I Start with a Bad Hand!

Cedric? Is it you, Cedric?

I rubbed my temples, thinking of that silver-haired annoyance that came to mind whenever something exasperating happened.

But I hesitated to jump to the conclusion that it was Cedric. Despite his craziness reminiscent of a senile old man, Cedric’s madness was more openly aggressive. He would rather grab me by the collar and shake me in front of everyone than sneakily trip me up from behind. He wasn’t the type to act maliciously in the shadows.

‘And wouldn’t Baron Degoph recognize his face? Cedric is from the Elexion House too. Of course, he could have sent someone else, but still…’

Ah, my brain isn’t working. I never expected I’d have to use it like this. Trying to do something I wasn’t used to was giving me a slight headache. Even so, I squeezed every ounce of my creaky brain as I quickly moved my steps.

The alley with the old painting studio, as Agnes had informed me. I opened the door to the first painting studio.

***

“Yes, welcome.”

This was the thirteenth studio. Finding out the origin of this mysterious paint was proving difficult.

Whenever I showed the fragment of paint wrapped in the handkerchief, the people in the studios would tilt their heads and say they didn’t have any paint that produced such a color. Yet, I could see similar colors displayed in the studio.

“Isn’t it that color? The one on the painting over there.”

When I asked, they mixed various materials and showed me different shades, insisting they were entirely different. But to me, they all looked the same blue. Slightly less bright or a bit darker, but fundamentally the same. They kept asking me if I could see the difference.

‘What difference?’

What on earth were they talking about? As I smiled awkwardly with an uncomprehending expression, they explained that the colors could vary because each artist mixed materials in different ratios. It was the twelfth time I had heard this explanation.

‘Please, let this place give me some new information.’

Please, please. I tapped my sore feet on the floor and showed a piece of the paint to the elderly owner of the studio.

“I’d like to recreate this color. Could you tell me what pigments or materials might have been used?”

“Let me take a look.”

With slow movements, the studio owner put on his glasses and examined the paint under the light, humming a low tune. As I absentmindedly listened to his melody, he suddenly chuckled.

“You’re trying to paint with Leveta Blue, eh? My, my, how did you come to know about something that only the old-timers would appreciate? But we don’t deal with this anymore.”

“What?”

This was the first time I had heard such a thing.

“Oh… yes! But how did you know?”

“Well, I’ve been running this shop since before you were born, so I know. This blue pigment here is called ‘Reveta’… It’s an old formula used only in the Thomple Empire. Nowadays, with the roads open, it’s easy to get blue pigments, but a few decades ago, blue dyes were rare, so they mixed various ingredients. Now, there are much brighter and easier-to-store pigments available, so there’s no need to use this.”

“Oh… that’s right. I wanted to recreate the same color as the one in the old portrait.”

“Is this paint you brought from that portrait?”

“Yes. It’s so cracked that I tried to restore it… If it’s a paint that’s no longer used, it might be difficult.”

“Oh, it’s hard to store, indeed, a painting made with Reveta.”

The art shop owner laughed heartily. I smiled awkwardly and got to the point.

“Then, can you tell me what ingredients are mixed in here?”

The art shop owner replied with a troubled face.

“Reveta blue is an outdated method, and we don’t have a proper way to use the Reveta technique anymore… Hmm. But I know an artist who is well-versed in Reveta, should I give you their address?”

“That would be very helpful. Please do.”

While the art shop owner hummed a tune and looked for a blank piece of paper to write the address on, I slyly asked him more questions.

“Then, is this technique widely known? Uh… I mean, could an ordinary student know about it, not just experts like you?”

“Well, it’s such an old technique that young artists these days hardly use it… Hmm, unless they have a particular interest in dyes or have someone in their circle working in a related field, it would be hard to know. Especially someone your age. Do you have people around you who paint?”

“Oh… haha. Not really, but there are many elderly people around.”

I gave a bitter smile, thinking of the population pyramid in Heylem, which was shaped like an inverted triangle. The art shop owner, who had finished writing the address, smiled kindly at me.

