Urban System in America-Chapter 144 - 143: Fledgling?

"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.

But he remained silent, his expression unreadable.

Taking his lack of reaction as hesitation, the store owner puffed up with the smug confidence of a seasoned businessman.

"Judging by your age, you must be a fledgling artist." He said with a kind patronizing tone. " Honestly, you should be grateful I’m offering you a thousand dollars. Because most people wouldn’t even look at art from someone your age.

"But I’m offering not just money. It’s Exposure." He added, as if offering a rare privilege "it’s not just that your painting will be hung in our store, Actually, it will be a great promotion opportunity and will be beneficial for your future, young people like you shouldn’t just think about the immediate gains, if they want to succeed, they should have a long-term vision.

Rex smiled politely on the outside, but inside he was howling with laughter. A fledgling? If only he knew how much he had suffered to learn this.

And he really thinks I’m some broke, desperate kid, he thought..

Still smiling, he gestured toward the crowd outside. "It might seem ordinary to you... but they seem to think otherwise."

The owner glanced out and flushed slightly, but quickly masked it with a seasoned businessman’s smirk. "Ah, well, people are shallow. They just chase handsome men and pretty faces. But to show my sincerity—how about $1,500? Enough for a young man to splurge."

Rex didn’t answer. He quietly packed his supplies and turned toward the back exit.

"Okay, okay! $2000!"

Still no response.

"$3000!

...Just as he reached the door, the desperate shout rang out:

"Fine! $5000!" Deal?!"

Rex finally stopped.

The owner smirked and arms folded, a smug grin tugging at his lips. He watched Rex with the tired amusement of someone who had seen countless dreamers come and go—each one swallowed by the same reality.

"Young people..." he sighed dramatically, shaking his head. "In the end, they all bow to money. You’ll see. It’s not your fault. Just the way of the world."

He chuckled to himself, smug in his belief that reality had finally caught up to the boy genius.

"What is art, anyway? Can it be eaten? Can it pay the bills? All this nonsense about emotion and meaning... It’s all a scam in the end."

But Rex didn’t move. He didn’t even blink.

Instead, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a sleek key fob, cool chrome and matte black, with the logo catching the light. The faint jingle of metal rang sharp in the quiet space.

He turned the keys slowly between his fingers, letting the sound echo.

Then looked up—eyes unreadable.

"Do I look like someone short on pocket change to you?" he asked, his tone mild.

The man’s smirk faltered, his eyes dropped to the key fob. Seeing the exquisite key fob, the store owner immediately knew that the car was definitely not something cheap.

But he still held on to the fluke mentality, Maybe the kid borrowed it? Maybe it was for show?

"Okay, okay, you win, how about $10,000. It’s my final offer, only because I appreciate young artists like you."

Rex finally let out a quiet laugh—not out of humor, but cold.

Then he stepped forward.

One pace. Two. Close enough that the smirk finally slipped from the owner’s face.

"It seems like you still don’t understand the situation," he retracted his smirk and spoke with a serious expression.

"First of all I don’t need your pennies, And secondly,"—he pointed toward the front window, where shadows of onlookers pressed against the glass—"do you think the crowd outside are fools?"

Shouts and murmurs filtered through the walls. Flashes of phone cameras lit the foggy glass, eager and insistent.

"Even a kid with crayons could see its value." But you? You saw an opportunity to cheat a ’nobody’ and make a quick flip."

Rex’s eyes narrowed. "Where did you get the courage to quote one thousand?"

The owner opened his mouth to reply—but the words died in his throat. There was something in the boy’s eyes. Something sharp, something old. Like he wasn’t just some fresh-faced artist, but someone who had seen far more than he let on.

Rex took another step closer, the edge in his voice sharpening. "Since I got free supplies, let me return the favor with some free advice."

The store fell utterly silent. Even the distant noise from the crowd seemed to fade.

"If you’re going to deal with people, especially artists—be honest. Because they’re the ones who pour years, heartbreak, and soul into something that can’t be priced by your bottom line. This isn’t just paint on canvas."

He leaned slightly forward, tone sharper than a scalpel.

