The Artist’s Obsession

Artua still could not forget the shock he felt the first time he saw Fren’s masterpiece.

Vanessa had the most ideal proportions of any human Artua had ever seen, and his features were perfectly balanced.

And above all, that smile.

That faint smile that rose gently like flower petals on still water over his expressionless face—it was breathtaking.

To lose oneself over a mere s*ave was humiliating, but the problem had not been Artua’s alone.

Everyone had been stricken as if with fever, unable to escape that smile, suffering for days.

Coldly speaking, it was not so strange that Artua had drawn Vanessa’s face onto the ideal existence he imagined.

Other artists would surely gain endless inspiration just by thinking of Vanessa and create multiple works based on him.

But Artua wanted no one to discover the truth.

The moment it was exposed, people would jeer: “So you bowed before the master after all,” “Let’s be honest, that elf is remarkable.”

He wanted to avoid becoming one of those third-rate artists who admitted they could never catch up to Fren and instead chased whatever Fren created.

To avoid that, he had to escape this place where he had come face-to-face with his own work.

He had to stop staring at Vanessa like someone entranced.

Then why! Why, in the world—!

Why could he not take his eyes off Vanessa?

Why could he not suppress the urge to hold onto him for just a few more seconds?

Artua’s mouth felt completely dry.

And he noticed something he had not seen earlier: Vanessa was wearing a garment with a round open back.

The smooth back, without a single blemish, shone even whiter under the moonlight.

Artua thought impulsively,

I want to touch him.

Vanessa had not yet noticed the intruder and continued splashing water with his feet.

Artua swallowed dryly and stepped carefully, cautiously, like hunting a wary deer.

If it was his imagination or not, the closer he got, the whiter Vanessa’s back seemed to glow.

Was this how the man in the old stories felt when he stole a glance at a goddess bathing?

Now Vanessa was within arm’s reach.

Artua slowly extended his hand.

He could almost feel the smooth texture of skin.

At the moment his fingertips were about to touch Vanessa’s back—
Vanessa suddenly turned sharply toward him.

“Ah!”

Meeting those amethyst-violet eyes was like being struck by lightning.

Artua stumbled backwards.

His heart pounded violently.

He knew that approaching someone else’s artwork, let alone touching it, was the worst disrespect imaginable.

Only the artist who created the work had the right to lay hands on it.

As an artist himself, he understood that better than anyone.

But—but…!

His fingertips trembled uncontrollably with the desire to touch Vanessa.

Artua quickly hid his hands behind his back, and Vanessa prostrated himself at his feet.

“A lowly s*ave failed to recognize a noble lord. Please punish me.”

“……”

Vanessa intended to show respect, but to Artua it was torture.

That posture emphasized the pale back even more.

Artua almost reached out again instinctively, but he cleared his throat hard and commanded,

“Enough. Just sit.”

Vanessa immediately knelt upright.

With his back less exposed, Artua felt calmer, but now Vanessa’s lowered head irritated him.

He wanted to see that perfectly arranged face again, so he ordered,

“Raise your head and sit comfortably.”

“…I cannot. I am only a lowly s*ave—”

“Sit comfortably!”

“Yes.”

At Artua’s bark, Vanessa raised his head at once.

Artua stared, thinking again how geometrically ideal that face was, and asked,

“What were you doing here? Your master is inside.”

“……”

Vanessa had indeed disappeared from Fren’s side at some point, though Artua had not realized until now.

He continued,

“If I remember correctly, your master always takes you wherever he goes—wait.”

Artua grabbed Vanessa’s shoulders with both hands.

Vanessa was startled, but Artua did not care.

He urged sharply,

“Sit.”

“Um, I…”

“Hurry!”

With no choice, Vanessa sat again on the rock by the pond.

The bottom of his foot was slightly cut, as if sliced by something sharp.

The blood seeping into the water showed clearly why he had his feet submerged.

A precious work meant for permanent display, marred by a wound.

Rage flooded Artua.

“Where did you get this injury?”

“……”

“There’s nowhere here you could hurt yourself—where? Where did you get hurt?!”

Vanessa stubbornly continued to keep silent.

A s*ave was still a s*ave—frustratingly useless.

This was why slaves could never rise above their position.

Artua was about to lash out when a memory flashed like lightning through his mind.

He murmured quietly,

“It was because of me, wasn’t it?”

When Artua broke the glass earlier like a fool, Vanessa must have stepped on the shards.

Fren must have noticed and sent him outside.

Artua felt strength drain from his entire body.

He had schemed and clawed desperately to defeat Fren even once.

Yet Fren was the type who would willingly send his precious masterpiece outside to protect someone else.

A moment of painful realization struck Artua.

“It’s really unfair.”

God had given Fren everything—talent, character, power.

Fren had probably never felt inferiority or defeat.

Whatever hardship he faced, he must have met it with grace and positivity.

That must be why he can create such beautiful works.

Hateful as it was, Artua could only admit Fren was truly a perfect artist.

Only Fren could make someone mistake a lowborn s*ave with tainted blood for a divine being.

Then suddenly, Artua realized something.

What am I doing right now?

He was kneeling in front of Vanessa.

Shame flushed Artua’s face.

He remembered kneeling to inspect the wound—but had not meant to kneel completely.

Someone of the royal family, one of the most exalted bloodlines, kneeling to a worthless s*ave.

This was far beyond secretly drawing Vanessa’s face.

That could be hidden, solved by silence.

But this—this could not.

Artua began trembling again, but for a very different reason.

If this s*ave spread word that a prince had knelt before him, chaos would erupt.

Before that happened, Artua would have to quietly dispose of him.

There would be rumors, but it didn’t matter.

s*ave or masterpiece, a s*ave was still a s*ave.

He could simply claim the s*ave shamelessly tried to seduce royalty and was executed on the spot.

Artua stretched out his hands to grab Vanessa’s slender neck.

He would knock him unconscious first, then later slice him apart and pack his limbs in salt pots.

All reverence he once held had already melted away.

But then—

“…Your Highness Artua.”

A thin, thread-like whisper slipped into his ears.

Like someone spellbound, the noble prince lifted his gaze to the lowly s*ave.

From below, Vanessa’s face—beautiful from any angle—was even more breathtaking.

Vanessa whispered softly, like singing,

“You are truly kind.”

The power of beauty was terrifying.

It not only calmed a raging storm but birthed an entirely new emotion.

Artua felt his lips rise involuntarily.

He had received countless praises as an artist, but none had ever made him feel so ecstatic.

To think a single word from a mere s*ave—

Surprised by himself, he nonetheless replayed Vanessa’s compliment over and over again.

Watching him, Vanessa asked gently,

“Your Highness, is it alright for you to remain here? People may begin looking for you.”

He was right.

As host, Artua should not stay away long.

But Artua did not want to return.

I want a little more of this s*ave…

Staring endlessly at Vanessa’s wet feet, Artua impulsively seized his ankle.

He touched someone else’s artwork.

He crossed an unspoken, inviolable line—like placing his hands on a masterpiece displayed on a museum wall.

But he felt no guilt.

Instead, he felt a dangerous, intoxicating thrill.

Now that he knew just how intoxicating it was to touch another’s creation, there was no reason to hold back.

So he spoke.

“I want to paint you.”

“Your Highness…?”

“Tonight, I will paint you.”