Urban System in America-Chapter 113 - 112: The Philosophy of Art

Back in his room, Rex sat quietly on the edge of his bed, his breathing slow and deliberate as he tried to empty the clutter from his mind. His thoughts, tangled from everything he’d experienced, gradually settled into silence.

With a calm breath, he opened the system interface and navigated to the warehouse. The Basic of Art Skill Card glowed faintly in his inventory. He selected it and materialized it into his hand.

As his fingers closed around it, a strange sensation crawled across his skin — the card’s surface was unlike anything he’d touched before. Smooth, yet layered. Warm, yet not quite alive. It didn’t feel like paper or metal. It felt... like ’possibility’ made physical.

He stood and glanced outside his window. The night stretched endlessly, draped in stars. The moon hung low, casting a soft silver veil over the rooftops. Lights flickered in distant buildings like fireflies suspended in time.

Something stirred inside him — a quiet resolve.

"System," he called, voice steady, "initiate the skill transfer procedure."

The familiar holographic shimmer of the system materialized before him.

"Acknowledged. Initializing System Space. Please prepare for transition."

Rex lay back and closed his eyes.

The card pulsed once in his hand — then shattered into a cascade of brilliant, weightless particles. A silent, invisible force pulled at his mind, dragging his consciousness inward, far beyond the bounds of flesh and time.

The System Space

When Rex opened his eyes, he was no longer in his room — yet he was.

The space looked identical at first glance. But beyond the walls, there was only emptiness. The infinite void stretched in all directions like ink spilled across glass.

He stood, regaining balance, and looked around.

"So... I’m back."

The room was unchanged — familiar, even comforting. But one detail caught his eye.

The computer was gone.

And something new had appeared: a door.

Slightly ajar. Silent. Mysterious.

Faint light spilled from the gap, warm and inviting, yet laced with the weight of expectation.

Rex approached. Every step felt heavier than the last — not with fear, but anticipation.

He hesitated at the threshold, then exhaled.

"Here goes nothing."

The door creaked as it swung open, revealing a vast chamber.

It was unlike anything he’d seen.

A large, empty room bathed in radiant sunlight — too perfect to be natural, too beautiful to question. Dust motes drifted lazily through golden beams that pierced through wide windows.

In the center stood an easel, facing the light. Before it, a simple wooden stool.

Around it: a complete arsenal of artistic tools — charcoal sticks, graphite pencils, brush sets sorted by thickness and hair type, palettes smeared with every pigment imaginable, palette knives, watercolor pans, oil tubes. The room was a shrine to creative potential.

He stepped forward and picked up a pencil.

It felt foreign. Awkward. Heavy — not in weight, but in meaning.

He sat before the canvas.

And waited.

Nothing happened—literally nothing.

No prompts. No guides. No comforting voice of instruction.

He didn’t have any idea what to do. Heck, he didn’t even know how to properly hold the pencil, let alone draw anything.

"System? Is there an error? What am I supposed to do now?"

There was a brief pause.

["Ahem. Apologies, host. System forgot to activate the guide sequence."] Even though he was apologizing, there wasn’t even a speck of difference from its usual smug tone.

[SYSTEM MESSAGE]

Welcome to System Space.

This is a dimension constructed by the system, where reality is malleable, and every element — from gravity and time to color and thought — responds to systemic control. Here, you are no longer bound by the rules of your world.

Time Distortion Active:

1 Hour in the real world = ~1 Year here

Objective:

Foundational Artistic Training: Drawing, Sketching, and Painting

Your guides shall not be mere algorithms or data fragments.

They are impressions — conscious echoes of the Masters — distilled from the collective memory of history.

They will teach. You will listen.

And when the final stroke is made, your journey will truly begin.

The tone was different this time. He had never heard the system sound like that — not usual smugness or sarcastic tone, but solemn. As if what came next mattered far more than anything before.

Rex felt a quiet awe bloom in his chest.

This wasn’t going to be a lesson.

It was going to be an initiation.

[First Summoning – The Philosophy of Art]

A thunderous light broke through the void above — or whatever served as the sky here. A golden-white pillar descended like divine lightning, flooding the space with brilliance.

Rex shielded his eyes.

When the light dimmed, he saw it.

A colossal, ancient door now stood at the far end of the room — adorned with murals etched in lines older than language, glowing glyphs pulsing faintly along its surface like a heartbeat.

The door groaned as it opened — the sound of something waking after a thousand years of sleep.

From the threshold, a figure emerged.

Tall. Robed. Ethereal.

He walked with the poise of a philosopher and the grace of a god. His cloak, worn but elegant, trailed behind him like ink diffusing in water. His silver hair was tied back, and his eyes — calm, intense — looked as though they had seen the birth of color itself.

Without realizing, he instinctively stood up.

Not from fear.

Not from command.

But out of instinct — like standing in the presence of truth.

The figure approached, his voice deep, composed, and ancient.

"I am not a man you know."

"I am the question etched into every cave wall, every cathedral ceiling, every canvas that dared to hold the soul of its maker."

"I am the amalgam of all who ever asked: Why does the hand move?"

He walked past Rex, slowly circling the easel.

"Here, time bends. And skill is memory waiting to awaken. You are not here to learn a technique. You are here to remember what the soul already knows."

He looked at Rex, not judging — simply seeing.

"I will introduce you to the Philosophy of Art. And though we begin with the ’basics,’ understand this — what the system calls basic, your world would call mastery."

He paused, his voice softening.

"This foundation will not merely match what most artists achieve — it will transcend it. Because you will not learn a style. You will learn the source."

"You will explore what even many professionals never fully grasp — the triad of expression: Drawing, Sketching, and Painting."

He stepped to the side of the canvas and gestured toward the empty stool.

"Sit. Observe. Listen."

Then, the room began to shift. The air shimmered. The light deepened.

And the first true lesson began.

(End of Chapter)