The wind howled, carrying with it the smell of burnt flesh and sundered dreams.

Adam felt nothing as he stared at the soulless body in front of him. It didn't seem real. At any moment, he half-expected Eric to pop up, taunting and sneering like before.

Yet no matter how long he watched, the Gryphon did not move.

Oh.

It's over.

The thought drained what little adrenaline remained within his body. Blood seeping out of numerous open wounds, Adam collapsed into a heap on the ground, his eyes shutting against his will.

They did not open again.

–

To his surprise, Adam wasn't dead.

Of course he wasn't. The dead were allowed to rest.

And it doesn't seem like I'll be allowed to do that just yet.

Instead of the darkness of oblivion, he found himself staring at an all-encompassing white sphere that dominated his surroundings. Its colorless purity was broken up by the now-familiar sight of Rot, a creeping stain on the canvas.

Adam stood up, carefully studying his body. He was uninjured, but not in the sense that his wounds had been healed. It was more like his injuries had never been there in the first place.

His clothes were untorn as well, although it wasn't the same attire he'd worn when fighting Eric. The raiments of a Lord going to battle had been replaced by clothes from Earth. Something about it seemed oddly familiar and bitterly reminiscent.

Two seconds later, realization struck – this was the outfit he'd had on when first coming to the Painted World.

"Nothing about this is real," Adam muttered. I've been here before, back when the Ghost of Waters entered my dreams. This is...

His Canvas.

The last time he'd been here was when the Ghost of Waters invaded his dreams. And just like that last time, the souls trapped within his paintings were twitching in agony before him.

With an important newcomer added to their ranks.

Eric...

There was a pitiful, quivering figure, covered in ink and breathing weakly – so much so that Adam couldn't tell whether its soul was truly dead or not. His face was a darkened, inhuman blob, unrecognizable to most of humanity.

I knew this is what would happen to you. It's not like I regret painting your soul, or that I think you deserved anything less, but...

It still doesn't feel great to see you like this.

Instinctively, as though the knowledge had always been a part of him, Adam knew that Eric's soul had been damaged during their fight. Between the overuse of his Canvas and his soul being captured, the Gryphon's existence had been stretched so thin that he was unlikely to survive even if he returned to his body.

Not that Adam had any intention of testing that. Even if he did, there were other matters to focus on now – such as why he was inside his own Canvas again.

It looked different from the blank void of last time, and not just because of the Stains splattered from overusing his Realm. Moreso than the scars of black or the emptiness of white, it was the countless other colors which now gave this space shape.

Eric was woven into his Canvas, destined to remain so. And as a consequence of his own actions and decisions, he would now be an unsightly blemish, rather than part of the painting that was Adam's life. Soon, he would become someone Adam would recall without thinking of his name. Yet it was also because of him that those other, better details now shone with so much vibrance.

The Stains would disappear in time – the colors Adam had brought into his soul would not.

They were more than just decorations of his imagination. They were real. More real than this place, anyhow.

Oh, but your Canvas is the most real thing there is.

Adam tensed as he felt words broadcast directly into his psyche. It was the familiar voice of a stranger he'd never met, the nostalgic song of a melody he'd never heard, the comforting memory of an event that never was.

This was the man who had brought Adam to this world, pulling him through a painting in the old man's shop.

It is a pleasure to meet you for the first time, my dear Third Painter.

"Pleasure to meet you again, 'Second Painter.'" Adam said, greeting the hidden figure. "Though I can't shake your hand if you insist on being a disembodied voice. Why not reveal yourself and look me in the eye?"

The ability to invade your Soul Canvas is not beyond me, but it is beneath me. You have yet to invite, and I shall never trespass.

"Then feel free to come visit," Adam said dryly. "It is reassuring to see that you think so lowly of intruding on someone's privacy, yet apparently take no issue with straight-up kidnapping."

Silence ensued. It lasted just long enough for the Painter to intuit that the voice hadn't fully expected this sort of reply.

Ah–! You believe that I took you here?

"So I know," Adam nodded. "Despite your best attempts to keep me from knowing."

Every time the 'Voice' had met with Adam, it'd spoken with him rapidly, instilled a vague sense of terror in him, and then disappeared – not only from his mind, but from his memories as well. All Adam had been left with was an instinctual fear he couldn't place, warning him against going down certain roads.

Or rather, that was what the Voice intended.

Adam's memories had been erased. His tablet was not. Before his memories faded entirely, the Painter had furiosity written down notes after each meeting with the godlike voice. While he couldn't shield himself from the Voice's oppressive, forced amnesia, he could still leave physical evidence of its transgressions.

