Urban System in America-Chapter 143 - 142: First Painting

As Rex laid the final stroke on the canvas, a hush fell over the previously buzzing room. For a moment, the crowd seemed frozen, caught between disbelief and awe. Then, like a wave crashing down, gasps echoed through the room, followed by a roaring uproar. Eyes widened in disbelief as they gazed at the completed piece—an undeniable work of art.

A woman near the front clutched her chest, eyes wide, whispering, "Oh my God."

A man dropped his coffee, not even noticing the splash on his shoes.

"Is this really the painting he just created?" someone whispered, awestruck.

"It looks like something you’d see in a museum," another muttered.

"No way a kid painted that. It’s like... it’s alive."

A young street artist chuckled bitterly and said,

"Well, I guess I’ll go burn my sketchbook now."

An elderly woman dabbed at her eyes, voice trembling.

"I’ve lived through eighty sunsets in this city... and I’ve never seen it look so honest."

Near the back, an older man with a cane leaned in and whispered,

"My wife would’ve loved this. She always said sunsets were proof that heaven was real."

A middle-aged man muttered,

"I’ve lived in L.A. my whole life... but I’ve never seen it look like that."

And through it all, whispers continued to spread like wildfire:

"Who is he?"

"Where did he learn to do this?"

"Why haven’t we heard of him before?"

"I need to buy it before someone else does."

As for Rex? He rolled his shoulders, stretched his back with a quiet sigh, then wiped the sweat clinging to his brow and casually glanced at the canvas. Tilting his head slightly, he nodded, and a slow, satisfied smile tugged at his lips.

He felt a strange mix of pride and disbelief. It was good—no, better than good. It was a masterpiece. So much that even he couldn’t quite believe it. He hadn’t planned it. He hadn’t thought about form, or color theory, or composition. He had simply painted from instinct, letting the brush flow as if guided by memory and emotion etched deep into his soul. This wasn’t just a painting. It was his first creation in the real world—in both his lives.

Before today, he hadn’t even known how to properly hold a brush, let alone paint something.

As for the painting?

It was a sunset over Los Angeles—but not the kind you scroll past on a phone. It was the kind that stopped time.

It was a still moment. A breath the city took at the golden hour. But the real subject was the sky: vast, alive, and impossibly beautiful. The setting sun hung low on the horizon, half-dipped behind a cluster of distant skyscrapers whose sharp silhouettes stood in contrast to the softness above. freeweɓnøvel.com

Golden light spilled across the canvas, bleeding into shades of fiery orange, then melting into deep purples and dusky blues as it climbed higher into the heavens. Wisps of clouds stretched lazily across the scene, glowing at their edges as if stitched with light. Some floated like smears of lavender, others burst like streaks of molten gold—each one painted with a deliberate recklessness that somehow felt natural, instinctive.

Palm trees dotted the scene, their outlines crisp and dark against the radiant sky. In the distance, the Hollywood Hills sloped gently, kissed by light. Thin clouds floated lazily above, tinged with soft reds and lavenders like strokes from a dream.

The city below was only suggested—just a darkened line of rooftops and towers, a backdrop to the celestial drama above. There were no people, no cars, no chaos, no signs of life. Only the quiet majesty of the sky at its most emotional, like a moment caught between beauty and melancholy.

It wasn’t a painting meant to show L.A.

It was a painting that felt like L.A.—fleeting, golden, breathtaking.

And no—it wasn’t photorealistic. It didn’t need to be.Every brushstroke carried emotion, memory, instinct. It was how the city felt at sunset—not how it looked. A love letter in light and color, painted from the soul of someone who knew both beauty and burden.

The more he stared at it, the more he felt... this was beautiful.

There were flaws. Of course there were flaws. But then again, which masterpiece didn’t have them? Even the greatest works in history held imperfections. That was what made them human.

Nudging a still-stunned staff member, he smirked with a playful grin.

"So... does this qualify?"

The man blinked, as if waking from a trance, then looked at Rex like he was seeing a legend come to life.

"Y-Yes... Of course it qualifies," he stammered. "If this doesn’t, then I don’t know what will."

Rex simply smiled and stood up.

That simple gesture seemed to awaken the crowd. As if snapped from a dream, they turned toward him in eerie unison—like zombies drawn to the living. And then chaos erupted. People surged forward, shouting, pushing, reaching out to get a better look.

"Let me see!"

"Get outta the way!"

"Who is he?!"

Seeing the wave of people barreling toward him, Rex’s eyes widened in panic. The crowd’s momentum was absolutely overwhelming—frightening, even. The staff moved quickly to block them, but even they were caught off guard and outmatched. Luckily, Victor and Kaelan, who had been keeping watch nearby, stepped in immediately, shielding him back to the store.

Only once the doors shut behind them did Rex finally exhale

Looking through the glass at the frenzied crowd still buzzing outside, he shuddered. He had expected some attention, but this was... something else.

What he didn’t realize was that, while the painting seemed merely "good" to him—even slightly flawed—his standards had been reshaped by decades spent among the greatest legends. His eye, honed by endless exposure to true mastery, no longer aligned with the average person’s perception. What felt "normal" to him was, in truth, far beyond anything the crowd had ever seen. Even those with no knowledge of art—people who couldn’t tell oil from acrylic or composition from chaos—felt something shift when they looked at it.

The moment their eyes met the canvas, something deep inside stirred—

Awe. A haunting nostalgia. A strange sense of stillness that wrapped around their hearts.

The sky in the painting seemed to breathe, the golden light melting into shades of violet and soft lavender, streaked with clouds that looked too real to be imagined. It wasn’t just a sunset; it was a memory, a feeling, a moment suspended in time.

And it was obvious that this painting was anything but ordinary.

Just then, the store owner, a well-dressed man in his fifties, approached with a gleam in his eye.

"Sir, your painting is a true masterpiece." he said eagerly. "If you’d allow us to hang it in our store, I’ll definitely offer a satisfying remuneration."

Rex glanced at the still-wet canvas in his hands and raised an eyebrow, amused. There was no way in hell he was going to sell his first painting—in either life—just to hang in some store. Still, he was curious.

"Oh? What’s the maximum you can offer?" Rex asked casually, his tone indifferent. "If it’s good enough, I might consider it."

The store owner glanced at the painting again, his eyes gleaming with a mix of interest and sly greed. He hesitated for a moment, then grit his teeth and said,

"Well, the subject’s a bit... ordinary, isn’t it? I’d say... one thousand dollars. That’s generous, mind you."

Rex raised an eyebrow, barely suppressing a laugh.

"One thousand?" he repeated slowly, as if tasting the number on his tongue.

He stared at the canvas in his hands, still gleaming under the overhead lights, then looked back at the man.

That was the value he saw?

Interesting.

A slow, amused smirk tugged at Rex’s lips—cool, effortless, a little dangerous.

(End of Chapter)