"Artists don’t just ’create.’ We endure. We live a thousand lives so someone else can feel something for a second. We’re giving pieces of our soul. Fragments of who we are. And whether you like it or not, this profession is sacred."

He looked down at his work, then back up.

"It’s memory. It’s silence. It’s grief. It’s love. It’s the parts of us we can’t explain—turned into color."

The owner swallowed, face pale now, the blood drained from his earlier bravado. His hands—once confidently folded—hung useless at his sides, twitching with nerves he hadn’t felt in years.

Rex’s voice echoed in his ears like a quiet curse:

"No matter how big the empire, greed and deceit will bring it down."

With that, he turned around to leave, but as he reached the door, he suddenly paused again, then added with a slight smile, "And yes... art can be eaten. It just takes someone with vision to taste it."

The words hung in the air like smoke.

Then he pushed open the door, stepped out into the sunlight, and slid smoothly into the sleek black car waiting by the curb. The engine purred to life, elegant and cold. A low growl, like a panther stretching its limbs. ƒгeewёbnovel.com

With a light press of the pedal, Rex disappeared into the horizon—leaving the owner standing in the dust, mouth agape, eyes on the fading exhaust trail.

The store owner stood frozen in the wind, watching the car disappear, a sour, arcid taste crawling up in his mouth.

Regret.

Humiliation.

Two things he thought he’d grown too old to feel.

As one of L.A.’s biggest gallery owners, he had enough vision to know that painting was extraordinary. And he had the chance to own this masterpiece, something he could’ve flipped for hundreds of thousands... and he let it slip. All because of his excessive greed, and arrogance, he underestimated a young man with true talent.

Had he started with a fair offer, that painting might’ve been his.

And the above was just his wishful thinking, even if he had millions Rex wouldn’t sell him, as this was his first painting in the world, this painting had great commemorative value to him. But of course he had no way of knowing this.

Sighing, he turned back toward the store.

"W-Wait! Sir!"

But just as he took a step, a beautiful girl ran up to him, slightly breathless, chest rising and falling rapidly. Her long chestnut hair clung to her sweat-slicked cheeks, and her eyes—wide and luminous—were filled with urgency.

"Where is he?" she asked. "The young man who painted that... Where did he go?"

The owner blinked, still not fully recovered.

"Who?" he asked dumbly.

"The artist!" she pressed, almost pleading. "The one who just painted here."

"He? He left a while ago," the owner replied with annoyance.

"What?" she gasped, frustrated. She looked down the street, hoping for a glimpse, a sign, anything. "No..."

She stood there for a moment, motionless.

Then, clenching her fists, she muttered something under her breath.

—

Let’s rewind a few minutes.

Luna had been there—standing near the back—when Rex unveiled his painting.

At first, she had just glanced at it. But within seconds, her breath had caught in her throat.

It wasn’t just a painting. It was a revelation.

Every brushstroke, every detail pulled her in. Every shadow told a story. Her heart pounded. She felt as though someone had reached into her chest and captured the rawest parts of her being, placing them on that canvas. She had never seen anything like it.

She had to talk to him.

But the crowd was faster, wilder. Before she could react, they rushed in, surging forward like a crashing wave and sweeping her away like a leaf in a storm.

"These people are insane!" she hissed under her breath, trying to force her way forward. "Just let me through!"

But it was hopeless.

Most of the crowd were girls, and their frenzy knew no bounds.

But just as he was depairing, as a regular here, she suddenly remembered that there was a back door.

She had sprinted there, hoping to catch him in time. But in the end, she was still too late.

Her heart sank. She had finally found someone her age with that kind of artistic skill—but she didn’t even know his name. And she had no idea if they’d ever meet again.

Her chest tightened with frustration, but more than that—determination.

She, Luna wasn’t the type to give up easily. She clenched her fists and made up her mind.

"I’ll find him," she said aloud, ignoring the bewildered look from the owner.

She turned on her heel, eyes blazing.

Even if I have to ask Master for help. With his connections and influence, it shouldn’t be too hard... right?"

(End of Chapter)