Tell me, Painter. Did you chase the Hangman after this?

You mean follow him to college? No. That was my plan at first, but I hesitated for a little.

Why?

Because my father...after mom died, I couldn't just leave him. Even after everything he did.

Ah. Was he dying?

No. But we believed he was. That's where the problems started.

"What do you mean he's your biological father?" Eric asked, awestruck. "You said your mom–"

"Yeah." Adam cut him off, then flashed a bitter smirk. "That's what I thought. That's what they thought, too."

Eric shook his head and sighed. "Now you're just being mysterious for no reason. C'mon, explain. Don't give me any 'it's a long story' bullshit, I have all day."

"It's not like I'm trying to be mysterious, it's just...man." Adam chuckled weakly. This was all such a sick joke. "Remember when my father collapsed a while back, and I took him to the hospital? I didn't go into detail at the time, because it was kinda heavy, but he didn't look good. At all. Our doctor was talking about considering a liver transplant, the potential issues with finding donors – you get the point. The important thing is that liver donors don't have to be dead. A person can just give part of it, and the rest regenerates."

One of the nice things about talking to Eric was that even if you rambled, he'd cut straight to the point. "I don't know much about liver transplants, but I'm guessing it's easier to get a successful donor match from immediate family members?"

"Easier, but it's not the only way. Still, I got tested, and it turned out that I was a match." Adam laughed in disbelief at the memory. He'd volunteered to take the test because it seemed easier than explaining to the doctor why he wasn't interested. Well, and maybe out of some irrational sense of obligation, but he figured there was no way in hell he'd be a match! "That...was awkward."

"Yeah, I can imagine." Eric bit his lip, then shook his head. "Actually, I've got no idea how fucking awkward that would be, bud. Anyway, is that all? Like you said, a successful donor match doesn't mean you're related."

Adam sank in his chair and rubbed his temples. "Wish it was that simple," he muttered. "Doctor said something about how it was good luck, made an offhand comment about how my dad and I looked similar and – look, my father got us tested again, okay? And didn't even tell me he was doing it!" Adam shouted that last bit, as if it was the specific point that offended him the most. "He just told me one night, like it was no big deal that...that we're actually father and son. They either screwed up the first test, or someone screwed it up on purpose. Who knows. Who cares."

For the next few moments, an unspoken sympathy ruled the silent air. Arms crossed, Eric opened and closed his mouth several times, a sort of playful frown repeatedly forming then disappearing, as if he were unsure how playfully callous he should be in a situation like this. "So...this is a good thing, right? Your shitty father might get a little less shitty now? Maybe?"

"Eh." Adam threw his arms up in an exaggerated shrug. "Not like anything changed. He really shouldn't treat me better just because of some piece of paper that says I'm his son."

"So, are you giving up part of your liver? You shouldn't, if you ask me."

Adam shook his head. "Don't need to. Turns out his condition isn't as bad as we thought."

Eric picked up on the part not said out loud – that Adam was still distraught about what was coming up soon. "Then why are you thinking of not going to university?"

"I never said that," Adam shot back.

"But you're thinking it," Eric pointed out, sharply. "Let's skip the denials and get to the point. Why? Even if you give a shit about your old man, he's not dying, right? He can take care of himself."

It was here that Adam wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. "It's...hard to explain."

Did finding out that the man was your father by blood color your feelings for him, Painter?

Not at all. I hate admitting this but...despite everything, even before this, I always wanted him to treat me like a son, to – to love me. That didn't change. Guess a part of me was hoping that he'd get his head out of his ass, and that we could rebuild our relationship.

There was more to it, was there not?

Yeah. I also still felt guilty over intruding upon Eric's world. I didn't love art like he did. An out-of-state school would have been expensive, and spending so much on something I didn't love...

I was just an empty canvas, clinging onto my friend's passions to avoid feeling like myself.

And I didn't like it. Neither art, nor the feeling.

You thought that taking care of your father would change things?

I thought it might teach me something about myself. Like who I am when nobody else is looking, you know?

