdoms to a malevolent dictator of numerous worlds. The First Painter's path to self-proclaimed godhood was decorated with more lives than an average person could experience, more lives than one person could even comprehend.

Had it not been for his Realm, Adam would've gone catatonic. There was just so much information, so many lifetimes being transmitted straight into his consciousness, that any human brain would've collapsed beneath the weight of an overwhelming influx of information.

And in that split second when his very soul was being crushed by Lawrence's storied history, a faint memory of Adam's own past came to him.

'Kill yourself,' Aspreay had told him. 'That's how you're going to learn, brat.'

Adam immediately took his life with his Realm. He would heal faster from complete death than he would from any minor wound.

It was a method Aspreay had envisioned for bypassing his body's limits when it came to learning. He would forcibly infuse information into his mind with Divine Knowledge, much more than he could possibly handle, then kill himself with a Royal Order. If timed precisely, Noble Guard would revive him before death fully set in, keeping all his newfound knowledge yet none of the damage to his brain.

Adam wasn't sure if the process had...side effects. Maybe an ordinary mind just couldn't store that much information at once. What if Noble Guard was 'healing' him by altering his brain to be unlike a normal human?

Suppose there's no point in wondering, Adam thought, as he gasped for air. One of his knees almost touched the ground, but he stubbornly held himself up with the back of one fist, his other arm still holding his tablet – his painting – tightly against his chest.

"Should've known," he muttered. "Someone who let Eric get away with plagiarism was probably a fucking cheater to start with. I never could have guessed your life to begin with, could I? Even if I'd known you visited different worlds, I couldn't have captured the essence of all those myriad lives."

"God does not play dice." Lawrence's voice sounded like a dry whisper, yet it echoed hoarsely across the hallway of Dragons. "The chances of you stumbling upon the shape of my soul by pure chance were near, yet never reached zero. As my life extended far beyond what you could imagine, however...guessing it was always an impossibility."

The corridor held its breath alongside the four combatants. Adam's breath rasped once, though not as loud as his own racing heart.

"So it was," Adam said. "Damned cheater."

"It is not cheating to win a contest because your opponent underestimated your existence." Lawrence sighed. "Enough of this farce. Do you acknowledge that your painting is insufficient, then?"

"Yes," Adam admitted. "I didn't paint your soul correctly."

"Well?" Lawrence crossed his arms, feet tapping on the floor. "Surrender your Talents to me."

A laugh dragged itself out of Adam, impetuous and forced. It was the sound his body's visceral reaction created because his mind could not produce a clean answer. "Come on," he managed to say, "you know how my Talent works. I'm not the judge here – you are. The bet ends when you look at my Painting. Your heart, your soul, your canvas...they'll say whether I'm right or wrong."

"Then waste no more of my time," Lawrence said. "Turn over that tablet and show me what you made."

Valeria's desperation came first, the sound of her boots striking stone as she stumbled forward, her many injuries slowing her down. The Detective's face had gone pale instantly, and she reached out her hand as if trying to stop Adam from slitting his own throat. "King Adam!" she cried out.

At the same time, Ciro's reaction was not of words, but of fury. He roared, and the carved statues of dragons seemed to flinch in their shadowed alcoves. A fracture raced across stone beneath his heel, his rage manifesting his Talent before his conscious mind could. The Emperor's mad howl filled the hallway, primal and insulted, as if witnessing a sin against the world itself, if not worse - a sin against him.

Detective and Emperor both moved with raw, frantic speed, hands outstretched, clawing at empty air. Had it not been for their exhaustion from their own fight, mayhaps they would have reached Adam in time.

But alas.

Adam glanced at them and laughed. "Sorry. I'm not going back on my word just to survive by a technicality." He returned his gaze to Lawrence. "I'd much rather die on the hills I paint."

The First Painter smiled. "Good answer."

Adam flipped his tablet. Both Ciro and Valeria stood frozen in horror, their knees nearly giving out at the enormity of their failure.

That was when Lawrence looked at the painting, his eyes widening.

"What the devil—? Huh? HUH?" The First Painter stepped back as if recoiling from an attack. "How is...that's not what you said you painted earlier!"

"Correct," Adam agreed.

"Worse, that...that is..."

"A reflection of your life? Of your many lives?" It was Adam's turn to smile. "Indeed."

The painting wasn't merely accurate – it was impossibly detailed. It depicted every notable moment of Lawrence's incredibly long existence, enough so that Adam needed to scroll his tablet to show parts that wouldn't fit on the display screen.

"How?" was Lawrence's first question. His throat now sounded as dry as his tone had been a moment before. "You had no way of knowing anything about me before."

"I won't dispute that," Adam said.

"And you couldn't have worked on the painting while I explained why you were wrong. The Contract stated that you weren't allowed to keep drawing after commencing this...this infernal presentation!"

"Again, not going to dispute that either." Adam's smile grew as a faint blue line of light started to form between the tablet and Lawrence. "Not only could I not have produced this ahead of time, the Contract stopped me from working on it after I learned more about you. On top of that, I couldn't have conjured up something with this level of detail so quickly. Like, man, look at this linework – I'm crosshatching shit you need to zoom in to see – that would've taken months."

Lawrence stared blankly, as if someone had dared to strike him. Confidence fled from his expression. His posture remained upright, and his arms were still crossed, but his neck tensed, his shoulders rose a fraction, and his lips pressed together tightly.

Too tightly.

Then, with fearful hesitation, Lawrence peered at the line of light connecting him, the painting, and Adam. When he looked up again, his face was torn between despair and acceptance.

It was the face of defeat.

"How?" was all Lawrence could repeat.

"A second draft is among an artist's most hated, and most powerful tools." Adam tapped his tablet. "Not exactly proud of this, but all I had to do was change my drawing after you gave me your memories."

"But you couldn't have kept drawing after—BASTARD!"

Realization dawned on the First Painter's countenance. Fury now existed where despair had been a heartbeat earlier. "YOU USED THE TALENT OF HISTORY!"

Adam nodded. "That I did. Rewrote my painting's past so it had been painted differently...to fit the story you so kindly handed to me."

The blue crackling of electricity flickered in and out, a sharp shimmering gathering around Lawrence's chest. It began to quiver, as if something inside Adam's Painting was rolling up the thread of the man's soul toward it.

Adam watched the line pulse and immediately knew it was over. Looking at Lawrence, the man knew it too. He was a god no longer, hardly even a man, barely even Lawrence. This hazy shape, this manifestation of the man it had once been, wavered fearfully, the dread of its future plain on the contortions that mimicked human expression.

His – no, its mouth opened, with a distorted expression searching for a word vile enough to describe his contempt, utterly failing every time. "YOU CHEATER!"

"What was it that you said earlier?" Adam's mouth curled at one corner, his eyes glistening with a victorious malice. "It's not cheating if you win because your opponent underestimated you."

Those were the last words the First Painter, almighty creator of the Painted World, Father of all Talents, God of Gods, heard – before his soul was converted into pixelated pigment and trapped within a painting that never was.

Without waiting for so much as a single heartbeat, Adam turned around, rolled his shoulders, and locked eyes with the Emperor of the World.

"I have made good on my word," Adam said. "Two gods down. Two left."

--

Thanks for reading!