Chapter 227
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 227
Chapter Title: It's Suicide
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Hermann was a genius.
From a young age, he could sculpt anything with just a knife.
Fortune smiled on him when he found an exceptional mentor, allowing his talent to truly blossom. By his twenties, he was already hailed as one of the world's top sculptors.
From massive temple statues to tiny nail-sized trinkets, ice sculptures, and even metaphysical abstract works.
His genius shone across every field of sculpture. By his thirties, rivals were nowhere to be found.
Yet he never grew arrogant.
He sculpted whenever his hands could move, and pondered new works when they couldn't.
Was it that relentless effort?
Even when the Iron Age dawned and players with all sorts of art-related skills flooded the scene, he steadfastly held his place among the elite sculptors.
Until his body began to fail him.
"The doctors said it was from overworking myself,"
Hermann lifted a tin cup.
He gazed at the coffee still faintly rippling inside and continued in a low voice.
"I've finally paid the price for never resting when I should have as a young man, for forcing my body to keep going even when it hurt."
Effort. Perseverance.
They were undoubtedly essential.
But excess effort is overexertion, and extraordinary grit means enduring until the body breaks.
It didn't matter in his youth.
No, he believed that without it, his skills wouldn't grow.
But as the years piled on, the cost of that effort came not just as stagnation, but as a cascade of illnesses and declining health.
Very gradually, bit by bit.
Yet he pressed on without stopping.
Aching bones, sluggish hands, shortness of breath—problems cropped up one by one.
And as his health worsened, so did his skill as a sculptor.
His robust constitution and innate talent let him push through for a few years despite the sickness, but that lasted only until three years ago.
Having stubbornly overtaxed his already spent body, he could no longer even hold a coffee cup steady. In the end, he had to set sculpture aside.
"I'm no longer a sculptor. Just a washed-up retiree enjoying his twilight years."
Hermann sighed.
He didn't regret his youthful efforts.
Without them, he never would have reached the pinnacle.
But if only he'd realized sooner that the human body is consumable, and excessive effort shortens its shelf life.
If only he'd been less hasty to become the best, and given himself more leeway.
Such thoughts crept in sometimes. It was unavoidable.
"...So that's why you say I came to the wrong person?"
"Exactly."
The moment of regretful reverie passed quickly.
Hearing Rimon's question snapped Hermann back. He shook his head to clear the fog.
Then he addressed Rimon, who sat across from him with arms crossed.
"Sorry for wasting your time."
"No need for apologies."
"If I'd made my retirement clear from the start, this wouldn't have happened."
He hadn't wanted to advertise his downfall, so he'd hidden his illness and secluded himself without a word. That was the mistake, he murmured.
"It's not much by way of apology, but I can introduce you to some skilled sculptors instead."
"No need."
The white-haired girl beside Rimon sipped warm cocoa nonchalantly.
Hermann blinked in surprise at Aynsha's blunt reply, then realization dawned.
"...If I've offended you, I apologize, Chairman Aynsha. On second thought, that was terribly rude in your presence."
Hermann gave a wry smile.
She might look like a young girl, but she was Tiamat's owner.
A corporate titan wielding absolute influence over nearly every cultural and artistic venture—from music and painting to film, books, and theater.
In the unpredictable world of arts, the words of the White Dragon Clan, who could glimpse the future, were oracle-like.
Offering another artist in front of Aynsha was like boasting swordplay before a Sword Master.
But contrary to Hermann's assumption, Aynsha hadn't refused out of wounded pride.
"Not what I meant. Literally, no need."
"...What do you mean?"
"Mingyan, Jean Senap. We've already met them both. But they fell short."
Hermann was taken aback.
Those names belonged to top-tier sculptors.
Even in his active days, they represented their nations' arts and outshone him in certain specialties.
"What kind of sculpture requires even them to fall short?"
"Hm... explaining in detail would be complicated."
Rimon scratched his cheek briefly.
Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a glass case containing a golden carving knife, setting it on the table with a thud.
"Try holding this first."
"...As I said, my body can't sculpt anymore."
"Doesn't matter. Just hold it, and you'll know what to do."
Handing a carving knife to a sculptor who couldn't carve?
Hermann eyed it skeptically for a moment.
But seeing Aynsha nod impassively convinced him this wasn't a prank. Reluctantly, he reached out.
His trembling hand opened the case, grasped the knife within—and then.
Vmmm.
"...!"
Hermann's eyes widened.
The golden knife disassembled like a puzzle, reassembled, and reshaped itself to fit his hand perfectly.
In the exact form he'd favored in his prime, no less.
"Impressive. At least he meets the minimum qualifications."
"Of course. The world's greatest sculptor. We wouldn't have come otherwise."
While Hermann reeled, Rimon and Aynsha remained unfazed.
As if this were routine.
Their casual exchange eased his bewilderment. He asked haltingly,
"What is this thing?"
"Explanation later. Just do as it says for now."
"Do as it—what...?"