When there's no need to put on an act.

--

Adam the Wanderer,

Eric the Scholar

—18 Years Old

Adam's gap year was a bittersweet experience that grew evermore bitter with the turning of seasons. He'd been lonely after Eric went off to college, but the two kept in touch well enough. Things at home had gotten much better, too.

Which was exactly the problem.

"I'm not much of a cook, but I managed dinner today," his father said with a grunt. After a brief pause, he somewhat awkwardly added, "Hope it's to your liking." The man truly meant it.

"That's thoughtful of you," Adam replied. He paused. "Even if I end up not liking the taste, the effort is what matters." He truly meant that as well.

I could forgive him for treating me badly. But when that jackass started treating me kindly...

How marvelously unusual! His hatred you could bear, but not his love?

I couldn't TRUST his love.

If all it took was a piece of paper for him to change, if the way he treated me for all those years was because of a mistake someone else made...then what if this was a mistake too? What if he started hating me again?

Not only that, but the way he started acting like we were one big happy family, like we'd always been like that, like he never—I just—I just couldn't let that go.

So you hate the amends more than the criminal. Why?

Because it means he was always capable of being better.

He just chose not to.

Adam had prepared himself for his father's behavior not to change. It would've been mildly annoying, but at least he wouldn't have felt guilty if something happened to his old man's health.

He wasn't ready at all for the awkward attempts at father-son bonding. Without school or anything else to distract him from the situation at home, Adam spent his days crushed by that draining, farcical routine.

"Kid, uh, I got tickets for the game. How do you feel about football?"

"Honestly can't stand it." Used to like it as a kid. You told me I was incompetent and shouldn't play. Never got back to it.

"Ah."

At night, Adam poured over his sketches. He still didn't like art, but his rituals from when Eric was around were part of him by now. Even though the two weren't comparing drawings anymore, this solitary habit brought him peace. And there was something innately satisfying about watching his skills get better.

Then day would rise.

"Hey kid, I got you a skateboard. You love that, right?"

"I did. About eight years ago." Then you broke my skateboard because it was too loud on the driveway. Because I annoyed you by existing.

"Ah."

One night, a few months later, Adam ran into a problem: he had no idea what to draw. Until then he'd just been going with whatever Eric suggested. The two still kept in touch, but now that they were far apart, and mostly talked over text...there was no way to get as much guidance from him as before.

Besides – he didn't want to bother Eric while the guy was busy with college.

God, that was stressful. Part of me wanted to drop drawing altogether, truthfully. But it was also what kept me sane that year, so...I clung onto it once again. That's my best trick. Clinging onto things that keep me safe.

What pushed you toward the Academy?

Nothing.

There wasn't anything.

One day I just...decided to.

"I'll be going off to college next year," Adam told his father over breakfast.

There was a long pause. "Well, I wish you the best." Silence fell again. "I'm sorry."

"I know you're sorry," Adam said, his voice surprisingly lacking in bitterness. He hesitated, then shrugged. "It's just...not enough. I don't think fixing this is that easy."

"That makes sense." His father's voice sounded grave, weary, and...guilty? "Do you think we can get there someday?"

"Maybe," Adam acknowledged, with a casual tone. He let out a quiet, sad laugh. "But I'm not sure I even want to bother."

"That's fair." His father nodded along. "That's...more than fair." Adam could swear he heard his father's voice catch in his throat for a moment, but when he continued, it was as firm as it had ever been. "I stopped drinking, you know? Since–"

Adam held a hand to cut him off. "I know." Almost apologetically, he said, "It doesn't change anything."

"I suppose it wouldn't." His father shook his head. "You're going off to art school, right?"

This was the first thing that caught Adam off guard. "How did you know?"

"You liked drawing. I...remember you showing me some of the stuff you drew when you were younger."

--

Was it an easy decision, Painter?

No. There were logistics involved that I couldn't ignore. I didn't have the money for an out-of-state college, and I didn't want to rely on my dad for it – not that he had much money to spare either. On a pragmatic level, going to university was an insane decision. Especially for something like art.

