18th September, year 1134 by the Euthian calendar, three years ago.

  He got his inspiration by doing nothing. But boredom doesn’t bring anything anymore.

  The easel stood in front of Acryl, like a marble yet to be carved. He and the canvas stood alone in the workshop, surrounded by shelves and a few desks, as he looked to the ceiling. This is where Acryl spent most of his life since he was adopted by his mentor.

  His head was empty yet loud with suddenly passing thoughts like they were shooting around the workshop’s first floor. He felt like his heart was chained by something. Why did he choose art? Acryl couldn’t tell, but he felt like, without it, everything would be as dull as a worn-out brush.

  Some of the unrelated thoughts and ideas stuck with him, like getting a Realm-arts or saving up money for a long trip. But he knew that with his part-time job, both ideas were ridiculous to execute. He recalled that a Realm-arts implant costs around five thousand, and his piggy bank was way too empty.

  Next to the easel was a small bucket filled with clear water, with a few brushes in it. In the reflection, he saw his face. The same face he had seen in the mirror for the past decade, starting when he first had memories. The messy grayish hair and the two braids on the side of his head often made people mistake his gender when he was little. He could feel the time pass as the smell of oil paints lingered in his nose. They weren’t very pleasant to smell, but Acryl had already gotten used to it.

  The thoughts are still passing as if they were the wind that Acryl was trying to catch with a fishing net.

  “Acryl,” a voice interrupted him from the staircase. It was his mentor-Canvas. He was the one who adopted Acryl and gave help to Acryl’s Siyunese friend to find a place to live. It looked like Canvas had just woken up, he was still in his pajamas. His hair was uncombed, only a small pinch of it pointing up like a flower of gray hairs.

  “…Huh…oh, sorry, I didn’t notice you.”

  “Oh, don’t mind about it, Neon is still sleeping?” Canvas said as he stretched and walked down the stairs.

  Acryl nodded. He put the caps of the color tubes back on and took off the canvas from the easel. This has happened for the past week, his head was taken over by anxiety.

  “Acryl, haven’t you thought about taking a break? No one is forcing you to paint.”

  “But…I can’t let my skills go dull.” Acryl responded, trying to make up excuses and putting back the canvas and the brushes.

  “Going dull? Since when do you know how to tell jokes? I don’t believe the kid I raised would ever think that!” he cried out as he slowly walked towards the shelf where he stores the colors and other equipment. Acryl wasn’t looking in his mentor’s direction, but he could hear sounds of taking out and putting back boxes and paintbrushes, and papers flapping in the air.

  “Y’know Acryl. I understand how you are feeling. When I was your age, I thought the same thing, I was the same as you. Thoughts about the coming future, oh, and dreams and all that kind of nonsense.”

  “But remember, er, you can’t know what comes after this day, of course, tomorrow will always arrive no matter if it brings good news or bad news. You don’t have a choice other than to wake up.”

  “I understand, but I can’t stop thinking about it…”

  “Then just don’t! Worrying doesn’t fix the issue; doing does.” Canvas said loudly as he jumped up to reach the top of the shelf.

  “Oh, right, Acryl, forgot to mention,” he continued, remembering that his so-called tenant was still sleeping upstairs.

  “A few days prior, when you were out with Neon, a lady came and was interested in buying your recent two paintings. And I thought it may be a good idea for you to gain experience in communicating with clients.”

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Although he doesn’t consider him to be a great negotiator or a sociable person, Acryl agreed to Canvas’s offer. Canvas then started to write a letter to the buyer.

  “Canvas, do you ever feel like you don’t know what to do next and what to do now?” Acryl asked as he walked into the kitchen, putting on an apron as Canvas continued sitting by his desk and writing.

  “All the time, Acryl, you will feel it again and again…it won’t be a constant, but it will come back once and once again, just remember, you let your paintbrush guide you, but you are still the hand that holds it,” Canvas said, his voice accompanied by the sound of folding the paper.

