Chapter 3

The Painter Who Draws Dungeons — Chapter 3

A certain prestigious auction house.

“Huh...?”

“Why, what is it?”

“J-just now... I think this painting moved.”

“How clumsy.”

One of the managers snorted.

“There’s no way an ordinary portrait would end up at this auction house.

It must’ve been an item from some dungeon.”

“Ah...”

“I heard it was found in an abandoned school’s art storage room, but since its origin isn’t clear, the price will drop a lot. It’ll go up early in Part 1, so get ready in advance.”

“Yes, sir.”

Even at his superior’s reassuring words, the employee’s expression didn’t look good at all.

As if uneasy, he looked at the portrait in front of him.

“...”

Just now.

It felt like their eyes met.

“...I just hope it isn’t an item that lays curses...”

It would have come in after a safety inspection already, but the world was wide and items were diverse.

It was probably precisely because even an appraisal skill couldn’t properly reveal its origin or function—that mystery—that it could make it all the way to this auction house, but that was exactly why the employee felt ominous.

“Isn’t this usually how horror movies start?

Some ominous work and the people around it with no sense of caution... it fits perfectly.”

All he could do was pray he wouldn’t become the first victim to die there.

“Ugh, scary.”

“...”

That figure, 'Gio’s portrait,' was silently watching.

He closed his eyes.

* * *

31 years ago.

Earth was ruined.

When this all-too-common opening line became reality, from that day onward, every SF movie on Earth disappeared.

People being abruptly dragged into another dimension and torn apart to death by absurd rules, or monsters crawling out from between pitch-black dimensional rifts, was far more vivid than any film.

“Fuck...!”

“E-excuse me, but is that... filming a movie?”

“As if it’s a movie, you bastard?!”

And as if they’d been waiting, superpowered people appeared.

“Uh... isn’t this a game window?”

“Whoa, I got that too.”

“What did yours say?

Mine says I awakened as a priest.”

“I don’t have anything like that... just a skill list pops up.

But if you’re a priest, do you have a religion?”

“Yes, I do go to church.

Is it decided like that?”

“I don’t know that either...?”

They changed the face of Earth.

“Ah, DPS...!

What are you doing, not putting in DPS!!”

“Hyung, how are we supposed to DPS when you’re blocking the front...!”

“Are you kidding me?!

Then does a tank block the front or block the back?!”

“Wow, this run is screwed...”

“Huuuuh...!”

As if they were really playing a game, they hunted monsters.

This phenomenon, defined as “awakening,” manifested randomly in someone, and no matter how much it was researched, there were no clear rules or criteria for it.

The only common point was that those who awakened all had a system window appear, like playing a game.

Of course, that didn’t mean hunting monsters was as light as a game.

“...”

“...Hey, at least gather his belongings.

Even if there’s no body, we still have to hold a funeral, don’t we?”

“Our team’s DPS is gone... kills the mood.

How old did he say he was?”

“Eighteen.

He said with his own mouth he wanted to go back to high school.”

“The country’s going crazy, dragging out a kid who wants to study at school.”

“What can you do.

They’ll work even a ten-year-old the moment they awaken...”

“True—an eighteen-year-old DPS is still decent.”

“...”

“This is fucking shit.”

Since the number of so-called “awakeners,” “hunters” who hunted monsters, was a minority, it was hard for them to escape “death by overwork.”

In the face of world-scale change going through a transitional era, an individual life was treated as nothing more than a number.

However, the Republic of Korea was a country that quickly suppressed chaos worldwide, centered around three heroes.

In an instant, through upheaval after upheaval after upheaval, they built a foundation.

“Honey, can you get through?

They say Yerin awakened...”

As a result, even citizens in the organized cities began to gain some breathing room.

“Today the teachers told me she awakened at kindergarten.”

[Huh?

Yerin?

Oh my... Did they say she has a job?

Skills?

What grade is it?]

“I don’t know—Yerin says she doesn’t have a job and her skill is D-grade.

I think we’ll only know for sure if we go to the center and check.”

[Then let’s not make Yerin a hunter.

Ask what she wants to do, and if she says she doesn’t want to, don’t make her a hunter.]

“I thought that would be best too.

Yeah, thanks, I’ll hang up.”

With the dimensional spaces now called “dungeons,” and “awakeners” who merely awakened power distinguished from “hunters” who had a job of hunting monsters, in a situation where systems like guilds and centers had formed.