What an odd, empty canvas you have! So, you possessed little love for art, knew it was a poor investment of your Orbs, and went there all the same! Why?

Because I didn't have anything else. My only friend was there, and he kept asking me to come. Things at home were so awkward that it made me want to die.

Where else was I supposed to go?

"Fancy seeing you here," Eric said. "How's it hanging, weirdo?"

"What are the odds?" Adam dropped his bags on the floor. "Think things are pretty good...now."

The two grinned, then engaged in what was either a competition over who could suffocate each other more, or a genuine hug. Either or both could have been correct. "Man," Adam muttered. "I missed you, you bastard."

"Sorry things didn't work out at home," Eric muttered in response, putting his back. He ruffled Adam's hair before letting go of the hug. "It's gonna be okay now. You're safe, you hear me? Just let me take care of you."

Funny thing is...I didn't want him to. I didn't go to college to create trouble for my best friend; I just wanted to hang out like old times. Even chose a slightly different major so he wouldn't feel like he had to help me."

Sometimes, though, I wonder...would anything have gone differently if I'd played along?

Even in the hazy mist of his soul, even having the very ink of his being witnessed by the Voice, Adam felt himself hesitate before answering. It would have.

--

Adam didn't get to see Eric as often as he'd hoped. They were in different programs and a year apart, so despite living close to one another, their time together was limited. Even so, whenever they did manage to meet, it felt like nothing had changed.

Well, mostly.

"And there we go," Eric said, throwing his latest sketch over to Adam. "What do you think? Looks great, doesn't it? Say it for me. Let me pretend to be modest."

"You know I can't lie to you," Adam lied. "It honestly looks amazing. Damn man – art school really improved your skills, huh?"

Though his acting was convincing, he bit the inside of his lip to mask his surprise. Worse, his disappointment. At first Adam hoped that he'd just caught Eric on a bad day, but their following weeks of joint art practice merely confirmed his first impression.

Eric's art had gotten worse.

It made sense, to a degree. A person's art would inevitably degrade without consistent practice. But...the guy had been at art school for a year, so that didn't add up. At all.

Ah, but that's a lie, isn't it? You could guess.

I...I didn't...

You cannot lie to me, Painter. Not when I stand before your canvas.

It...looked to me like Eric had fallen out of love with art. Just a bit. He didn't seem as interested anymore in our talks about famous historical painters, and whenever he mentioned homework, it was always in this vague, disdainful tone.

Interesting. Why do you think the Hangman lost his passion?

That, I legitimately don't know. Although I have heard that art school crushes a lot of people's interest in it. Doing mountains of soulless work, being unable to focus on your true passions, and dealing with uninterested, resentful professors assigning you grades on a whim...that could kill anyone's love for anything.

Did that happen to you, Painter?

See, that's the funny thing. It didn't. You can't kill what doesn't exist.

Then what happened instead?

Adam surprised even himself with how little Eric's disinterest in their shared passion affected him.

By all logic, taking on student debt in the hopes of relieving his loneliness, then finding out things were no longer as they used to be, should have crushed him. But Adam refused to worry about his own feelings, more concerned with his friend's.

Eric wasn't doing great right now, for reasons that he didn't feel like divulging. His tone had a meandering listlessness that often preceded someone quitting their field entirely. But, no, that couldn't happen. He would definitely get back to loving art at some point, because, well...he was Eric! The guy was as talented as they came. Whether he realized it now or not, there was no way he wouldn't end up as a famous artist someday.

Everyone felt down about their passions here and there, right?

This was gonna pass.

And when it did, Adam wanted to be ready to pick things up where they'd stopped.

"You're attending those workshops?" Eric said, one day at launch. He bit into his bread and lifted an eyebrow. "Dude, I know how much work you have...are you insane?"

Adam smiled. "I might be. They have this guest artist from Germany though, have you heard of—"

"—No," Eric cut him off. He let out an exasperated sigh, followed by an incredulous laugh. "You really have to slow down."