And between his growing list of notes, sporadic flashes of memories returning to him, and a dash of deducting reasoning...he had managed to piece together a most disconcerting picture.

"I heard from the Puppet Grandmaster that Lawrence, the First Painter, created everything in this world. But I also heard, from you, back when Eric first showed up...that you aren't the First Painter."

Quite correct – but why bother with all these deductions? I can tell you everything you wish to know. You are strong enough to communicate with me now.

Adam scuffed at the idea. He wasn't especially eager to trust the word of a man who'd attempted to erase the memories of their every meeting. "You're the Second Painter," he spat, as if addressing festering roadkill on the side of the street. "The one that is known in this world as the Dark Sorcerer."

There was a pause. And what if I am? You accuse with a tongue that spits venom, yet what hatred have you for a name that cursed you not? Dark Sorcerer – what darkness am I guilty of?

"You made the Ghosts," Adam said, recalling the Ghosts of Flames and Waters. "But more than that..." He curled his fingers into a fist. "You gave Solara a cursed Talent. Tortured her inside that tower for years."

Like a pointed dagger, his shaking fist rose up. "And you'll pay for that."

I only gave her a Talent that she found herself unable to handle. She knew the risks.

"No one knows what you know! This was never a fair exchange – she was desperate and had no idea what could've happened!"

Ignorance is the world's sin, not mine.

"And yet you haven't once said I was wrong," Adam grunted. "Maybe the world knows more than you think."

My silence was a product of politeness, and nothing more. You, Third Painter, were wrong when you falsely credited Lawrence for the creation of everything.

Adam hoped that his eagerness didn't show on his face. "By all means – correct me."

Lawrence did not create death.

No wind could have existed inside the Canvas. Yet in that moment, Adam felt a chilly gust twirl through his spine. "What do you mean he didn't...create death?"

This question in particular appeared to catch the Second Painter's interest. First there was a slight, understated harrumph. Thereafter, the boundless voice began to coil inward, its vastness shrinking until it was but a whisper, intimate and unsettling.

With that change, a strange mist began unfurling across the room. It seeped in as if through cracks in the Canvas, swirling with slow, deliberate spirals. The mist condensed, drawing itself together–

Until it formed the outline of a figure. Not solid, not entirely real, but a suggestion of a person. Like the mist had been dreaming of human form.

"Don't look so shocked," said the Second. "You gave me permission earlier. It would be sinful of you to take exception now."

"Wouldn't dream of it." Adam watched the man – if he could be called such – with the utmost of caution. While the mist had taken the shape of a person, it wore no face. There were only holes where its mouth should be.

If he's trying to intimidate me, make me forget to question him, then he's in for a surprise. "You said the First Painter didn't create death," the Painter insisted. "Explain what that means, will you?"

The Mist Person shrugged, a hazy aftersmoke trailing behind his –its?– shoulders. "Lawrence was from the very same Earth as us. Unlike us, however, he misliked humanity very much. Thought he could do better – even though he earned the chance to shape a world after his will, and wasted it fully. He carved the mountains, painted the oceans, shaded the skies..."

The silence that followed was not empty; it was charged with an unspoken highlight, a declaration of importance. This, Adam knew, would matter a great deal in the future.

When the Mist Person continued, it was with a more weary voice than before. A voice that carried the raspiness of a thousand winters. "And Lawrence colored the same lifeless gray across it all.

"This was a land before life, before death. Where time flowed like still water, and only the Ancient Dragons lived.

"Nay, 'lived' paints a false picture of it – they existed. Closer to a single painting than a film.

"Lawrence painted a static world without any distinction between life and death. None lived, but then, neither did they die. It was a universe of silence...

"Yet that word too is a lie. The Painted World was an existence before sound. No silence could be truly called such, for there cannot have been the absence of that which did not exist.

"Can you imagine this world he created? He wanted it not to evolve, not to grow, but to remain as a perfect frozen picture. To waste the chance to hold dominion over a world – to deny its beings the chance of life. Criminal, sinful, and worst yet, undutiful!"

Each new puzzle piece held the weight of a giant stone. Adam's shoulders trembled as they piled up. Can't be frozen in indecision – I want to know more! I've been stumbling blindly through this world for too damn long already!

"When you say that Lawrence denied its beings the chance of life," he began, "do you mean...humans? Animals?"

Adam had often pondered this question. If the Painted World was truly crafted at one point, how had life originated here? Was it spawned through magic? Created with the stroke of a paintbrush?

The Second Painter laughed. While his voice no longer echoed, it felt as if he were standing mere inches away.