“Right. Just because the kid awakened doesn’t mean they have to be a hunter.”

“Mom, I have to catch monsters...?

I’m scared... I don’t want to do that.”

“No, it’s okay.

Our Yerin doesn’t have to catch monsters.”

At some point, awakeners began to take on other jobs.

Awakeners, who had power qualitatively different from ordinary people, had been under strict state control, but in just 31 years, through various incidents and dozens of changes in government, treatment toward awakeners improved.

For awakeners C-rank and below, the range of career choice also became much wider.

“Wow, that person must be a hunter.”

“Yeah, with that guild mark, they’re definitely a hunter.”

“Holy crap... who is it?

I’ve never seen them—are they a rookie?

Have you seen them on TV?”

“Those black wings are seriously cool.

Hey, that’s a real hunter.”

“I heard flight-type skills are that rare...”

“That person’s life is set.”

And accordingly, the admiring gaze toward hunters grew even more.

“If I awaken, I want to be a hunter too.”

“Nah, I’m not really into dangerous work.”

“But it’s cool.

You make a lot of money, and you’re popular.”

In the end, they were treated like a kind of celebrity.

“...”

“Uh... hey, hey, I think he heard us.

Let’s stop and go.”

“I-I just thought it looked nice.

Sorry...”

Whether the hunters wanted it or not, that was the flow of the world.

“...Haa...”

Some hunters even grew tired of the excessive attention directed at them.

“Are we soldiers or idols...?

Why are there so many requests to come up and take pictures?

At this rate, we’ll be dancing on stage.

In another country, you couldn’t even dream of this.”

“Last time, one of our rookies said a sasaeng broke into his room.

Does that even make sense?

I mean, aren’t they worried a hunter might slit their throat—what the hell is this... A hunter’s job is hunting monsters, not fan management.”

“Popularity is popularity, but at this point, isn’t it obstruction of duty?

It bothers me so much.

I came here to catch monsters, not to entertain the public.

Korea’s perception of hunters is too frivolous.

This has to be fixed.”

There were also opposing opinions.

“Huh, I like it.

And ‘entertaining’... are you looking down on celebrities?”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Alright, alright, don’t fight.

Still, it’s better to have popularity than not.

I’m not defending sasaengs or obstruction of duty, but... once the system settles, inconvenient things will decrease too.”

“Yeah, the association will handle that kind of thing.

If you’re really uncomfortable, file a complaint or something.”

Thus, the perception of hunters went beyond superpowered people, monsters, and soldiers, all the way to celebrities.

As time passed, that perception became fixed, and at least for city people, monsters and dungeons dropped to the level of a single kind of disaster.

It meant they were recognized as being around the same grade as a fire that firefighters could put out.

And one of the three major guilds that arose in such a Korea.

“Guildmaster.”

“Yes, go ahead.”

“Even if our name is Collectors from the start...”

The domestic ranking #3 guild, “Collector.”

“Isn’t this one a bit much?”

“Telling a collector not to collect is far too insulting, isn’t it?”

“Do you even know how much money we spent going out to buy this portrait?”

“I’m buying my things with my money—what is this about?”

The guildmaster there, the “Collector” Bisabeol.

A man with a middle-aged face smiled thinly.

He looked refined like a courteous gentleman, yet his smile left an oddly unclean aftertaste.

“This is a work even the association president coveted.

Well? Isn’t it astonishing?”

“The association president, you say?

That certainly is astonishing.”

“A man whose only hobby is raising monsters, not collecting—he bid as high as 2000 for this piece.”

“Two thousand...”

Here, 2000 did not mean twenty million won, but two hundred billion won.

Even if it wasn’t in the trillions, it was by no means a trivial sum.

“...My appraisal skill is dull, so I cannot grasp this work’s true value.

I apologize for judging rashly.”

“You scolded me for collecting a little, but if you don’t know the situation, of course that can happen.”

“Thank you for your ocean-like understanding.

Then what function does this portrait have?”

“I don’t know either.”

“Don’t talk nonsense...”

When evaluating a hunter, the important factors are broadly divided into three.

A “job” that, by its very existence, can intervene in the rules of the world.

An “aptitude skill” inherently possessed the moment one awakens, like grasping a baby’s first object.

A “level” that tells the proficiency of the job and all skills.