But Adam didn't have the luxury to go any slower. He was closer to aggressively mediocre – at best – than to a genius. It was like Eric had told him many years ago; he wasn't anything special. For an average person to catch up to the prodigies of the world, effort was needed. Relentless, repetitive, single-minded effort.

In truth, Adam had no idea how long Eric's disillusionment with art would last. Yet when his passion finally did return...it would be nice for Adam to greet him with the new things he'd picked up along the way. Like going for a long road trip and getting to tell his hometown friends all about it after coming back. Maybe those topics would get him at least a little interested.

Whenever I brought up the things I'd learned, though, it almost seemed to annoy him. As if it was a chore to talk about art, despite that being all we ever did as kids.

"Ugh, man, I just finished four hours of homework. Can we talk about literally anything else right now? Like sports? Our college is playing–"

Our conversations grew...shallower. We still talked, but not so much about art.

"Adam, did you see the new Marvel movie?"

And when we did, it was about how to make money from it.

"I think someone could really make a killing on commissions if they used AI for–"

Even when I was proud of something, Eric never seemed in the mood to appreciate it.

"Yeah, sure, it looks good. Don't be a showoff – I've got homework piling up."

After a while, Eric appeared so tired of drawing that our weekly study sessions became monthly. We hung out, yet not as much as before. I didn't want to rely on him and make him feel even more overwhelmed, so I pushed myself to branch out and find other people to talk with.

Adam was hardly a social butterfly, but college dorms are an environment that produce social contact – forcibly, if necessary. Although he was blessed with a single room, he still regularly crossed paths with the students on his floor. Enough to share a few conversations with them.

While not like his friendship with Eric, those acquaintances were fun to spend time with. More fun than he would have assumed, actually. They kept him from feeling isolated.

The money issues were always difficult, but that was no excuse for me to sit back and wallow in my misery. So I continued to study everything I could, entered as many optional workshops as possible...just completely dedicated my life to art.

For Eric's sake, Adam studied a variety of different topics that weren't covered by his curriculum. His degree barely touched upon watercoloring, but he still did a deep dive into the topic so that he could tell Eric all about it one day – that would be so fun! Next was sculpting, and damn, that was a fun one to learn too! Eric would love hearing ab–

"Oh, right...Eric hates sculpting," Adam muttered to himself. "Even when we were kids, he never saw the appeal. This isn't going to be something he cares about."

Adam sighed at the realization. This topic was useless, then. He might as well stop studying it.

But he couldn't, and he didn't.

Try as he might to shift his focus, Adam still felt interested in sculpting. He couldn't even begin to imagine how someone could get so precise with a chisel. There was something entrancing about how, with skill and time, a hunk of stone could be transformed into anything you desired.

"Why am I still interested in it?" he asked no one. "And now that I think about it, Eric wasn't into the whole thing about titles and art, either. Always said titles were stupid and the work should stand by itself. Guess I wasted my time with that one."

Despite hearing his own words aloud, Adam couldn't make himself believe them. But why? He was learning all of this to speak with Eric, wasn't he? If this wasn't something Eric would care for, why did he want to study it anyway?

"Oh." The word suddenly escaped his lips. His soul could contain it no longer – nor could it contain the ones to soon follow. "I...I've started to enjoy this, haven't I?"

He had.

Not just so he had something to talk about with Eric.

Not just so he had something to help forget about his life at home.

Not just so he had something to fill his empty heart.

When was it, I wonder...after I came to art school? No. It was probably way before that. The gap year? No, that's not right either. Maybe I've been this way since I first saw Eric's drawing, and it's just taken me this long to admit it.

On some level, he had always known. He just couldn't allow himself to admit it – even to himself. Like he was unworthy of loving something so much. As if he was too broken of an individual to feel genuine passion towards anything.

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But he wouldn't, couldn't deny it to himself any longer.