  Acryl didn’t respond, Sometimes Canvas would make these analogies that not always made sense, despite that, he still kept them in mind. Although this time he still did not understand exactly what Canvas meant, it sort of reminded him of what Neon said:

  “I can never make an Euthian understand the delicacy of Siyuenese poetry, nor make a Siyuenese cry to an Euthian song.”

  “Canvas…do you think it is possible to make an Euthain cry to the playing of erhu?” Acryl said, his hand washing the vegetables. The moisture felt cold in his hand as if he were holding onto a metal handrail in winter.

  “Have you cried to it?” Canvas asked back, from the corner of his eye, he could see Canvas still writing the letter. Strange, never seen him struggle with that.

  14th October 1134 years after Starseeker’s descent

  Acryl checked his bag again as he waited for his appointment. Short pencils neatly organized in his pencil case, a kneadable eraser that he just bought on his last trip to the nearest art supply store, encased inside a tin candy box, Neon bought for him. Then he checked his sketchbook, the edges covered by a leather book sleeve with carvings similar to classical Siyuenese paintings of mountains and rivers. It was another gift from Neon that she commissioned a craftsman to make. Between the book sleeve and the sketchbook was the check, dark blue that could be made by adding a bit of red to the blue, then mixed with an unnoticeable amount of yellow. He counted the number on it again, four thousand pounds. Realm-arts were not unaffordable for common folks, and Acryl was not poor either, but four thousand pounds was still a sum he and Canvas could make in a few months without eating and paying for necessities. He felt unreal that he was finally getting a Realm-art implant, stepping into the world of arcane that he had always been interested in. If it were not for embarrassment, he would’ve asked the person sitting next to him to slap him to check if he was dreaming or not.

  “Come in, please,” the assistant of the implanter said as she opened the door.

  Acryl put the check back, put the bag on his back, and walked into the room. Then the implanter greeted him, he was a man in his forties or fifties, his hand fatty but tremble-less and firm as he stretched his arm for a handshake.

  “Good afternoon, good sir! Pick your poison,” the implanter said, smiling while he let go of Acryl’s hand and pulled the curtain behind him.

  He was greeted by a wall full of glass containers of fluids with different things floating in them. They were materials used for implants. Some of them were items that looked just like the regular tools people would use, only that they gleamed some kind of light or had strange shapes. Some were bodily parts of abnormalities. The moment he laid his eyes on them, Acryl felt a desire to vomit and was slightly dizzy, but his attention was quickly carried away by another type of jar. In them floated shapes, changing colors and silhouettes in Acryl’s eyes; they were like colors diluting in water. Then, as he was confused by what those things were, his eyes fixed on one of the jars. It was a twig, growing in the jar rapidly but also rotting at the same time. The twig bloomed flowers as its smaller branches locked and moved like a snake eating its own tail.

  “…Rasa’s tree…” Acryl whispered, remembering about fractals he learned in secondary school.

  “Ah, you’ve got a pair of good eyes and good knowledge, it’s hard to see a knowledgeable customer like you!” the implanter said, arms crossed.

  “Ah, Rasa, Dame Rasa of Farland, tsk, tsk, it’s hard to crack her theories when I was in the Technical college…ah, felt like my veins pumped coffee instead of blood.”

  “Does…my choice affect the implant? Like the archetype and powers?” Acryl asked.

  “No! No, no, no! This is completely a myth; the only thing it affects is how the implant will look! After all, a Realm-art is virtually a ritual that uses you as the substance and medium.”

  After some more rambling and stories from the implanter, Acryl slept on the operating table. The cold surface pressed on his unclothed chest as the smell of disinfectant haunted him before the assistant put the mask on his face.

  He settled on implanting the ever-growing, ever-withering tree. As he imagined what his Realm-art would be, the anesthesia kicked in.

  “…In the dream of all dreams, stride behind the curtain of the stage and stages, after every curtain call…then you will find the truth, but no answer.”

  “O, child of paint, you shall kindle the furnace and be the key who opens the gate, for you shall see it yourself.”

  “Dew. Dew is steaming away, child, wake now.”

  Acryl woke up. The voices he heard right before his eyes opened faded away as if being warded off by the smell of disinfectant.