Chapter 1
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Translator: Silver Dragon
Chapter: 1
Chapter Title: Vienna's Ashen Winter
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The smell of oil was overpowering.
Cheap turpentine seeping under the nails lingered deep in the flesh for days, no matter how much soap you scrubbed with. That was the smell of poverty.
The scent of aspiring artists with talent but no money, the kind who trembled and checked the price tag multiple times just to buy a single brush.
The moldy basement hole where I lived was always damp with humidity. Without money for boiler fuel, I had to get through winter relying on a single electric blanket.
Spared the cost of canvas, I thought while applying gesso to plywood scavenged from a construction site.
Art? That was just chewing gum for fat pigs to gnaw on.
Yet I couldn't put down the brush. Damn stubbornness.
"Ah... fuck, it's hardened again."
Probably because I hadn't closed the lid tight, my precious cobalt blue paint had hardened solid.
My fingers squeezing the tube turned white. It was ridiculous how the world seemed to crumble over just this one thing.
No energy even to microwave the triangle rice balls from the convenience store. Who could understand the feeling of staring down at the hardened paint while forcing down cold rice balls?
If there was no talent, at least giving up would be quicker.
The professors clicked their tongues every time they saw my paintings.
"There's soul in your work, lad. But it's not the current trend."
Trend. That damn fashion. In a world where a single dot with a grandiose title sold for millions, I stubbornly stuck to classical styles.
I was obsessed with depiction. An unbearable compulsion if I couldn't capture the instant light shattered against objects, even the air's flow in that moment.
Maybe that was the start of my misfortune.
Lying on the cold room floor, I stared at the ceiling stain.
That stain looked just like a human face. Like Munch's The Scream, mouth agape in a shriek.
Eyelids grew heavy. The paint smell was especially pungent that night. For a fleeting moment, I thought it would be nice to close my eyes and never open them again.
A bone-chilling cold that cut into the flesh. That was the first sensation I felt.
Did the electric blanket break? Before opening my eyes, I curled up.
...
The blanket's texture was unfamiliar. Rough and heavy, smelling of an old wool blanket. Above all, the intense cold.
This wasn't just the boiler being off. A damp winter wind smell that chilled to the bone.
I opened my eyes.
Gray ceiling. Mold similar to my basement room, but the height was different. At least three meters high. A single hanging bulb.
"......?"
Trying to sit up, my head throbbed like it would split. Like a hangover after days of starvation and chugging cheap booze.
Barely supporting my staggering body, I looked around.
A narrow room. But the structure felt off.
Dim light filtered through a peeling wooden window frame. The view outside wasn't the alley of my city.
Roofs of old, drab stone buildings. Smoke rising from chimneys. And the clop of horse hooves on the street from passing carriages.
...Wait, carriages?
A dream? No, the hunger churning in my stomach was too vivid for a dream. Stomach twisting in pain, I dry-heaved.
Instinctively, I groped the bedside table. A rock-hard piece of bread and a half-empty glass of water.
Without time to think, I shoved the bread into my mouth. Tasted like chewing sawdust, but I chewed and chewed. The instinct to survive overrode reason.
After gulping water to clear my throat, my mind cleared a bit. Then I noticed my hand.
Not my hand.
Paint stains and calluses similar, but rougher and paler than mine. Wrists thinner. This was the hand of someone malnourished.
Quickly felt my body. Wearing worn shirt and loose pants. Body so thin hipbones protruded.
Mirror. I needed a mirror.
In the corner, a shattered mirror piece hung over the washbasin. With trembling legs, I stood before it. The man's face in the blurry mirror.
Pale skin. Deep-set eyes with flashing blue irises below. Unkempt dark brown hair over forehead, philtrum oddly familiar. A face I'd seen somewhere. Definitely glimpsed in textbooks or documentaries, but much younger, less venomous.
"Is this... me?"
Lips moved; the mirror man did the same.
My voice was thin and irritable German. German? I'd never learned it. Strangely, my mind interpreted it like a native tongue.
Looked at the desk. Sketchbooks and pencils scattered. Definitely an aspiring painter's room.