Adam covered his eyes, tears sifting through his fingers.. "Goddamn it," he whispered, "I really...I really like art."

--

It was cruel that the realization came so late.

Although he was a year into art school, Adam hadn't made any plans to actually finish his degree. He'd entertained vague aspirations of what to do if he somehow graduated, but to be blunt, it was never a serious goal of his. Deep inside, he'd made peace with the idea of dropping out after spending some time with Eric, intending to figure out what he wanted to do with his life afterwards.

But now he knew.

Adam wanted his life to revolve around art. Not because he had no choice, not because of his friend, but because it was what he himself wanted. For the first time in his life, he'd found something he truly loved – and he wasn't about to let it go.

How did you obtain the Orbs to stay in your castle, Painter?

I worked wherever and whenever I could. Online art commissions were good, but unreliable, and mildly traumatizing at times. Also did any part-time jobs I could find, schedule be damned. Most of my second year classes were pretty flexible with attendance, so sometimes I skipped them to squeeze in some work hours. The school did have support funds for students like me, but...it just wasn't enough.

Did you limit your scholarly endeavors, then?

No. If I was fighting to stay there, I wanted to get the most out of it.

And it nearly killed him. Adam scarcely ever slept for a full six hours, and when he did, he'd wake up so exhausted he could barely drag himself out of bed. His budding social life died almost as soon as it started. His entire body ached, and after a certain point, it was anyone's guess whether he was just getting sick more easily or whether the eternal sleep deprivation always made him feel sluggish.

Even so, he struggled on.

It was a hellish year, and Adam fought to keep a growing sense of bitterness from taking over. So many people were waltzing around campus like they owned the place, unconcerned about how much money they were spending, clearly spoiled rotten by their goddamn parents. If only–

Adam never allowed himself to finish that thought. He already knew that life wasn't fair; allowing himself to feel jealous over it would just make his mind a less welcoming place for himself. And considering how often he was alone these days...

"You hanging in there?" Eric asked one day. "Seriously dude, you're gonna get yourself killed. Take a break, maybe a year off to make some money, then come back later."

"I can't," Adam told him, stubbornly. "No way in hell I can wait that long!"

Eric slammed his hand on the desk. "I'm telling you that you can!" He glared straight at Adam. "You think I'm that dumb? I know you're doing this for me, okay? I know my art is getting worse, and that you think you can get me to snap out of it. Broski, I'm just not feeling it right now, 'kay? Just a little. School drains the life out of people, you maniac. This is normal. I'll bounce back."

Adam widened his eyes in surprise. He held Eric's gaze for a moment, then laughed. "Yeah, that's part of it. Sorry, thought I was doing a better job at keeping it a secret from you."

"You weren't." Eric grinned. "So you'll take it easy? Maybe take a year off?"

He shook his head. "To be honest...even though I started doing this for you, I..." Adam grinned sheepishly and rubbed the back of his head, trying to hide a burning embarrassment that couldn't stop a smile from seeping through his best mask. "I actually like art. A lot. Even though this whole situation sucks...I really want to keep learning more. Not just painting, not just digital art, not just sculpting – everything! I just love it so much I don't want to wait a year, you know? That would be depressing as hell."

Adam couldn't look Eric in the eye, feeling embarrassing over how silly he probably sounded. Spending time with fellow artists – and god forbid, the theater majors – had obviously given him a flair for dramatics, much as a part of him found that mortifying. During moments like these, he preferred to keep his head low and wait for the other person to respond..

Eric needed more than a minute of complete silence. "If that's how it is, guess I can't stop you, eh?"

Adam had no idea what Eric's face looked like when he said that. At the time, he'd thought of it as encouraging, like he was being accepted into his friend's world as a peer rather than a guest.

Do you think differently now?

Yeah.

I do.

His next year was a nightmare he was thrilled to be in, a gothic horror to marvel at while darkness swallowed him whole. Even when losing sleep, even when being driven sick from overwork, even when unsure if he could keep paying for college...Adam enjoyed every single moment he had there. The few acquaintances he'd made, the knowledge he'd learned...