If you want to hear explanations of your detailed job and other skills you can learn, you need help from a center, but in any case, a hunter’s rank is displayed by the so-called “system,” which evaluates these three comprehensively.

‘And...’

Bisabeol was someone who became an S-rank hunter with only his own aptitude skill, “appraisal.”

‘A work that even he can’t figure out—what kind of rotten joke is this?’

Perhaps unaware of the employee’s considerable bewilderment, the collector merely laughed as if delighted.

“That’s why it’s even more tempting.”

The peculiar point of “Collector,” called one of Korea’s three great guilds, was that every guild member had an appraisal skill.

And Bisabeol’s appraisal skill, as the head of that guild, was so outstanding that it would be fair to call it the best in the world.

A work whose exact function even Bisabeol couldn’t know.

“I think I understand why the association president bid as high as 2000.”

It was chilling, even.

‘...Maybe it’s just my imagination, but the atmosphere of the piece also feels a bit heavy.

Even though it’s only a portrait of a single person...’

The office guild member nodded.

“It looks like a work more suitable for research than appreciation, though.”

“Isn’t that why the association president coveted it so much?

In the end, I’m the one who won, though.”

“If you’ve said everything you want to say, I’ll be going now.

Getting my back broken in a whale fight isn’t my hobby.”

“I don’t know why our guild members are all so chic, every last one.”

“I think it’s karma for a guildmaster who gathered only people like this.”

“How sad.”

At Bisabeol, who smiled pleasantly with a face that wasn’t sad at all, the guild member recoiled and left the office.

He looked as if he’d come to deliver documents and ended up suffering.

“...”

Left alone, Bisabeol lifted the portrait with telekinesis and headed for an elevator hidden in the office.

“...”

Clunk.

The lift, narrow enough for three people to barely fit, descended to a very deep place.

It was the “Collector” guild’s warehouse, designated a prohibited area at the government level.

Unless you were an authorized employee or client, you couldn’t come and go here.

Simply put, it was a gallery for Bisabeol alone.

“...”

The warehouse he arrived at like that.

“Haaah...”

Bisabeol let out a breath of overwhelming emotion.

The veins on the large hand gripping his entire jaw bulged with ecstasy and satisfaction.

“Good.”

His snake-like, yellow eyes gleamed with manic obsession.

Bisabeol’s collection warehouse was his personal space.

It wasn’t that he displayed items his guild members brought back from dungeons or overseas as-is; the guildmaster himself purchased them and then displayed them.

And Bisabeol’s collection warehouse was filled with dangerous works and items.

“Very good.”

Bisabeol, unable to give up artworks, had put in every safety measure he could, and the government, acknowledging his efforts and results, sometimes even entrusted problematic items to him.

“This spot should be good.”

This “Gio’s portrait” Bisabeol had purchased this time was the same.

Click.

“Excellent.”

It was a painting containing one man.

Pale skin that suited a blunt and gloomy impression.

Pitch-black hair with not a speck of light in it.

And yet, rather than drooping into gloom, a sharply defined, chilly atmosphere and this restrained arrogance...

Even the peaceful forest scenery that harmonized with him.

“Who did they paint.”

It was a portrait that made you curious both about the painter who drew it and the model who became the work.

“If this is merely human skill, it’s incredible.

Even if it isn’t, it’s the same.

It’s as if they captured a truly living human...”

At that moment.

“...”

“...”

The man before him.

The pale portrait opened its eyes and looked at Bisabeol.

“...”

Bisabeol stopped breathing.

“...”

As if even his organs and muscles were seized by something enormous, he couldn’t say a word.

“...”

...What is this?

‘What is this?’

It was black.

All black.

Even though the whites and the blacks of the eyes were divided, he couldn’t distinguish that boundary at all—an abyss.

Its center was so deep he couldn’t fathom it.

It was a shadow.

And a night sky.

And...

“...”

Did it resemble the universe?

‘Black.’

Deep.

Multicolored.

Like life where warmth and cold coexist.

“...”

Blood vessels and threads of fate spread thickly within it.

When Bisabeol, without realizing, brought his hand to the man’s pitch-black eyes in the painting...

“...”

“...”

Soon, the portrait—

“...Oh.”

Closed its eyes.

“My god.”

In that moment, Bisabeol sensed that an unexpected jackpot had hit.

“So it isn’t an ordinary painting.”

