Picking Up the Brush
"Hah!"
I woke to a burning thirst and the sight of an unfamiliar ceiling.
Normally, an unfamiliar ceiling would have me thrilled — isekai transfer, game possession, the works — but this time I couldn't manage even a flicker of excitement. The moment I opened my eyes, everything that had happened right before I blacked out came flooding back.
The ground vanishing beneath me. And those enormous eyeballs filling every direction — eyes, eyes, eyes, eyes, eyes.
Those countless staring orbs I'd seen while drifting through that black void were something I would never forget, not even if I lived a hundred lifetimes. Just recalling them for a second was enough to send my SAN value plummeting. I shook my head hard and looked around.
I'd been walking down a street when a black pit suddenly opened under my feet and swallowed me whole. So where the hell was this?
The spacious room looked like something out of a medieval noble's estate — antique furniture, a lace-trimmed bed, even a bathtub off to one side. I sat up and took stock of the place.
After passing through a space packed wall-to-wall with eyeballs, I wasn't about to assume anywhere I landed was ordinary. I prodded the antique furniture, checked under the bed, rifled through the wardrobe — everything turned out to be perfectly normal. Not a single strange thing turned up.
Still, one detail snagged my attention as I finished my sweep.
No windows?
That was right. A normal room would have at least one. This place had none. The only way out was a single wooden door set into the wall in front of me.
Do I open it? Or not?
This room might be safe enough, but there was no telling what waited outside. In the worst case, I might come face-to-face with those countless eyeballs all over again.
Even so, I had to open that door. There was nothing to eat or drink in here.
"Hoo…"
I let out a long breath to steady my nerves, set my hand on the doorknob, and turned it slowly.
Creeeak—
The door swung open with that unpleasant groan unique to unoiled wood. I didn't step out right away. Instead, I poked my head through the gap and peered outside.
"Whoa."
The space beyond the door looked even more luxurious than the room itself. White marble floors. Walls stained black. White partitions stood at intervals throughout the hall, each one lit by a spotlight fixed to the ceiling.
I'd seen layouts like this before, but never somewhere I visited often. The whole place called to mind one enormous art gallery — or an exhibition hall.
Which only raised another question.
Where are the pieces?
Not a single thing that looked like artwork stood under any of those spotlights. I spent several more minutes cowering in the doorway like a coward, scanning the exhibition floor. When nothing moved, I finally stepped out, one careful pace at a time, eyes sweeping every direction, until I reached the center of the hall.
"A brush?"
There was a display pedestal wide enough to hold a piece the size of a truck — and sitting on it was nothing but a single tiny brush, small enough to fit in my hand.
The moment I saw it, my mind filled with a single thought: I had to take that brush.
"I have to grab it — no, I have to have it. That thing has to be mine!"
There was no room for any other thought, no space to find it strange. My head was nothing but the need to seize that brush. I sprinted to the pedestal and snatched it up.
Only then did my senses return.
"Wh-what…?"
I'd been so careful, so wary, after what those giant eyes had done to me — and still I'd grabbed the brush like something had possessed me. Before I could fully process the shock, something strange appeared before my eyes.
Create a work of art.
"What the hell is this?"
Create a work of art.
"Wh-what are you talking about? No thanks."
I could not do what this thing wanted. I didn't fully understand why, but the gut feeling was clear. So I refused the unidentified command and tried to set the brush back down — and that was when it hit.
"A-aaaaaagh!!!"
A pain like my skull splitting open crashed through me, and something thick and metallic poured from my eyes, nose, mouth, and ears all at once.
"Ghk — cough! Cough!"
"Guh! F-fine… I get it! Just stop! Cough!"
The second I agreed to make a piece, the agony vanished. Through a vision still stained red, I saw the message floating in front of me, still demanding a work of art. And despite all the blood I'd poured out, my body was completely fine — as if nothing had happened at all.