I felt like a person for the first time.

Unfortunately, it couldn't last forever. His finances soon reached the point where daily living was becoming an issue, and where he'd have to contemplate quitting – or at least taking a break. Both thoughts were abhorrent, but there was no third option.

I was frustrated, yet at the same time, content. Almost. I had given it my all. Thought that if I had to take a break...or even if I could never come back...well, then there was no way to blame myself for what happened, yeah? I didn't want an ending to my life as an artist, but if there had to be one...this was fine.

THAT IS WHEN YOU MET THE FIRST PAINTER.

The voice screamed inside his canvas. It wasn't a question. There was something about this point that interested the voice more than anything else thus far. Adam instinctively knew that he should feel lucky his very soul didn't break apart at the sound. That he could only keep what he thought of as his 'self' because this voice graciously allowed him to. That he should fall on his knees and beg for its favor.

Instead, he took this chance to question it.

You're not the First Painter, then? You're not Lawrence?

NO. I CAME AFTER.

"Hey, Eric – how about entering this contest with me?" Adam excitedly asked one day. "C'mon, I know you haven't been doing much besides schoolwork lately."

Somehow, Eric seemed like the more tired of the two, despite having much more free time. "First of all, you're insane if you think either of us can win that. Second of all, I know how much you need the money. What if I win and you don't? You shouldn't be bringing on more competition, man. Think it through for once."

"If you beat me fair and square, then oh well." Adam smirked and gave a mighty shrug. "I'd be satisfied if it came to that. Would just be fun to paint together like we used to."

Eric grunted with annoyance. "I haven't even touched ink in a semester, save for that one class. Everything I'm working on is digital right now." He sighed. "Do you really think you can win? Are you that delusional?"

"I probably can't," Adam confessed. "But either way, I still want to give it my all. Just to set my feelings straight, you know? To be happy with the end result."

"Bullshit," Eric said immediately. "You say humble crap like that all the time, but you actually think you're hot shit, don't you? Deep inside, you really believe you're better than everyone else in that contest – and that if it's judged fairly, you're gonna be the one to come out on top."

Adam's eyes went wide. A second later, his expression exploded into laughter. That's when I thought...Eric knows me better than I do. Until then, I hadn't even admitted my ego to myself yet. "Damn man, you didn't have to call me out like that," he said, in a guilty, albeit unrepentant tone. "Hey – you're the one who said you need to be a bit delusional to make it as an artist."

"Fine," Eric reluctantly groaned. "Let's do it. I'll enter it with you. No way either of us wins, though. And for the record, if you're gonna quit college, there's better ways of spending the little free time you have left."

What Adam wanted to point out – but didn't, so as to not give Eric more ammo – was that he didn't have any free time. His part-time jobs ate up a big chunk of his schedule, and just because he needed money to come back next semester didn't mean he could afford to neglect this year's studies. Whatever time he had left after all that wouldn't be nearly enough to work on an original, contest-worthy art piece.

He did it anyway.

Eric had been right. Deep inside of me, there was an arrogant, delusional artist who thought he was better than everyone else. The thing is...art contests are crapshoots. Even when judges attempt to objectively evaluate your technique, subjective bias will still influence their final decision. Just being the best wasn't a guarantee that I would win.

So I went in with the intent of leaving no regrets behind.

My body became a machine dedicated to converting every molecule of my soul into ink. Each sweep of my brush was dedicated to that purpose, and that purpose alone. Every single thing I learned, every technique I absorbed, every painful lesson I learned, every bit of my life, good and bad....everything I cared about...it was ALL going into that one painting.

I could accept losing after that.

Adam worked day and night. He neglected sleep and food in equal measures. At times, he would find himself pleased with his progress, thinking himself a prodigy. Other times, he would be the worst of idiots; a maniac for thinking of painting what he'd just tried. He should've gone for something simpler – what was the point of doing this if he couldn't even reach his deadline?