He felt very good.

* * *

“...”

Meanwhile, Gio—the man in the painting.

He was scared stiff.

“Um...”

With a rarely disgusted face, he quietly retreated and looked at the frame hanging on the tree.

It was none other than the frame he called the “front door.”

After confirming that his only exit had been blocked, Gio muttered in dismay.

“For someone like me, I’m an ordinary painting.”

He was a little desperate—enough to make excuses no one could hear, without even realizing it.

‘...So this is what they mean by a threat to life.

I thought it was something that wouldn’t happen in this peaceful cabin, but as expected, things in the world don’t go only the way you think.

What a harsh world.’

Before making medicine in earnest, Gio had wanted to check the outside world once, and he realized his frame was being moved somewhere.

Checking now and then, it seemed to have been put up at some auction.

And the last place it arrived was none other than a huge warehouse...

‘...Or rather, should I call it a gallery or museum.’

Seeing an all-white building and well-made interior, it told him that only quite carefully selected works were being displayed.

It seemed like a gallery receiving plenty of its owner’s love.

And the more love was poured into it, the more Gio, who had had his one and only front door taken away, was troubled.

“So every time I go outside now, I’ll be committing trespassing.

Why did something like this happen to me, a model student of Saenara who goes to bed early and wakes early.

Is it because I slept without brushing my teeth yesterday?”

Gio had already startled some employee somewhere, saying he’d take a quick look outside.

He’d never died, but he still didn’t want to be burned at the stake as a haunted portrait.

“And if the portrait gets damaged, who knows what will happen to this painted world...”

Surely, in 31 years, Earth had become strong.

It was a world far too rugged and rough for Seo Gio, a timid, weak, fresh Gangwon potato, to survive.

‘Outside the blanket is dangerous.’

Gio once more acknowledged his identity as a portrait and resolved to stay here.

The very next day, after thinking he should be even more careful than now in order to survive in this harsh world on the honor of a haunted portrait—

“Hello.”

“...”

From beyond the wooden frame, the red-haired man he’d seen yesterday peeked in.

‘Oh.’

Truly, genuinely, sincerely—not with any meaning of discrimination or contempt, but with Gio’s own corneas speaking objectively without ulterior motive—

Those yellow eyes like a reptile gave him goosebumps.

He didn’t know why, but they even looked glossy.

Why, exactly?

But he didn’t want to understand.

For Gio, who had come out into the yard expecting only a refreshing morning, it was an overly harsh worry.

“Nice to meet you, sir.

I don’t know whether it is a good morning, a good afternoon, or a good evening, but for us humans, it is a good morning.

Did you sleep well, sir?”

“...”

“Yesterday, it seems I was too rude.

Might you be willing to talk with me?

What is your name?

By my appraisal, it was called ‘Gio’s portrait,’ so I suppose your name is Gio...”

“...”

“Sir?

Are you listening?

You open and close your eyes, so for someone like me, thirsty for conversation, it is terribly tantalizing.

You seem to be very skilled at getting a hold on people.”

Damn heaven and earth and gods.

‘After 31 years, the person who talks to me looks like that, so something good is bound to happen tomorrow.

But even taking that into account, an unacceptable misfortune has come.’

Modern society—this scary kid.

Gio hoped that the other person beyond the frame would keep an appropriate distance and pour a suitable amount of attention.

‘...It’s overwhelming...’

Introverted potato Seo Gio, before a man who didn’t hide his tremendous energy, could only cower.

Of course, it was something to be grateful for—having someone who talked to this loner.

It didn’t feel like 31 years, but anyway, wasn’t this an opportunity for communication after that long.

‘And the fact that the other person also seems fairly friendly tells me this is, in its own way, a good situation.’

But still...

“Sir?

Are you there?

Sir?

If it’s because I came empty-handed, I can prepare something you want, suited to your taste.”

“...”

“Hm, should I offer a sacrifice, after all...

In cases like this, what kind of sacrifice do they usually accept?

The most common is either a human full of sin, or an utterly pure human...

The latter is far too hard to obtain...”

“...”

“I should contact the prison again for the first time in a while.

In a world like this, getting a human full of sin is as easy as pie.

How many should I need?”

Ugh.

‘This is hard.’

Even for Gio, the mountain-village idol, he couldn’t brace himself for communication with an opponent like that.

Fantasy, modern,