"Why, they were stolen, of course. Life from our world was needed to create the Ink to decorate this one. Make no mistake, the empty void we call the Painted World always existed, as did the Dragons. But the world as we know it? The oceans, the hills, the caverns – these were all crafted by one man who considered it his magnum opus. And he did so with ink forged from the life of Earth humans, long ago."

"What about you?" Adam's question shot out, before he could think it over. "What role do you play in all this?"

"I too had earned the right to craft a world according to my will." The Second sounded almost modest, if falsely so. "But when presented with the empty worlds I could choose...I took note of what my fellows had done. Upon witnessing Lawrence's work, I gasped in disgust. How dare he doom the lives he'd used to an eternal purgatory? I simply couldn't stand to watch him reduce his own creation to such a stifling existence."

The humanoid fog shimmered with glee. "So I gave it death."

A horrifying understanding crept up on Adam. "The Rot," he whispered. "You brought Rot into this world."

"I did – and would do so again. At the time, it was no larger than a small infection, unnoticed for an unimaginable amount of years. But on that day...the clock's hands began to move. Death and imperfection were brought unto this perfect world, and life started anew."

Adam thought back to what the Grandmaster had told him. "The Dragons. Were they sentient?"

"More than you and I, frankly."

"Did the First Painter contact them for anything?"

The Second's voice lit up. "Quite clever of you, dear Third Painter! He did. Upon noticing the Rot, Lawrence gave them the knowledge they so desperately craved."

"Which was?"

"The Rules of this world. You see, we were granted dominion – not omniscience."

That much Adam had been able to infer. He wouldn't have managed to keep notes of their meetings if the second Painter was omniscient. "Let's not pretend you needed to be all-seeing when you could just decide what rules the world lives by. Arbitrary ones that bend the reality around us. Literal goddamn magic."

"Indeed! And good old Lawrence shared that knowledge with the Ancient Dragons, hoping that they would use it to combat the Rot. Not that they wouldn't have figured it out on their own, those brilliant things, but it did speed up the process."

Adam anticipated what was to come next. "The Puppets!" he exclaimed. "That's how they created the Puppets!"

"Right as well! Though we must also give credit to their fascinating technology." The Second's amused laugh danced across the Canvas. "Do you want me to elaborate further?"

Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

"Of course I do," Adam fired back. "What kind of lunatic wouldn't want to know more about the world they were magically abducted to? But I imagine you're not gonna make it that easy."

The Mist Painter laughed. It was like watching someone puffing on a cigar, exhaling smoke in rapid bursts.

No, thinking of him like that doesn't feel right. The way he shaped the smoke into a person was still art, but not painting. It was closer to sculpting.

"I might be accused of lacking kindness, Third, but not fairness," said the god Adam christened as the Mist Sculptor. "You disposed of my assassin – a reward is in order! Ask away! I will answer anything you wish."

"Your assassin?" Adam asked sharply. "Let's start with that. The hell do you mean assassin?"

"Lawrence has been trying to kill me ever since I invaded his world," explained the Second. "It's proved to be a rather complicated task."

Adam scoffed. "You're both borderline godlike creatures, and you had to resort to goddamn Eric to murder someone?"

"Yes," came the answer, without irony. "Time flows differently inside Painted worlds. Understand that long ago, when Lawrence and I became the First and the Second, we only had a vague concept of the limitations of our powers. We weren't...briefed, exactly, before being granted stewardship of this land."

The silence that followed was charged with something else, a subtlety Adam almost missed entirely. The Second's voice contained the smallest of hints of a different emotion: annoyance.

"Soon enough, we enacted a number of Divine Rules that effectively prevented direct murder of each other," the Mist Sculptor continued. "Which then forced us to engage in a game of loopholes. Divine Rules, once declared, cannot be revoked by any other being – not even those who granted us our powers. This also meant that existing loopholes could not be closed easily."

At his own words, the Mist Sculptor gave a sudden start, laughing. "No, I suppose such a matter would have changed little. Had we been able to close those loopholes...we wouldn't. Because then neither would have the opportunity to kill the other."

"And both of you want full control of the world," Adam added.

"He wants it to be a land without death or life. My desire is to allow life to take its natural course."

Meaning you're fine if the Rot overtakes the Painted World decays it to nothing. Adam swallowed his outrage. He couldn't waste this rare shot at gaining much-needed knowledge by raising his voice and accusing the Second of being a madman with a god complex.

He would've likely admitted to the charge, anyhow.

"What's the loophole you two left open?" Adam inquired.