“It’s a rundown alley, so there are a lot of rough people. Be careful when you go.”

***

“Miss, have you thought about selling your hair? With that length, you could easily get two gold coins…”

“No, I haven’t.”

The deeper I went into this alley, the more it felt like facing the deep abyss of humanity. After receiving a few more offers to sell my hair, I regretted not wearing a robe with a hood.

Following the roughly painted numbers on the wall, I arrived at a house with a subtle blend of oil paint and alcohol smells.

‘This should be the place.’

However, at the front of the artist’s house, a drunkard was sitting on the doorstep, blocking my way and looking up at me.

“Excuse me. I’m here to see the artist who lives here.”

“An artist living here? Why?”

It seemed my indirect way of asking him to move was lost on him, as he remained seated on the doorstep, questioning me again.

“I have a question about Reveta blue.”

The drunkard looked me up and down before responding with a disinterested expression.

“Why Reveta?”

His speech was short and curt.

“Um… a portrait I own has cracked, and the paint used is said to be Reveta.”

I explained that the owner of Remie Art Shop in the market street had referred me here. At that, the person sitting on the doorstep mumbled something and then looked up at me, saying,

“It’s gone.”

The old drunk threw an empty bottle away with a thud and took a new one from the box next to him.

“Pardon?”

“It’s all dead.”

His voice echoed quietly in the eerie alley.

“…What?”

“All those who painted with Reveta, they all died. Not a single one survived more than a year, succumbing to illness one by one.”

…What? I felt a chill run down my spine at this unexpected story. Trying to hide my trembling, I crossed my arms and asked him,

“Then… the artist living here has also passed away…?”

The drunkard answered bluntly,

“No, that’s me.”

What?

“Excuse me? You just said they all passed away.”

“I said everyone except me.”

This was a relief and infuriating at the same time—a truly peculiar situation. The chill I had felt now turned into a surge of anger, warming my blood circulation.

“Could you please explain in more detail? About everyone dying, I mean.”

The artist gargled with the newly opened bottle of alcohol and continued talking.

“Reveta? That used to be extremely rare. It was the only pigment that could produce such a vivid blue.”

I already knew this. The artist continued.

“But strangely, a few months after using Reveta, some of the artists started dropping dead. From then on, no one dared to paint with Reveta. Outsiders didn’t care if a few painters died, but within our circle, the story spread. We believed the pigment was cursed and that it killed people. So, among ourselves, we called it the ‘cursed pigment.'”

He lowered his voice. Despite this, there were still parts I needed to verify before I could fully trust the words of a drunk who wasn’t known for clear communication.

“Many artists lead unhealthy lives in unhealthy environments, which is why they often have short lifespans. Isn’t it possible that it wasn’t the Reveta, but just their lifestyle?”

The artist, reeking of alcohol, retorted angrily.

“No. Those who didn’t use Reveta are still alive, though they’re barely holding on. And the ones who were asked to use Reveta were the top artists. They didn’t live in places like this where sunlight barely reaches.”

He coughed and cleared his throat, his voice thick with phlegm.

“And it wasn’t just the artists who died. A few nobles did too. None of the nobles who had their portraits painted with Reveta lived out their natural lifespans.”

Unlike before, the artist’s voice was now subtly agitated. I wondered whether to reveal that I was a noble. Suddenly, another question came to mind.

“You mentioned that you also used Reveta. But you said the best artists who used Reveta didn’t live in places like this. What did you mean by that?”

I came here because I was told you knew a lot about Reveta. As I spoke with a troubled expression, the artist, who had been staring at me, finally lowered his head and mumbled.

“Well, that’s because I… ahem…”

“Pardon?”

“I gambled…”

Ah, a drunkard and a gambler. Now embarrassed, the artist looked off into the dirty alley. Anyway, he had used Reveta. So, how was he still alive?

Then how are you still alive? I asked, genuinely curious.