Chapter 417: I Used to Hate Painting!
"Since you aren't interested in the tournament, does that mean you don't plan to fight seriously this afternoon?"
"Mm. I'll deal with it appropriately. Making you my model is more important than something like that."
"…I already told you to ask Edelweiss first."
Luke looked at Sara with a troubled expression.
This time, however, it was not because of the modeling request. What bothered him was her complete lack of fighting spirit.
Luke had been looking forward to battling Sara.
With Edelweiss's assurance, he could at least be certain the fight would be exciting enough to interest him.
Therefore, Luke did not want to lose this opportunity.
Unlike Stella and Ikki, Sara did not regard herself as a warrior. Judging by her attitude, she did not particularly enjoy fighting either.
Because of Sara's special position within Rebellion, the Festival was the perfect opportunity for Luke to fight her without restraint.
That was completely different from Stella and Ikki, who were willing to spar with him whenever they had the chance.
Yet Sara herself seemed unwilling to fight seriously, leaving Luke deeply frustrated.
Although he did not absolutely need to battle her, he still wanted to witness the ability that had earned praise from Edelweiss.
Edelweiss had deliberately withheld the details so Luke could enjoy the surprise.
Now, forget the surprise—the person meant to deliver it had simply decided not to bother.
Luke immediately fell silent.
He began considering how to awaken Sara's desire to fight so he could finally witness this supposed surprise.
Meanwhile, when Sara saw that Luke had stopped speaking, she pulled a small sketchbook from somewhere.
Removing the pencil attached to its side, she looked directly at Luke and began drawing.
Her drawing speed was not especially fast.
Luke had watched several of Sara's battles before. Her fighting style was connected to art, allowing her to produce different effects by manipulating colors.
During battle, Sara painted at astonishing speed, often completing an image almost instantly.
Likewise, when she painted Luke and Edelweiss last night, each picture had taken shape within an incredibly short time.
Luke had assumed that speed represented Sara's mastery as a grandmaster painter.
Just as Luke could effortlessly perform ordinary sword techniques, she could casually complete paintings in an instant.
However, after watching Sara now, Luke realized his understanding might have been mistaken.
This time, she painted extremely slowly, carefully considering every stroke.
Luke's face gradually appeared upon the flat white page.
It was not merely drawn.
It looked as though his actual face had somehow been imprinted directly onto the paper.
Luke knew nothing about painting, yet Sara's skill made him feel as though he were witnessing genuine magic.
This was only the second time he had watched her paint.
Even after seeing it last night, the sight still left him deeply impressed.
Luke did not interrupt her.
He even quietly used Prana to reduce their presence, preventing passing pedestrians from recognizing them.
Luke sat silently while Sara painted without a word.
Before long, a simple portrait was finished.
Even when working slowly, a master painter like Sara did not need long to complete such a plain and uncomplicated portrait.
Only a few minutes had passed.
Looking at the lifelike version of himself outlined entirely in black, Luke could not help commenting,
"You really love painting."
Luke might not understand art, but he understood people.
From Sara's movements alone, he could see that nothing was wasted.
The motion of her wrist, fingertips, and pencil possessed a precision impossible to gain through ordinary practice.
It was the artistic equivalent of sword training—a unique personal style created through countless years of relentless effort.
Sara had entered the realm of a true master.
Without tremendous passion, effort, determination, and conviction, reaching such a level would have been impossible.
However, Sara did not look pleased by Luke's praise.
Instead, a complicated expression appeared on her face.
She remained silent for a moment before answering.
"Now, I do."
"In the past, I hated painting more than anything."
Her quiet mutter carried countless tangled emotions.
...
Sara Bloodlily had grown up in Italy for as long as she could remember.
Her home was a small house hidden among the mountains.
Born with an illness that left her bones extraordinarily fragile, Sara could not walk and could only learn about the world from her bed.
Back then, everything visible from that tiny room was her entire world.
At the center of that world was always a figure with his back turned toward her.
That figure was her father.
Sara's father was an unknown painter.
From beginning to end, he faced an enormous canvas, keeping his back to Sara as he slowly worked upon the oil painting.
It was a religious work depicting the Messiah preventing the end of the world.
He spent several years on that painting.
In all Sara's memories, she saw only her father's back. She could not recall him turning around to look at her even once.
He never answered when she called out.
Even the task of caring for the sickly Sara was left entirely to hired maids.
Sara did not know what her father looked like.
She did not know what his voice sounded like or whether they had ever truly faced each other.
Beyond that single view of his back, she knew absolutely nothing about her father.
The man seemed possessed, completely trapped within the painting before him.
And so…
"I hated it."
"I hated the painting that stole my father away from me."
Then, one day, her father died.
Without warning, he collapsed before the canvas.
The maid who brought him to the hospital later told Sara that some severe chronic illness had suddenly returned.
Sara cried for three entire days.
Alone inside that empty little room, she wept until she had no tears left.
Eventually, she looked toward the unfinished oil painting, and hatred ignited within her heart.
The work was almost complete.
Only the central figure—the Messiah himself—remained blank.
Sara stared at the culprit that had taken her father's life and decided to destroy it.
She climbed down from the bed and dragged her fragile body toward the canvas.
Picking up the palette knife that had fallen onto the floor, Sara needed only one light movement to tear apart the accursed painting.
But…
"I couldn't do it."
Scattered across the floor were countless empty paint containers.
Layers upon layers of dried pigment covered the area, while the canvas itself had become worn from endless corrections and repainting.
Standing there, Sara finally saw what she had never been able to notice from her bed.
She felt the overwhelming passion her father had poured into that painting.
…
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