The Second Painter lifted his misty index finger and pointed at the white nothingness behind him. Slowly, the smoky haze of his hand dissolved, traveling toward its empty target. At first it reshaped into a single letter, and then into an entire set of complete sentences.

1st Divine Law of the Painted World: Talent is Absolute

No other magic can overcome the laws of Talent.

Moreover, Talents cannot ignore other Talents – a Talent is the same as one's soul, and all souls are equal. No one is immune to a Talent. Every being of this world has the ability to acquire a single Talent.

"Any questions?" The Mist Sculptor watched with amusement as Adam keenly studied the words. "Don't be shy!"

"I have many," Adam began. "First, when it says 'beings of this world'–"

The Second Painter didn't let him finish. "Ah, of course! Here."

Definition – A 'being of this world' is either a person who was born in this Painted World, or someone who is later declared as a being of the Painted World by Lawrence.

"Do you know what's most amusing of all?" the Mist Sculptor remarked, in a deadpan tone of voice. "This definition didn't exist for some time – not until after I entered this world, obtained a Talent myself, and scared poor old Lawrence half to death."

"You have a Talent?" Adam uneasily asked.

"Why, of course. I play by the same rules as everyone else. Well, now I do, in any case."

The hazy fog widened the opening where its mouth should have been, splitting into what looked like a wide grin. "Upon entering this land, my own first Divine Rule was that offworlders should be granted the right to choose their Talent. Naturally, this led to good Lawrence enacting a second rule in response."

The words made of mist rearranged themselves.

2nd Divine Law of the Painted World: Only those allowed by Lawrence may enter this reality.

"Can you see the loophole at play, dear Third Painter?"

Adam nodded. "He couldn't undo your law letting offworlders choose their Talent, but he could stop offworlders from entering at all."

"Not only that, Lawrence also accounted for scenarios where offworlders somehow did manage to enter. My poor phrasing is to blame – I was young, forgive me – as I stated that their Talents could be chosen after awakening. By Lawrence's Definition, only beings of this world can awaken Talents, and by his 2nd Law, he alone has jurisdiction to grant an offworlder 'citizenship'. Even if one managed to arrive here, they would never be granted a Talent."

Wait. Then why did I–

Adam shook his head. He was sorta putting the cart before the horse with that one. First he had to ask, "How did I get inside this world, then? It's not like I was invited here."

"Oh, but you were."

Frowning, Adam shifted his gaze to the pathetic, crumbling figure of Eric's soul. "No. I definitely wasn't. Eric – it was Eric. I didn't win the contest."

"Remember what was discussed earlier, Third? We are not omniscient."

"What does that–"

"But," the Second Painter went on, "the Divine Rules are. When you enact something that lacks a definition or embodies a contradiction...let us be simple and say this: the letter of the law is prioritized over its spirit. They will be interpreted in any possible way so as to not fatally contradict another law."

Wonder what happens if you push that. I imagine he doesn't have the slightest clue either. "You gonna tell me how that relates here?"

"Only this – to bring your friend, Lawrence said the following: I grant the creator of this painting, Eric, the right to enter my world."

The Second Painter let out a derisive chuckle. "See, the First truly had no idea Eric was not the author of your work. To avoid an impossibility, the Divine Rule was forced to interpret itself thusly: 'I grant the creator of this painting, and Eric...' do you follow?"

Follow he did, although he still wasn't privy to the destination. "Based on how you know Lawrence's exact wording, I'd wager that as a...god-like person thing, you know immediately whenever a Divine Rule is implemented." So you can't surprise each other with Laws.

"Correct!"

"Guess that explains all the information you gave me through my tablet..." Adam took a brief pause, gradually processing all that he'd learned, before returning to his main point. "So the First brought Eric here to try to kill you – so he could stop the Rot?"

"Aye, my friend!"

And now that the cart was firmly prepared, it was time to grab the horse.

"How did I get a Talent?" Adam asked, his eyes burning with intensity. "I'm not a being of the Painted World, nor was I explicitly declared as one, even in the most charitable interpretation of the Divine Law you just mentioned. What are you not telling me?"

He's contradicting himself. I'm not letting this shit go.

A baleful grin spread across the Mist Sculptor's facsimile of a face, his false body convulsing with perverse delight. The foggy smoke that made up his form wriggled and churned in unsettling patterns, each movement more disorienting than the last, as if he found some sick pleasure in the question's implications.

"THAT MY DEARR–" His voice nearly returned to its otherworldly nature before fading back into a pale imitation of humanity. "That, my dear Third, is what makes the First so weary of confronting me. My Talent."

"Which is?"

"History," he said. "My Talent, my dear Adam – is HISTORY!"