Round and round he went. Adam was so busy that Eric was his sole point of human contact during those days. Fortunately, those visits often came with fresh food as well. Eric only stopped by every few days, but it was what kept Adam going whenever he felt the contest's looming deadline start to crush his spirit.

You used this color to shade another memory of yours. Are you aware of which one?

The question caught him by surprise. Adam had almost forgotten that he'd already lived past the point he was being forced to recall now. His mind strained as it raced through the future to come.

It felt very similar to being trapped in Aspreay's tower and forced to finish all those paintings of him. Except that Tenver was the one visiting me, not Eric.

Do you think you will come to hate the Prince of Puppets as you have the Hangman?

I hope not.

--

"I'm finished."

Adam mumbled the declaration in a low, shaky voice. He stepped back and glanced at the painting before him as if witnessing the face of God. The laughter that followed was more than just hysterical; it was maniacal, with loud sobs interceding each peal of laughter as he fell to his knees. Whatever happened now, even if he wouldn't be allowed to stay in school...Adam would always have this painting. It looked so beautiful – so full of meaning – that he could hardly believe it was he who'd made it.

But he had.

"I made this," he mumbled again, in disbelief. "I made this...and no one can ever take that away from me." He turned to Eric with a wide grin. "What do you think? Pretty good, eh?"

"Yeah."

The reply sounded distant, for some reason. Adam only realized how bone-deep tired he was when he turned to look at Eric. His friend's face seemed blurry, and just the act of moving his head sent a spike of nausea racing through his stomach. How long had he gone without sleep?

"It really looks amazing, Adam."

At that moment, Adam stopped caring about how exhausted he was. Being praised by the person who'd first motivated him to enter the art world meant more than he could say. Even if they'd grown a little apart in taste recently, Eric was always going to be his best friend.

"Thanks, man," Adam professed. "I just have to...let it dry now, and take it to the submissions place thingy." English was getting strangely difficult. "Everything has been dry for a while, it's just this thin layer of–"

Eric cut him off sharply. "You need sleep. Relax, your painting isn't going anywhere. Let me handle it. Not like you're varnishing it – I just have to transport it safely, right?"

"No way. You need time to finish your...your own..." Adam shook his head, trying in vain to stay awake. All of a sudden, the adrenaline seemed to be deserting his body. "I can do it, okay? It'll be..."

"I already finished mine," Eric assured. His voice had a soothing quality to it. "Just sleep."

Adam hesitated for only a moment before nodding.

I felt so guilty taking advantage of him. I knew how much work it would be to do that. Moving a painting before varnishing it is a pain, but when a contest like this pops up and asks that you submit things quickly...you do what you have to do.

How long did you sleep for?

A full day. Missed classes and work, but my body was so tired that I didn't even care. Spent two more days after that resting. Probably got a fever at some point. If the contest results weren't out so early, I probably could've slept for weeks after that.

Was it normal for those duels to be sorted so quickly?

No. No, it wasn't.

Ah...Lawrence...

When the day of judgement arrived, Adam feverishly stumbled his way through campus towards the exhibit where the contest winners were being displayed. His phone had died earlier, so he had no way of knowing how his painting performed.

He entered the exhibit in a sort of panicked fugue. So many submissions, but where was his? Adam looked left and right, back and forth, searching, pleading. And then...

He saw it.

Proudly displayed.

The Empty Canvas — 1st Place

Adam fell to his knees and sobbed.

He didn't care how lame he must have looked, crying in public like that. It didn't matter. Exhaustion, pride, relief, and adrenaline all violently competed with each other to take over his body. A vindicated sense of relief won out, a lone desperate thought ringing in his head:

It was all for something. Everything. His life at home. His painful, empty days without a passion. His suffering as his bank account gradually dwindled to nothing. My life...my experiences...they're what let me create this. It was all for something.

It didn't erase his past, and it didn't justify his pain. But for that one moment, for the first and only time...

Adam felt at peace with everything.

Then, through his tears, he saw the plaque beneath his painting.

