Prudhomme looked down at the people gathered far below. He and Iron were seated among nice royals from Level 4.
A massive platform—ten meters high—had been constructed above the town. At its center sat an elegant dinner table. The reason was simple: the royals did not wish to sit at the same height as Level 2 civilians.
Prudhomme carried most of the conversation, smiling, nodding, laughing at the right moments. Iron, meanwhile, sat quietly, staring down at his plate.
"Where is Captain Voon?" Prudhomme asked suddenly, breaking Iron's thoughts. "Shouldn't he have accompanied you?"
"That lazy knight overslept," one royal replied, wiping his mouth with a napkin.
Of course he did, Iron thought.
Still… if Voon were here, the burden wouldn't feel so heavy.
"So," another royal said, leaning back in his chair, "how does it feel to be the new governor of this level, Captain Iron?"
"It is truly an honor," Iron replied smoothly, voice measured. "The highest achievement a knight can receive."
"To be awarded the position without a formal selection," another added, smiling thinly, "that's exceedingly rare. You must be very special."
Iron inclined his head.
"It was solely my master who convinced them. I will do my best to live up to his expectations."
More questions followed. Compliments. Thinly veiled tests.
Iron answered them all—but his mind wasn't there.
His head throbbed. A dull, persistent pressure gnawed at the back of his skull, and it wasn't the sword.
Something else was wrong.
Almost as if a piano had begun to play somewhere in the distance, a man sat at the edge of the long dinner table with his legs casually crossed on top of it.
A canvas rested on his lap as he painted, his gaze drifting toward the view beyond the platform. His light green hair swayed slightly in the evening breeze. He wore a brown vest over a white shirt with the sleeves carelessly untucked.
"Panchetti," one noble said in a rich, irritated tone, "is that how the Giuseppe family teaches manners?"
Panchetti didn't react. He simply kept painting.
When the servants placed down the next course, he suddenly leaned forward.
"Oh—lingonberry sauce," he murmured thoughtfully. "That would add the perfect tone to the sunset."
To the nobles' shock, he dipped his paintbrush straight into the sauce.
"Panchetti! The food isn't your paint," an older noblewoman scolded sharply.
Without looking up, Panchetti replied calmly,
"If you don't mind, you can paint with anything. It's only your imagination that limits you."
He dragged the brush across the canvas with dramatic strokes.
"I've already overcome that," he added with a faint smile. "That's what makes me special."
Iron leaned toward his master and whispered,
"Just who is this guy?"
"That," Prudhomme replied quietly, "is Panchetti Giuseppe. The youngest son of the Giuseppe family—one of the so-called Holy Families."
"The families who carry the King's blood."
Panchetti continued painting with wide, aggressive sweeps while the entire dinner table watched in uneasy fascination.
"I am so happy I got to draw this view for myself…. the view of Level 2."
Then he suddenly stopped.
He lifted the canvas and turned it toward the crowd.
A breathtaking sunset stretched across the painting—warm reds and glowing golds bleeding perfectly into the horizon.
For a moment, there was silence.
Then the nobles burst into applause.
Panchetti ignored the applause entirely.
He calmly set the canvas aside and stood up from the table. The room quieted as he walked across the floor, his steps light and unhurried.
He stopped in front of Iron.
Then, to everyone's surprise, he gave a small bow.
"It's an honor," Panchetti said politely, "to meet a captain of your caliber. I'm certain you will become a great governor at this level."
He then turned slightly and bowed again.
"And to you as well, Captain Prudhomme. You have been a marvelous addition to the Tenka-Goken for many years."
The entire table fell silent.
Iron and Prudhomme were the most stunned of all. Neither of them had received a single word of praise during the dinner until now.
"Hey, Panchetti," one noble snapped. "Someone of holy blood like you shouldn't bow to knights."
Panchetti ignored them.
Iron and Prudhomme quickly stood and bowed in return.
"No, no… the honor is ours," Iron said.
As Iron lifted his head again, he noticed Panchetti smiling.
"Captain Iron," Panchetti said, tilting his head slightly, "if you don't mind… may I have the pleasure of painting your portrait?"
Iron blinked in surprise.
"O-of course," he stammered.
As Panchetti pulled out a fresh canvas, Iron tried his best to sit still. His head was still pounding from the earlier attack, but he forced himself to keep a steady posture.
Panchetti began painting immediately.
His brush moved rapidly across the canvas, almost violently, as if something had taken control of his hand. Strangely, he didn't even look at Iron.
Prudhomme raised an eyebrow, gently stroking his moustache.
"I'm no painter," he said, "but aren't you supposed to look at the person you're painting?"
Panchetti chuckled softly.
"You mean that big sword in his head?" he said casually. "It's rather hard to miss, don't you think?"
The nobles burst into rich laughter.
Then Panchetti's expression changed. His smile faded into something more thoughtful.
"No," he said quietly. "I only need to look into someone's soul once to paint them."
"Soul?" Iron repeated, confused.
Panchetti continued sweeping the brush across the canvas.
"Let me ask you something, Captain Iron," he said. "Do you believe in fate?"
Iron answered without hesitation.
"Fate? No. I believe in statistics and numbers. Not mystical things like fate."
Panchetti smiled faintly.
"A fine principle," he said. "But a negligent one."
He paused, lifting the brush for a moment.
"You see, life is like a painting. We are the colors, the shadows, and the light—but fate is the one holding the brush. Sometimes the strokes are gentle. Sometimes they're wild and unexpected. Yet in the end, every line becomes part of a masterpiece we never fully understood while it was being painted."
Iron and Prudhomme suddenly noticed something strange.
Panchetti's eyes were glowing.
So was the brush.
Prudhomme leaned forward slightly.
"Is it…?" he began.
"An artifact," Iron finished.
Panchetti nodded calmly, continuing to paint.
"Yes," he said. "I am the owner of the Paintbrush Artifact."
He lifted the glowing brush slightly.
"It has the power to draw a person's soul."
He smiled faintly.
"Or more precisely… the soul's fate."
Panchetti suddenly stopped painting.
The room grew quiet as the glowing brush hovered just above the canvas.
He slowly looked up at Iron.
"Now, Captain Iron…" Panchetti said softly, tilting his head, "Would you like to see your fate?"
Iron sat there, conflicted.
His head still throbbed from the pain that pulsed behind his eyes, but that wasn't what troubled him. It was the question itself.
Fate.
Then suddenly, someone stepped onto the podium.
It was time.
Below the platform, a massive crowd had gathered. At the center of the plaza stood a stage, upon which a woman wearing all white waited. Her insignia white mask hides her face.
"People of Level 2," she announced, her voice amplified and clear.
The crowd erupted into cheers.
"I stand before you today as the King's representative."
More applause.
"Today," she continued, "a new governor will be crowned."
She raised a beautiful white sword, its surface gleaming in the light.
"Captain Iron," she said, turning toward the platform, "step forward."
She paused.
Her masked head tilted slightly.
The crowd began to murmur.