Urban System in America-Chapter 123 - 122: Eye of Color

Inside the timeless realm of the System Space, completely oblivious to the schemes and power plays unfolding in the real world.

This time, the new mentor didn’t arrive immediately, giving him time to put the skills he had learned into practice. After countless days of trial and error, he finally had a piece he was satisfied with. It was the accumulation of all the skills and knowledge he had learned.

He sat alone in front of an easel. His eyes were fixed on the canvas, a silent frustration growing in his chest.

The painting before him was a masterwork in every technical sense—a tranquil nature landscape, where an old, gnarled tree stood tall and dignified in the middle of a sun-dappled meadow. At the foot of the tree stood a small boy, gazing up in awe, his form precisely structured with proper anatomy, gesture, and proportion. Each line held a weight. The background had depth. The composition flowed like music. Narrative pacing, spatial framing, visual direction—everything he had learned, everything the system had drilled into his very soul, had come together here.

And yet, the canvas remained black and white.

When it came to color, Rex hesitated. Every time he picked up the brush, the world inside the painting seemed to flinch. He was terrified of ruining the delicate balance he had created—of misplacing a single stroke and having the entire harmony collapse like a house of cards.

He frowned, gripped the brush tighter, and closed his eyes.

Just then, a warm voice echoed through the space, light-hearted and melodic, with an accent touched by the countryside of 19th-century France.

"Haha! It’s finally time."

Rex jerked his head toward the sound.

From the hazy white mists that bordered the space, a figure emerged—tall, with a wiry build, clothed in simple but paint-stained linen. A wide-brimmed straw hat rested over a head of curly blond hair. His beard was sun-kissed and golden, and his eyes—ah, his eyes—were pools of vibrant perception, shimmering with hues no natural iris should carry. It was as if the world itself had poured into them.

But it was not his physical appearance that struck Rex. It was the aura around him.

There was no grandeur, no booming entrance, no overwhelming intensity. Just color—subtle, dancing, emotional, alive.

He walked barefoot, leaving faint trails of pastel color in the air with each step.

And as usual System’s voice rang in the whole space.

[SIXTH DESCENT INITIATED]

Instructor: Claude Monet – The Eye of Color

Master of of light and color, painting with emotion, atmospheric perception

Claude Monet had arrived.

The man approached with a smile as gentle as the morning light. He didn’t even glance at Rex first. His eyes went straight to the unfinished canvas.

"Oh, magnifique," he whispered, placing a hand on his chest as if moved to tears. "The form, the silence, the boy... you’ve made time pause."

Rex blinked, unsure whether to thank him or apologize.

"But you stopped," Monet said, turning to him, tilting his head slightly. "You’re afraid."

Rex lowered his gaze. "I don’t want to ruin it."

At that, Monet chuckled, walking over to a nearby shelf and picking up a small palette. "My boy, color does not ruin—it reveals. It is not the enemy of form, but the soul of it."

Monet nodded and walked past him. "Color is not just something you add. It’s not makeup. It’s emotion. It’s atmosphere. It’s truth without the burden of precision."

Rex tilted his head slightly. "But... won’t that destroy the accuracy? The structure I worked so hard to maintain?"

"Sometimes," Monet said, "accuracy is a cage."

He walked to the canvas and gestured for Rex to stand. "Tell me, what do you see when you look at this tree?"

"I see... an old memory. It feels like peace, and strength, and time... like a childhood I don’t remember having."

Monet smiled softly, lifting a brush. "Then why should it be brown?"

Rex froze. "What?"

"You said memory, not bark. Peace, not timber. Why must you color it as the world demands? Art is not imitation—it is translation."

With that, he dipped his brush in a mixture of soft blue, silver gray, and muted rose and painted a single leaf.

The effect was immediate. ƒreeωebnovel.ƈom

That single leaf shimmered with melancholy. It didn’t clash. It didn’t break the structure. It enhanced it, pulling something intangible into the visible. The boy before the tree suddenly looked more alone, but also more grounded—like the world remembered him too.

Monet stepped back. "You see? Light doesn’t always have to obey rules. Paint with your heart, not your head. The light will guide you."

Rex stared, spellbound, as the colors began to dance. Monet continued, each stroke loose, almost careless—but never random. He painted with an instinct honed not by calculation, but by observation and emotion.

"Realism is not perfection," Monet continued. "Sometimes a blurry line, a misaligned shadow, an exaggerated hue... that’s where the soul lies."

He stepped forward and took the brush when Monet offered it.

"Try," the master said. "Close your eyes and breathe. What do you want the boy to feel in this moment?"

Rex hesitated. Then he breathed in.

He saw the boy, small before the great tree, overwhelmed by its size and the world’s beauty. A soft breeze, the warmth of early spring, the smell of damp earth and new leaves. A memory of his childhood when the world still seemed full of endless wonder.

He dipped into sunlight yellow, mixed it with soft pink, and touched it to the edge of the meadow.

Then cool blue, feathered into the shadow of the tree—not dark, not cold, but calm.

One stroke after another, Rex began to lose himself in the flow.

No more fear. No more precision. Just instinct.

He didn’t notice when Monet stepped back, smiling.

The canvas transformed—alive, not perfect. And yet, more powerful than anything he had ever created. The boy no longer looked like a drawing. He looked like a feeling.

After what felt like both hours and seconds, Rex lowered the brush.

Monet clapped softly. "Bravo."

Rex, sweating lightly, looked at the painting—and felt something deep inside shift.

He had crossed a line. A boundary between craftsman and artist.

"Thank you," he whispered.

But Monet smiled gently, "This is only the beginning. There is more to see, more to feel. The world is vast, and colors infinite."

Hours passed—or maybe days. It was impossible to tell.

Monet didn’t guide him with strict rules or lectures. Instead, he hummed old French songs, pointed to light sources, spoke of gardens and fog and reflections on the Seine. He taught Rex how the same color could be sadness or joy, depending on its neighbors. That shadows weren’t just gray—they were lilac, sapphire, and burnt sienna. That the air itself had color if you looked closely enough.

"Don’t fear imperfection," Monet said, watching as Rex paused to correct a stroke. "That is where the heart hides. Precision without emotion is architecture, not art."

Gradually, the painting came alive.

The sky shimmered with peach-tinted dusk. The tree glowed with soft sea-green highlights. The grass flickered in dappled shades of ochre and mint. The boy, dressed in muted gold, no longer seemed like a subject—he was a memory captured in dreamlight.

When the final stroke was laid, Rex stepped back, stunned.

It was the same scene. But now, it felt like something.

A story.

A song.

A life.

Claude Monet placed a hand on his shoulder. "You have the eye now. Not just to see color, but to feel it. Remember this feeling—because it’s not just for art. You’ll see people, places, even danger differently now. You’ll sense intention in hue, feel truth in light."

Rex, breathless, nodded. "Thank you, Master Monet."

The artist smiled, eyes twinkling like the morning sky over water.

"Au revoir, my student. May your world never again be gray."

And with that, the mist began to rise again, wrapping around the legendary painter as he faded into the system’s space.

[SESSION COMPLETE]

[CORE PRINCIPLE IMPRINTED: Eye of Color]

[INTERNALIZED: Intuitive Use of Light, Emotional Expression, Atmospheric Perception]

Alone once more, Rex looked at his completed painting. He didn’t feel doubt anymore. He felt empowered.

Unbeknownst to him, in the real world, danger was brewing. But here—in the system space—Rex was mastering beauty, light, and intuition.

One skill at a time.

(End of Chapter)