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Nozomanu Fushi no Boukensha (LN) - Volume 2 - Chapter SS3




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He who Paints Death 

“Is this spot all right?” 

“Yes... Yes! This scenery... This is what I wanted to see!” 

The young man pulled some art supplies out of his bag, before setting down the canvas that he painstakingly carried all the way here unto the ground. 

Before long, he started painting. His concentration and aura were intimidating, enough to scare away even the most seasoned of adventurers. 

He was a painter, and his name was Roy. Born and raised in Maalt, his works had become popular in the capital as of late. In the last few days, he returned to Maalt from the capital, with only about three months left to live. 

 

“No one... No one accepted my request. But...you would?” 

Laying on his bed, Roy turned to me, his face pale and tired. I, Rentt Faina, nodded in response. 

“Yes. You wish to see the Swamp of Tarasque up close...or, as close as possible, right? I should tell you, though...we can’t enter. If we did, your three months would shorten into thirty seconds instantly... What exactly are you traveling there for? The only detail written in your request was the need for an escort.” 

“Well...you see, I am a painter... Quite popular in the capital, despite how I look now. If I kept going...my name would be immortalized in the Royal Academy of Art...” 

“That really is something else. I do find it curious, though...” 

It wasn’t wrong for a skilled painter to be somewhat prideful, but I didn’t understand why Roy would go to such lengths a few months from his deathbed. There was no pressing need for him to prove himself, so I suppose his words were true. 

The Royal Academy of Art only took the best artists in the land as its members. To be considered an academy member was one of the highest honors any artist could achieve. To think Roy had come this far in his youth... He truly was a genius. 

Even though he didn’t have much time left, I felt he should make better use of what remained of his life, instead of wandering so dangerously close to a bog full of poisonous gas. 

“I have always been...drawing the same subject matter, as an artist. I have been drawing and painting...the lives of people. Now that I, too, am at the end of my journey...I want to paint the opposite of that. Death... I wish to paint death, and there is no better place for this than the Swamp of Tarasque. The people of Maalt call it the ‘Swamp of Death,’ do they not?” 

“‘The Swamp of Death,’ huh. Yes, I suppose they do...” 

Any normal animal or plant would perish in less than thirty seconds if it were somehow transported into the swamp. It was truly a terrible place. If anything, that was where the ichor of death itself pooled. 

“Well...I suppose I could take you. You may think less of me for saying this, but...should you perish halfway into the excursion, I would like to be exempt of all responsibility.” 

“Yes, yes, of course. I have prepared my will here as well...and have arranged it so that my untimely death, should it does happen, would not get you into any trouble with the guild. Please, do not worry.” 

It would seem like Roy was genuinely determined. Since he had gone that far, there was no reason for me to reject his request. 

And so it came to be that we headed off to the Swamp of Tarasque several days later, having prepared what we needed for the trip. 

 

The shaking of the horse-carriage took quite a toll on Roy’s already frail body. The painter would occasionally cough up blood, but never once did he ask me to turn back. 

Holding onto a large canvas like it was his worldly treasure, Roy kept silent as the carriage slowly approached the Swamp of Tarasque. Nearing it as much as possible, we eventually reached a point that satisfied Roy. 


Against the stench of the swamp, a normal cloth mask was useless. Instead, Lorraine had prepared a special filter, created with a mixture of holy water, ashes, and spices. This was then attached to a cloth mask we fitted over our faces. Even so, the mere act of inhaling burnt my lungs. I promised Lorraine I wouldn’t perish on this trip, but... 

“Hey, are you all right?” 

Roy, as if deaf to my queries, merely continued painting. His entire being was focused on his canvas, and the image of the swamp before him. 

I, too, turned to the swamp. Death was indeed reflected in its surface, as the bodies of slain monsters littered the muck, slowly dissolving into the poisonous depths. 

Rotten wood, bones, and remains that would one day disappear... 

It was an almost calm, gentle depiction of the decay of death, and the natural order of things. 

This was the sight that Roy had engraved onto the canvas. His hands continued moving, until he finally stopped, taking a step backward. Immediately, Roy collapsed, the last of his strength seemingly leaving him. I caught the ailing painter in my arms, who had indeed finished his painting. Carrying both Roy and his completed canvas, I made my way back to the carriage. 

“Mister Rentt... I... I painted it...” 

That was all Roy said as we returned to Maalt—and those were his very last words. 

 

“And this is the painting from that time...?” 

An art exhibition was being held in Maalt, featuring distinguished art pieces from the Royal Academy of Art. Much time had passed since Roy’s death... 

I, too, had experienced death, and was now an undead. This scenery, however, was still fresh and unchanged in my mind. 

As per his will, I had returned the completed painting to the Royal Academy of Art, and Roy was posthumously declared an honored member. An honored member of the academy was treated in a way that saints were treated by members of the church. I suppose that was due to the overwhelming sense of wonder this painting instilled in the average person. 

Standing next to me was Lorraine, a faint smile on her lips as she continued observing the painting. It would seem Lorraine understood Roy’s intent. 

“The ‘Swamp of Tarasque’... Yes... This lingering sense of death... Very well portrayed indeed. Especially this small figure in the foreground... Gives the painting a somewhat mysterious charm. The painter who wanted—needed—to paint, even upon the pain of death... And the bony God of Death next to him, about to reap his life as he finished his last work...” 

Just as Lorraine said, the painter was Roy. Death probably represented myself. 

Was Roy possibly hallucinating at the time? Or did he see something else in those poisonous fumes, leading to this very painting? 

No one would ever be able to answer this question. 

Regardless, the painting seemed to communicate that death waits for no one; that death cares little about who it takes; that death was the great equalizer. This was what I felt as I gazed upon the aged canvas. 

“Have you heard, Rentt? The Death God motif is really picking up in the capital. To think this painting was the start of it all!” 

“...And I am the... Model. What a strange... Feeling.” 

“You see how I have an eye for these things, Rentt? Back then, you were steeped in death. Much like how you are...right now...” Lorraine said, smiling to herself quietly. 

I couldn’t deny her words. Here I was, an adventurer that foolishly rushed to his death. Dead, and now walking in undeath. 

Perhaps my true nature was reflected in this very painting. 

What would Roy paint now, upon seeing my current form...? 

I could not help but wonder... 



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