A Mysterious Person’s Painting Wins The Grand Prize And Is Displayed In The Royal Castle

That night, Phonic was riding in a carriage, dressed in formal attire.

He was on his way to the royal castle.

Tonight, there was a standing dinner party hosted by Orfred, and Phonic, as one of the senior members, was required to attend as well.

And what was the dinner party for, exactly—

It was to unveil the prize-winning works from the Bladra Grand Art Prize.

To put it more precisely, it was to auction off each of the winning works. A large portion of the proceeds would go to Black Dragon’s Fang.

Orfred was not holding the art grand prize in order to contribute to the world of art. His main objective was simply to add the prestige of being an award-winning work to nothing more than canvas and paint, then sell it at a high price.

That was why, on a day like today, courting “privileged elites with an eye for art” was important.

After arriving at the royal palace, Phonic headed toward the venue.

“Ah, Phonic-sama!”

“Kyaa! It’s the Meteor Swordsman!”

The shrill voices of noble girls flew toward him. He was a handsome man in his mid-twenties, and on top of that, his body was well-trained and toned. No matter how one looked at him, he was cool, so he was highly popular with women.

Phonic made his way deeper inside while politely bowing to each one.

(…I still cannot quite get used to this…)

Even so, compared to the past, he had gotten much better.

He had spent his whole life swinging a sword around, so of course he had known nothing of court etiquette. However, now that he was one of the Eight Stars of Black Dragon’s Fang, which had dealings even with royalty, “I can’t do it” was no excuse.

At last, Phonic entered the venue.

The hall was filled with countless nobles enjoying cheerful conversation. The prize-winning works of the Bladra Grand Art Prize were displayed all over the venue.

(…Now then, let me see what they are like…)

Phonic looked over the paintings one by one.

Naturally, Phonic knew nothing about art. Even so, all of them were skillfully painted, and he found himself impressed.

And then, at last, the grand prize-winning work came into view.

It was completely a painting of “the brutally murdered corpse of an octopus pasted onto a grotesquely painted willow tree.”

(…This is… the grand prize-winning work…?)

Phonic could not understand it in the slightest.

He had absolutely no idea what was supposed to be so wonderful about it.

Just then,

“Phonic-sama, it has been a long time.”

A voice suddenly called out to him from behind.

When he turned around, he saw a man around forty years old—an acquaintance of his, Count Mircy.

“It has indeed been a long time, Count Mircy.”

“What do you think of the grand prize painting?”

“Hahaha, well—yes…”

Phonic gave a strained smile as he searched for words.

“Well, one might call it original. It is rather difficult to understand.”

“Hehehehe, it would seem that art is not your strong suit, Phonic-sama.”

With a smug smile, Count Mircy continued.

“Yes, certainly, this work is difficult to approach. The instant I first saw it, I recoiled. However, if you believe in the judgment of the genius Soltage-sama and the hero Orfred-sama, who both recognized this painting—and then gaze upon it in silence and converse with it in your heart—you can feel it.”

“Feel it?”

“Yes. The rhythm conveyed by this painting. The passion. The artist’s powerful will to alter the world through painting!”

Where in the world was any of that?

Phonic stared intently at the painting, but he felt nothing. No matter how long he looked at it, it was nothing more than a painting of “the brutally murdered corpse of an octopus pasted onto a grotesquely painted willow tree.”

“What do you think, Phonic-sama? Were you able to feel it?”

“No, well, I am not quite sure…”

“There is no need to be embarrassed. The other nobles were the same. But every time one person, then another, cried out, ‘I get it!’ someone else would say, ‘I get it too!’”

Phonic thought that sounded more like they were simply convincing themselves they understood due to pressure from those around them…

“What do you think, Phonic-sama? Surely by now, you understand?”

“U-umm, w-well, who can say…”

He glanced at it again, but—as expected, it was still nothing more than a painting of “the brutally murdered corpse of an octopus pasted onto a grotesquely painted willow tree.”

Count Mircy grinned.

“As I thought, compared to Orfred-sama, you still have quite a way to go.”

“Compared to Orfred-sama?”

“Indeed. I also served as a judge for the Bladra Grand Art Prize, so I was at the venue on the day of the judging. And at that time, Orfred-sama was truly magnificent. He held his own against the genius of beauty, Soltage-sama!”

“…Against Soltage…!”

Of course, since they were both members of the Eight Stars, Phonic knew Soltage.

And how incomprehensible he was as well.

“To be frank, this painting did not win people’s agreement right away. Even so, while everyone else was bewildered by every single word Soltage-sama spoke, Orfred-sama alone showed understanding without the slightest hesitation.”

With a flourish, Count Mircy gestured toward the painting and said this.

“Soltage-sama said this. He said that this painting possessed a vast passion equal to the very history of art humanity had steadily built up through the ages—or no, one that surpassed even that by far!”

“Passion.”

Apparently, if Count Mircy was to be believed, Orfred had felt that.

Phonic was at a loss. Even when he looked at it again, he felt nothing from that creepy painting.

Seeing the look on Phonic’s face, the count shrugged.

“It seems you have not yet reached the point where you can feel anything.”

“…It would seem not.”

“Soltage-sama said this as well. Art is the aufheben of madness and sanity. Orfred-sama understood that at once.”

“Aufheben.”

To begin with, Phonic did not understand that part. He had no idea what it meant, but perhaps ordinary words simply would not do.

He thought it was not a word people used very often, yet Phonic found himself honestly admiring Orfred as expected of the leader of Black Dragon’s Fang for understanding it.

He was clearly on a different level from Phonic, who was only good for swinging a sword around.

(…I still have a long way to go.)

Refreshing his mood, Phonic took a deep breath and faced the painting once more.

And yet—

It was still nothing more than a painting of “the brutally murdered corpse of an octopus pasted onto a grotesquely painted willow tree.”

(…Seriously, what is supposed to be good about this?)

One day, while I was lazing around at home, Arisa spoke to me.

“Hey, big brother.”

“What?”

“You’re free, right?”

“I am free.”

Since I was lazing around at home, there was no room for excuses.

Arisa continued.

“Then how about we go here?”

As she said that, the flyer Arisa held out to me was for an art museum, and it said this.

“Now exhibiting the prize-winning works of the Bladra Grand Art Prize! The grand prize-winning work that the genius Soltage hailed as ‘a miracle of art’ is now on full display!”