The Empty Canvas — 1st Place

By Eric Gryphon

"Wh...at?"

Unbidden, the word slipped out of his mouth. The air grew hot, and his throat tightened. "Did...did we have the same idea or...no. That's my painting. I can see everything, it's literally—it's literally what I—that's—"

Adam refused to acknowledge it. He rapidly shook his head, laughing nervously. "Well, someone must've really screwed this up! What a stupid mistake!" He laughed again, louder this time, attempting to suppress the thought he wouldn't allow himself to have. No way. That can't, that can't be what happened.

Feet shuffling, Adam turned a corner inside the exhibit, following the crowd. He soon found the man who'd invited him to compete. Lawrence was shaking hands with...with Eric, and handing him something.

I couldn't believe it. Kept trying to think of excuses in my head – anything that would explain what had happened. Justifications. Ways I could be mistaken.

But you weren't.

"ERIC!" Adam forced his way through the small crowd and stood before his friend. He looked at him, desperately hoping for an explanation. Instead, he found what appeared to be the cold face of a stranger. "Eric please," Adam begged, feeling his knees weaken. "Tell them—that's not—that's my painting. There's been a mistake, right?"

Lawrence, the one known as the First Painter, looked over his shoulder at Eric. "Is that true, young man?"

There was a long, cold silence. Then, Eric tilted his head to the side, and flashed a cocky smirk. "Please, Adam. Do you really think you could've made something like this?"

No...no...you can't...

"That's my painting, man. I know you're desperate for the prize money, but come on! Have some dignity."

Out of everyone...you...you, most of all...

"Do you have any idea how hard I worked on this? For fuck's sake, what's wrong with you!" Eric shouted. "Don't you dare accuse me of stealing my greatest work, Adam!"

"E...Eric...Eric...Eric! EEEEERIIIIIIC!"

Adam knew what would happen next. Security would rush in to stop him no matter what he did. Besides, he was tired, weak, and hungry – Eric himself was more than enough to knock him flat.

He also didn't care.

Adam rushed at him.

--

And that is the source of the Painter's hatred for the Hangman.

Are you...satisfied?

Oh, of course not. This was but a prelude. Show to me how your tale proceeds from here. Where will you take it? What color will your canvas paint next?

Now, time begins—

—To move again.

As if it was parchment fed to flames, the white void of the soul canvas dissolved around them, fading out of existence and revealing the cavern where they'd once been.

Tenver.

The river.

The cavern.

Eric.

And Adam, midair and with his Stained Ink wrapped around his hand.

Time was starting to flow again – yet it did not resume immediately. That momentary pause was enough for Adam's hatred to give way to cold analysis. He's stronger than me. I can feel it. If I try to kill him with Stained Ink, his Talent will just make it bounce off, like nothing happened.

Was he supposed to accept that he couldn't hurt Eric right now? That he was just as powerless as he'd been months earlier?

No.

He wasn't the same poor college student from before. Now and forever, he was Adam, Lord of Penumbria.

Time resumed, and Eric grinned."—Adam, you can't expect to hurt—"

"—Shut it."

Eric held his hand forward with practiced ease, as though he expected to deflect the attack. There wasn't a trace of fear in his expression. It wasn't a bluff.

And that was why Adam opted not to strike.

Just as his Stained Ink was about to clash with the Hangman's hand, Adam unfurled it from a sharpened spear into a set of vines, then used it to wrap itself around Eric. If I'm not trying to injure you, then can't block it, can you? Immediately after, Adam pulled himself forward with the Vines.

"Your Talent can't hurt me–"

I know. You've always been the more talented of the two of us. Which is why Adam didn't plan on using any sort of sorcery. There was no Talent, no magic, nothing otherworldly in what his fists did. With the momentum of his vines pulling him forward, Adam connected his fist against Eric's nose with the strongest haymaker he'd ever thrown in his life.

The Hangman fell back, his head hitting the ground, and his nose broken. "Talents don't protect you from getting punched in the fucking face," Adam spat out.