Pain and recovery. Hell and heaven in the span of a heartbeat. Gut feelings be damned — if I stayed like this, I was going to die. I resolved to do what this unknown presence wanted. The problem was I had no idea where or with what I was supposed to make anything.
"P-paint and paper? Right. I need paper I can paint on."
I'd spent my whole life with zero interest in the arts, so I didn't know much — but even I knew you needed pencils or paint and paper to draw a picture. This place had nothing except the brush in my hand. So I asked for materials, and…
Very well.
A short reply — and with a soft pop, an enormous canvas appeared. A sheet of paper fixed to a three-legged easel. Now I just needed paint, and I could draw whatever this thing so desperately wanted.
I looked left and right for paint. Nothing.
"What? Where's the paint?"
Is it not right there?
"What?"
I searched more carefully in case I'd missed it. Still nothing.
"There's nothing here."
Look at the floor.
I lowered my gaze. No paint. Instead, a pool of the crimson blood that had poured from my body lay pooled on the marble.
"…You're telling me to paint with this?"
Correct.
"Oh, for fuck's—"
Paint a picture in blood? What was this, some cursed painting? A string of curses nearly left my mouth — but I shut it. Mouthing off here would probably just earn me another round of bleeding from every orifice.
I steeled myself and dipped the brush into the pool of red. The brush drank the blood greedily, like a vacuum cleaner.
"Uwaah?!"
Create a work of art.
"I-I know! I get it!"
The sight of the brush sucking up blood made me jump, but the message hovering in front of me snapped me back to focus. I stood before the canvas, brought the brush to its surface, and left a red dot.
My blood…
Painting with my own blood. My stomach twisted, but I had no desire to go through that agony again. I moved the brush and started to draw.
There had been no request for any particular subject, so I just dragged the brush around, laying down meaningless lines — and something ugly started rising in my chest.
Fuck. Why am I even doing this?
Yeah. It never said what I had to draw, did it?
The brush's motion changed. The lines across the canvas grew rough. Rage gathered at the tip.
Whoosh—
I poured burning fury into every stroke — again, and again, and again.
"Hah… hah…"
I don't know how much time passed. By the end, the canvas held something that looked like roaring flames. I wiped the sweat running down my forehead.
"Hoo. Good enough?"
Correct.
"If you're satisfied, then let me go."
While I painted, a lot of thoughts had gone through my head. Why was I in this situation? What exactly was the message floating in front of me? After turning it all over, I'd reached a conclusion: the brush in my hand was the source of these messages.
A brush that had suddenly enchanted me. Messages that appeared the instant I gripped it. A brush that never left my hand even through that crushing pain. These messages were clearly tied to the brush.
And it seemed I'd been right.
And why should I?
"You said you were satisfied! I made a piece! So you should let me go!"
I never once said you only had to make a single work.
"You fucking— are you kidding me right now?!"
I am not joking. I will release you only after you complete a Great Work.
"A Great Work? What the hell is that?"
A Great Work is a creation that captivates anyone who lays eyes on it — regardless of age, gender, or species — in a single glance.
"Huh?"
Was that even possible? I didn't know much about art, sure — but even I could tell how absurd that sounded. A piece that captivated every living thing that saw it, species be damned? Something out of mythology. There was no way a thing like that actually existed.
"…And if I can't make one? What happens then?"
Without my permission, you will never leave this place for the rest of your life.
"Ha…"
A long-winded way of saying it had no intention of letting me out. I wanted to snap the brush in my hand right then and there — but I couldn't. Not because I was afraid of the pain, and not because this thing held the key to my escape. I'd been squeezing with everything I had for a while now, and the brush hadn't so much as bent. Not a single scratch.
Of all the powers in the world, unbreakability had to be one of them too, apparently.
While I stood there drowning in the despair of never getting out, trying to figure out what to do next, a new message appeared.
Then let us begin the evaluation of your work.
"Evaluation?"
Indeed. To create a Great Work, one requires thoroughly objective, ruthlessly cold evaluation.
"So that painting is…"
To put the result first: that work is Trash.
You son of a bitch?