Urban System in America-Chapter 142 - 141: He Was Art

After weaving through the city’s pulsing heart for nearly an hour, He felt the edge of his restlessness soften. The energy that had surged through him earlier was now settling into a calm buzz beneath his skin.

He glanced at the clock on the dash, exhaled slowly, and turned the wheel toward home. freёwebnoѵel.com

But just as he was about to make the turn, a flicker of movement caught his eye.

A crowd had gathered on the sidewalk up ahead—laughing, chatting, casually milling around a brightly lit storefront. Curious, Rex eased off the gas and pulled closer, letting the car roll by at a crawl.

Then he saw the sign.

"Veridian Arts: Supplies, Studio, Inspiration."

It was a big art supply store, one of those fancy ones with its own gallery corner and overpriced brushes that screamed ’aesthetic.’

He blinked.

"...Huh."

The irony hit him a second later.

After all the battles, breakthroughs, training, and soul-deep introspection in system space—he didn’t even own a pencil.

A quiet laugh escaped him as he shook his head.

"Wouldn’t that be something? All that enlightenment... and not a single brush to show for it."

With a wry smile tugging at his lips, he pulled the car into an empty parking spot just down the street. The engine gave one last purr before falling silent. He stepped out, pocketed his keys, and headed toward the store.

The closer he got, the more vibrant it became.

Warm golden lights spilled from the tall windows, casting a soft glow on the sidewalk. A chalkboard sign outside read, in loopy cursive:

"Art isn’t a skill, it’s a story. Tell yours."

Inside, rows of neatly arranged shelves were filled with everything from premium sketchbooks and charcoal sets to vibrant acrylic paints, sculpting tools, and digital tablets. People wandered through the aisles with baskets in hand—some artists in stained overalls, others casual hobbyists caught in a burst of inspiration.

The moment he stepped inside, the scent of paper, ink, and paint swept over him like a nostalgic wave—warm, familiar. His eyes roamed the store, wide with quiet wonder, like a child stepping into a candy shop for the first time. He didn’t hesitate. His hands moved on instinct, grabbing canvases of every size, elegant sketchbooks with thick, grainy pages, entire sets of premium brushes, top-tier oil paints, charcoal sticks, graphite kits—anything that caught his eye, he picked up without a second thought.

As he was checking out—arms filled with supplies—the clerk pointed toward a commotion just outside.

"Oh, sir! You came at the right time. There’s a live art challenge happening right now in the square. Whoever paints the best piece gets their purchase free."

Rex raised an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

"Yep! Supplies, on the house. But you gotta win."

He looked through the store’s glass front. A crowd had formed outside, circling around a makeshift open-air art area where a few local artists were already prepping their canvases.

Seeing this, he felt his fingers twitch.

After everything—all the training, the endless practice within the system space—he still hadn’t drawn a single thing in the real world. His hands, which had only held simulated tools until now, were finally gripping real-world brushes, feeling their weight, their texture.

His fingers ran along the bristles of a finely crafted brush, feeling the subtle give of the fibers beneath his touch. It was different. Tangible. Alive.

Maybe... this was the right time to test the difference. To see if all that training had truly transferred over.

To see if he could still create something that felt real.

"...Sure, why not?" he muttered and stepped outside.

After all that, training in the system space, He still hadn’t drawn anything in the real world, his hands touched real-world brushes and not just simulated ones. Maybe... this was a good time to test the difference.

—

The moment Rex stepped onto the small circular stage, the atmosphere seemed to shift.

Whispers rippled through the crowd as he set up his easel.

"Who’s that?"

"Damn, he’s hot."

"Is he an actor or something?"

Even a few of the artists turned their heads. Tall. Composed. A casually confident walk. Eyes that looked like they held stories no one had read yet.

Rex’s outfit was nothing dramatic: a white shirt with sleeves rolled up, dark jeans, tousled hair. But he looked like he’d walked off a K-Drama set. Girls elbowed each other. Some artists narrowed their eyes.

In the crowd stood a young woman with jet-black hair that fell in soft waves just past her shoulders, a streak of indigo tucked behind one ear. Her clothes were effortlessly elegant—an oversized charcoal-gray hoodie paired with tailored black trousers splattered faintly with dried paint, and scuffed leather boots that looked worn from countless gallery floors and street corners. Art supplies peeked from the canvas tote slung over one shoulder, her arms crossed, sketchbook pressed to her chest like armor.

Her face was striking—sharp cheekbones, full lips, and eyes that carried the stillness of a midnight studio. There was no need for loud accessories or vibrant colors—her presence alone demanded attention. Everything about her, from the way she stood to the subtle tilt of her chin, exuded an artistic energy. Even the way she chewed her gum—slow, deliberate—felt like part of a performance piece.