Hermann didn't finish.
Golden light flowed from the knife's tip, coalescing in midair into two luminous blobs.
One a perfect cube.
The other a round sphere.
Beneath them floated an arrow from cube to sphere, with glowing text:
■ => ●
Τέλεια μπάλα
(Perfect Sphere).
'...A perfect sphere? Carve this cube into an identical sphere?'
His decades as a sculptor let him parse the slightly archaic Greek. He blinked.
After a hesitant pause, he thrust the knife into the hovering cube.
Scrrrtch.
Hermann started.
The translucent light-cube shaved away under the blade with vivid, tangible feedback—as if it were real matter.
Without straining his hand or causing recoil.
For someone who winced lifting a cup, it was a sensation long forgotten.
That was why.
He began carving the light blob as if entranced.
The joy of sculpting again—after years without touching a tool—moved his hands unconsciously.
Scrape, scritch-scratch.
The cube shed layers.
Little by little.
Precise. Meticulous.
Sweat dripped as it rounded out.
But the light persisted, glowing insistently. Not perfect yet.
To satisfy its demand for 'perfection,' Hermann gritted his teeth and resumed.
Crack!
"Ah...!"
He groaned.
His hand slipped minutely mid-stroke.
The light shattered into nothingness, as if it had never been.
Genius talent, peak-world experience, a mystical knife that adapted and eased the load.
Even all that couldn't fully conquer his illness.
As he stared vacantly into empty air, applause jolted him.
Clap clap clap.
"Impressive."
"...Mocking me?"
"No, dead serious."
Rimon shook his head.
He pointed at Hermann's still-quivering hand.
"Honestly, didn't think you'd get that far with those hands."
"Agreed. Incredible. A bit more, and you'd have passed stage one."
Rimon looked earnest; Aynsha deadpan.
Meeting their gazes, Hermann realized the sincerity. His furrowed brow relaxed.
He murmured,
"Chairman Aynsha, this is what you wanted from me?"
"Yes."
"Senap and Ming could have managed this."
"They passed stage one. Failed stage two. We said only you could do it."
"...How many stages are there?"
"Three."
"..."
Hermann swallowed a groan.
It looked simple: cube to sphere.
But he knew.
The light demanded a true 'perfect sphere.'
No room for millimeter errors, let alone a hundredth.
Insane precision, rivaling engraving scriptures on rice grains.
And two more stages beyond?
No wonder elite sculptors surrendered.
"Even for me, impossible."
His hands could barely pass stage one. That was why he shook his head.
"Try Kassen instead. As a player, she'll handle superhuman feats beyond mortal limits."
"No."
"You've met her too?"
"No. But players won't do."
As Hermann frowned anew at Aynsha's flat tone,
Rimon interjected casually.
"Hey, sculptor. When exactly did you deem it 'impossible'?"
"What?"
"I'm asking if prime-you—before the pain—couldn't do it either."
The pointed question left Hermann silent.
Prime him wouldn't have quit without trying, whatever stage two held.
No, he'd have declared it: if he couldn't, no one could.
"...Pointless now."
"What if it's not?"
"Meaning?"
"If we cure your illness, could you?"
Hermann's face hardened instinctively.
He glared fiercely at Rimon and said stiffly,
"Don't toy with me with empty words."
"Don't write it off so quick. Not like it's proven impossible."
"It is."
Hermann stated flatly.
Then he revealed why his illness was incurable—the trigger for abandoning everything three years ago.
"Even the Holy Lord couldn't heal it."
As a top sculptor, he'd amassed a fortune.
He'd poured it into treatment, earning an audience with the Holy Lord herself.
Once bedridden, teetering on death's edge, he'd recovered this much thanks to her.
But only that much.
Even the apex healer couldn't fully cure him.
Who else could? Rimon didn't flinch at Hermann's self-mocking quip.
He replied calmly,
"Dunno. Just because the Holy Lord couldn't doesn't mean no one can."
"Absurd. Who could heal what she couldn't?"
Hermann was dumbfounded.
Having experienced her skills firsthand, Rimon's claim sounded like bluster.
But the next moment.
He was stunned for a different reason.
"...Ri, no. Absolutely not."
"Chairman Aynsha?"
"Too dangerous. Suicide. Better to chug poison."
"...?"
Hermann puzzled over Aynsha's vehement opposition from her stoic face.
'Ridiculous' he'd understand. But 'dangerous'? 'Suicide'?
It almost implied she knew someone who could heal him.
"No other options."
Rimon shrugged under their stares—Hermann's confusion, Aynsha's head-shake.
The Holy Lord was the world's top healer.
She could make the 'joke' true: save anyone not yet dead.
But she was a healer.
Regrowing limbs, curing paralysis—miracles, yes. But not a doctor versed in medicine.
That was why.
Rimon proposed the unpalatable solution with a grimace.
"For external wounds, sure. But for pharmaceuticals and medicine—the world's best expert is in your Seven Dragon Society."