Drawn like a moth, I approached. Someone's practice sketches.
Flipped through the sketchbook page by page.
"Ha."
A hollow laugh escaped. Drawings precise. Perspective perfect, buildings measured to the line. Like architectural blueprints. That was it.
Lifeless. People on streets like mannequins, trees like plastic models. Technically excellent maybe, artistically zero. Mechanical copies without emotion.
"With this crap skill, you wanna be a painter?"
Unknowingly spat venom. By my standards, not art. Just records.
Then, an envelope under the sketchbook caught my eye. Quality paper. Stamped with the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts seal. Ominous feeling crawled up my spine.
Reached for it. Recipient's name in scrawled ink cursive.
Herr Adolf Hitler
Adolf Hitler.
Breath caught. Hand holding envelope trembled.
Rubbed eyes, looked again. Clear. Adolf Hitler.
History's worst dictator. Devil who massacred millions. And... failed art student.
"...What?"
Legs gave out; slumped into chair. Old wood creaked. Me, Hitler? That mustached guy? The madman who started World War II?
This must be some vicious hidden camera. Or I've finally gone mad with hallucinations. But paper texture under fingers, cold Vienna air through window cracks, hunger roiling in gut—all proved reality.
As expected, rejection letter inside.
Your works show aptitude for architecture, but we judge you lack talent as a painter.
Just as in history books. Two rejections. Followed by homelessness. Mother's death. Start of hatred and madness.
Stared at the man in the mirror again. Not yet a devil, just a talentless aspiring painter's face.
Hollow eyes stared back.
Hollow laugh.
"No talent?"
Looked at desk drawings again. Clearly, original owner had no talent. Dull, stifling works without a speck of emotion.
But who's in this body now?
I'm the 21st-century Korean who nearly starved trying to make a living with a brush, obsessed with depiction. Though the world didn't recognize me, I prided myself on fingertip sensitivity unmatched.
If Hitler failed art school because he couldn't paint, and turned to politics...
What if I paint amazingly well?
Picked up pencil on desk. Graphite smell. Familiar grip. Oddly, Hitler's hand reacted more sensitively than my memories. Muscle memory? Or my soul's habit?
Drew a line on paper corner. Straight line extending, smooth curve.
"Not bad."
No, actually good. Hunger sharpened nerves perhaps.
If I succeed as a painter. Would the world avoid war?
Nah, don't care about grand stuff. Honestly, world peace or changing history doesn't hit home right now. One thing filled my mind.
The premonition I could finally paint true "light."
Not modern murky air and cheap paint, but early 1900s Vienna's melancholic yet romantic light.
Put on outer coat. Musty dust smell from old coat, but whatever. Pocket change: few coins. Not enough for paint, but paper and pencils maybe.
Had to go out. See this era with my own eyes. Not cheap postcard landscapes, but real people's faces. True expressions tangled with pain and life on this street.
Opened creaking door to hallway. Someone climbing dim stairs. Landlady probably. She frowned on seeing me.
"Mr. Hitler, when are you paying the back rent?"
Startled by her venomous voice, then smirked. Seoul boarding house manager or Vienna landlady, same squeezing the penniless.
"Soon. Planning to paint a masterpiece."
"Masterpiece my ass. Stop daydreaming and go carry bricks at a construction site!"
Ignored nagging behind, exited building.
World all gray. Sky, buildings, faces. My eyes saw myriad colors hidden: pumpkin gaslight on wet pavement, dark mud on coats, bluish particles in cold air.
Heart pounded. Not from fear.
Wanted to paint so bad, going mad.
I am Adolf Hitler. From now, my paintings won't be those crappy postcard ones history remembers.
Vienna, I'll paint your true face.
Gripped pocket pencil tight. Fingertips tingled. This unfamiliar city waited like a giant canvas.
First, sketch those steaming buns in bakery window? No, eat first.
Gurgle.
Thunder in belly. Yeah, even paradise is best after a meal. Whether future Führer or master painter, first detach stomach from back.
Looked around for cheap eatery, started walking.
1908 Vienna streets were cold, hungry, beautiful.