Luna Skye. A rising name in L.A.’s art scene. A prodigy with a reputation for turning emotion into ink, chaos into color. People called her a "superstar," though she hated the word. She preferred solitude over spotlights, and craft over clout.

Rumor said she turned down a scholarship to Paris because their "art philosophy was too pretentious."

She stood there, arms crossed, boredom etched across her face.

"What a joke," she muttered under her breath. "Pretty face, empty talent. Art’s turning into a clown show."

Her eyes flicked to Rex as he adjusted his canvas.

"Let me guess—lo-fi brushwork, neon colors, and the crowd will lose it the moment he smudges something with his thumb."

She was already turning away when something made her pause.

Rex sat down.

She glanced back, scoffing.

"Tch. Another pretty boy trying to ride on his looks. This isn’t a roadside circus. Art’s not a party trick."

But then she caught a glimpse of his face as he picked up the brush—and froze.

That shift.

His sunny, relaxed vibe melted like mist. What replaced it was... different. Focused. Silent. Still.

His back straightened. Shoulders loosened. His gaze dimmed—not in dullness, but in depth. Like the sea before a storm.

"...That aura..." Luna whispered.

Even from a distance, she could feel it. Not arrogance. Not performance. Something quieter. Rooted. Like a monk before a shrine. Like a warrior before a duel.

Her frown deepened.

"...That presence."

It wasn’t posture. It wasn’t play-acting. It was a shift in being. He wasn’t preparing to paint—he was preparing to disappear into it.

"No way," she thought. "Only real artists—ones who live and breathe it—have that kind of energy."

Before she realized it, her feet moved. She slipped through the crowd until she was closer. Close enough to see his hands.

They were clean. Too clean. Slender. Pale. Veins faintly visible. Pretty. Prettier than hers. Too soft, too perfect.

No calluses. No paint stains. No worn fingertips.

They didn’t seem like the hands of an artist.

She stared a second too long.

"If he used those hands to—ugh!"

A flood of wild, reckless thoughts surged through her mind—thoughts far too scandalous and explicit for daylight, and definitely not suitable for kids to see.

Her cheeks flushed with a mix of shock and disbelief. She slapped her face, trying to silence the storm inside."Get a grip, Luna. You’re not some high school fangirl."

But even as she chastised herself, her eyes drifted again, and a strange curiosity gnawed at her. Those delicate hands looked so unreal like they belonged to a pianist, not a painter. Almost... ethereal.

She shook her head again, forcing focus.

On the other hand, Rex tapped his brush lightly against his palm, as he thought of what to paint?

Suddenly his gaze fell on the sky.

The sun was sinking. Warm amber light spilled across the square. Purple streaks bloomed in the clouds. Crimson bleeding at the edges. The horizon burned like cotton dipped in honey.

"...Guess I’ll paint that," he murmured.

Then, with calm precision, he touched brush to canvas.

The crowd immediately fell silent.

The first stroke was smooth. Too smooth. Like a violin string played just right. The line curved with grace, like the brush already knew the path.

Then another. And another.

Every movement was fluid, effortless, as if Rex’s body and brush were one. He didn’t hesitate or pause—not once. His eyes flicked between the glowing sky and the blank canvas in perfect rhythm, his wrist moving with the grace of a dancer performing an intimate solo. Calm and focused, his expression held a distant intensity that drew the crowd into a silent trance.

Each flick of his wrist was precise yet wild, every subtle change in pressure a note in an unspoken symphony. The narrowing of his eyes wasn’t just concentration—it was a quiet battle between control and passion. Watching him was like witnessing a master at work, but one who danced with something untamed, raw beneath the surface.

He wasn’t just creating art.

He was art.

The air grew heavy. Time slowed. Every spectator seemed to hold their breath. Even Luna, the ever-critical observer, felt her breath catch in her throat.

"That’s not imitation," she whispered, almost reverently. "That’s mastery."

The painting unfolded slowly, layer by layer. It wasn’t photorealism, nor was it abstract chaos—it was something hauntingly in between. Each brushstroke carried the weight of emotion, depth beyond technique. The clouds glowed with a warm, golden light, as if infused with memories of sunrises long past. The sky shimmered softly, alive with a pulse only those who truly felt it could see.

He wasn’t simply painting a sunset.

He was capturing what it felt like to stand beneath one.

The crowd was frozen in awe. A little girl clung tighter to her mother’s hand, eyes wide and shining. An old man, moved beyond words, slowly removed his hat, a silent gesture of respect. The competing artists around the square stopped mid-stroke, their brushes suspended, eyes locked on Rex’s evolving masterpiece.

And Luna—

She stood rooted, breath shallow, heart pounding as if it might burst.

"...This guy..." she breathed, voice barely audible, trembling with disbelief.

"...He’s not normal."

(End of Chapter)