The air grew thick with an unnatural chill, as if the room itself were holding its breath. Shadows distorted in ways they shouldn't, elongating and curling. A faint sound of whispering, just at the limit of hearing, seemed to emanate from the white nothingness of Adam's Canvas. Only the colors painted by his experiences kept him from shivering.

"Do you recall accusing us of having met before? Remember that I denied that charge."

"Yes...you lied," Adam muttered.

"I did no such thing. You surmised I stole your memories – a fair assumption, but an assumption nonetheless. Those meetings never happened."

Adam shook his head angrily. "My notes–"

"–Are from a history when those encounters did happen," the Second said. "Yet I made it so that they never had."

Adam's thoughts spun wildly, like a leaf caught in a whirlwind. The Second's words were a riddle wreathed in chaos, and the more he tried to unravel it, the more tangled his mind became. Horror bubbled up inside him, battling with a confusion so deep it felt physical, a cold metallic sensation approaching his spine.

"What the hell does that mean?" Adam insisted. "Those meetings happened. I don't care what your Talent is – you didn't go back in time or any bullshit. If you had, my notes wouldn't exist."

"My Talent is to change your history. Not the Painted World's." The Second's voice carried an unsettling calm, like a whisper from the edge of nightmares. "Think of it like this. Imagine yourself as having come from a different reality, and then being transplanted into another world, taking the place of the version of you who already existed there. This isn't quite accurate, as there are no alternate realities, but...you should understand the concept this way."

Adam forced himself to try.

If I take what he's saying at face value...it means he can essentially change my past. He, he could change my whole life, even before I came to the Painted World. But he still can't change the outcome of the things I've done.

Had he wished so, the Mist Sculptor could have altered Adam's past so that he never got involved with art at all – and it would be true. Because he couldn't change the world's past, though, the paintings he'd created would still exist.

It would be like the world and I have different histories...but both are still real.

Wrapping his mind around this was nearly impossible, and accepting it as the truth even less so. However, Talents were magic. He'd seen them warp reality many times over. Still, if this is true...

"You used it on me?" Adam asked, a pit forming in his gut. "When I entered this world?"

"Correct!" the Second said. "I changed your history so that you had always been from here."

"But...my memories are from Earth. I still remember everything there."

"It wouldn't do for you to have forgotten your life there. I needed your emotion – your hatred, so that you could rid me of my assassin. Thus, I shaped your history accordingly: you were born in the Painted World, then moved to Earth."

Joy was writ across its featureless face. "All to ensure that you gained a Talent."

'Every being of this world has the ability to acquire a single Talent'. The words of the 1st Law echoed in Adam's mind.

He shook his head. "No. I had a family. A father–"

"Oh?" The Second laughed. "And were you his son?"

"I was," he muttered, in a low breath. "God knows he wished I wasn't, but I WAS!"

Adam's heart pounded as the creeping realization took hold. His past had been twisted, manipulated by the Second's whims. What else about himself was now false? If he ever returned to Earth, would his father even recognize his face? Would anyone? Were his memories of meeting with them real, or was this past something the Mist Sculptor had forged? Panic surged–

Before a spark of clarity broke through.

Eric... The thought steadied him, his breath catching. Eric remembered me. And if the Second was able to alter his History, there'd be no need for this charade – he could've killed him from the start. Eric's memories of me are authentic and untouchable.

Adam's eyes softened – if only for a moment – when they shifted away from the Mist Sculptor and over towards the suffering soul inside his Canvas.

Eric's soul writhed, unaware of its surroundings, its agony nearly a danse macabre. The ethereal form contorted, flickering like a candle in a storm, its suffering a silent scream that echoed through the void.

Despite everything...it almost feels 'right' that you kept me from losing my mind, Adam mused. Despite his wishes, a smile crept across his face despite his wishes. You–

The Mist Sculptor surged forth and engulfed Eric's soul in one fluid motion.

There was no warning, no chance to react. One moment, Eric's soul writhed; the next, it was consumed, leaving only a faint, darkened wisp behind.

Adam's breath stopped, his heart plunging into icy dread as his blood ran cold. He stared, unable to comprehend what he'd just witnessed. The shock rooted him to the spot, his mind racing yet finding no refuge.

Gone, he thought, the word reverberating in the hollow void Eric's soul left behind. Like he was never here...just like that.

"Worry not," the Mist Sculptor said, dusting nonexistent dirt off his ethereal body. "I merely wanted to ensure my assassin would not return to life as Aspreay once did. This should not affect the Talents you stole from him. Let us proceed with our discussion, yes?"