Six men emerged from a nearby underbrush, armed with a mismatched collection of various weapons. The leader, a scarred man with a crooked grin, brandished a notched longsword with rust stains along the fuller and a cracked leather grip wrapped in dirty cloth. To his left, a broad-shouldered brute wore brass knuckles covered with blood, while another clutched a woodsman's hatchet with a splintered handle held together by fraying rope.
Behind them was a youthful female tied up at the wrist. One of the men dragged her to a nearby rock and bound her to it.
The remaining five men spread out to cut off any escape route, with the leader approaching Clive head on.
"Well, well... what do we have here?" The leader tapped his notched blade against his leg. "A lost little lordling, perhaps? Or some merchant's pampered son?"
Bandits, Clive speculated. He'd grown up in a poor neighbourhood rife with gang violence. He recognised their kind. Some things never change, even between worlds.
Clive had been fifteen the first time someone tried to rob him. He was scared then. By the time he was twenty-three, he had been mugged almost fifty times. He'd learned the hard way that showing fear was like bleeding in shark-infested waters. Now, he knew exactly how to deal with these types.
Buy time. Observe. Plan.
His [Artist's Eyes] analyzed the scene before him. His vision focused and the world around him revealed every detail. The leader's stance showed signs of experience, weight properly distributed with a confident sword grip. His followers were another story entirely. Their stances betrayed their amateur status, some too rigid with nervousness, others too loose with false bravado.
[Random Bandits x5]
Power Level: 3
[Bandit Leader “Scar-Face”]
Power Level: 8
Power levels? What were these?
Clive stared at the floating numbers above each bandit's head. The concept felt familiar, like something from the video games he'd played in his previous life, but seeing it applied to real people wielding actual weapons felt surreal.
[Certainty: Think of it as a rough measurement of overall capability. Combat experience, physical conditioning, magical aptitude. All rolled into one convenient number.]
He vaguely remembered he had a power level of ten. Simple math suggested he had the advantage.
So I'm stronger than all of them?
[Certainty: Careful now. Power levels aren't everything. A veteran with an eight can gut a rookie with a fifteen if the rookie's stupid enough to charge in swinging blindly. Ever heard of David and Goliath?]
Clive returned his focus to their leader. If he could take him down first, the rest would be manageable.
Get them riled up, anger generates impulsivity. Impulsivity creates weakness...
"I'm just a humble artist," Clive said, “Here to sketch the local wildlife. Though, I have to say, you're a bit more feral than what I was hoping to capture."
"What's he on about?" one of the bandits muttered.
"He wants to capture us? You think he's some kinda bounty hunter?"
"Nah," another bandit replied, scratching his head. "I think he's calling us ferrets. My cousin had one as a pet."
"Wait, he's sketching ferrets?" The fourth bandit looked around confused. "I don't see no ferrets."
The leader scowled. "Shut up, all of you!"
"An artist, eh? The leader circled slowly around Clive, eyeing him up and down." Oh, you'll fetch a fine price. Creative types cost double in the slave markets. Especially the pretty ones. The nobles love someone who can entertain them as well."
"Slave markets?" Those words made Clive furious. "Despicable."
The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. His mind returned to his time at Maxwell, when he discovered the greed of the corporate suits to enrich themselves at the expense of others.
He saw the same greed in those slavers. Once again, he stood between predators and their prey.
"Careful now, pretty boy," the leader's grin turned sharp. "That silver tongue of yours might get you in trouble."
"Or maybe you're the one who should be careful," Clive warned.
"Listen to this fancy talk!" the broad-shouldered brute with brass knuckles stepped forward. "Think you're better than us, do you?" He cracked his knuckles. "Let's see how well you talk with a broken jaw."
"Wait!" A lean bandit grabbed his companion's arm... "Take it easy! We shouldn’t damage his face. A damaged face is no good to sell on the market."
The leader raised his hand. "Oh, let him talk. I want to hear what other clever things he has to say." His eyes narrowed. "Before we teach him some manners."
But Clive barely heard them. His attention had shifted to the notification pulsing in his vision.
[Certainty: Need help?]
What kind of help did you have in mind?
[Certainty: The kind that keeps you from getting stabbed. You're not exactly winning this confrontation with your charm.]
Clive suppressed a grimace. I was doing just fine, thank you.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
[Certainty: Sure you were. That's why they're all circling you like vultures. Remember that whole Pictomancer thing? Maybe time to actually use it?]
I don't think sketching is going to get me out of this situation.
[Certainty: Oh my sweet summer child. Did you think I made you a one-trick pony? You have a palette and brush for a reason.]
[Combat Tutorial Available]
[Multiple hostile entities detected]
[Suggestion: Paint magic responds to intent and visualization. The only limit is your imagination.]
Clive's mind raced as he processed the information.
Paint magic? Like actually painting spells into existence?
[Certainty: Duh. You’re a Pictomancer. Painting is kind of your thing.]
Clive thought back to his skill description, frustratingly vague as it was:
Paint (Combat) - Harness color theory to cast elemental spells
His hand moved to the equipment at his belt. A paintbrush and a palette containing four colors: red, blue, yellow and white.
Four colors. But these were the only four colors he needed.
Years of art training kicked in as his mind began connecting the dots.
"What's wrong, pretty boy?" The leader's mocking voice cut through his thoughts. "Gone quiet now ain't ya. You scared boy?"
Clive's brush was already moving. He swept it through the red, creating a fiery sphere that hung in the air.
The bandits' laughter turned uncertain as the glowing sphere expanded.
"Is he... painting?" A bandit whispered nervously.
Clive focused on the image in his mind – the roar of flame, the explosive force.
[Paint: Red Fireball I]
[MP Cost:2]
The sphere of flames exploded outward. The leader's eyes barely had time to widen before the spell struck him square in the chest, engulfing him. His screams were short-lived as the magical fire sent him flying backward into his stunned companions. When the light faded, the leader lay motionless on the ground, armor still glowing with residual heat.
[Certainty: Well, done Clive, that was a beautiful fireball.]
Thanks. What does the ‘I’ mean?
[Certainty: Tier 1 duh. Its a tier 1 spell.]
How do I use a tier 2 spell then?
[Certainty: Sigh. Give a man a fish and he demands beef. Teach a man to fish and he sets up a multi-billion dollar fishing enterprise that displaces local fishers and corners the global fishing market.]
…
[Certainty: Do you understand what I am saying?]
No… not really.
[Certainty: F-I-G-U-R-E/ I-T /O-U-T /Y-O-U-R-S-E-L-F. There I spelled it out for you.]
…
Clive turned his attention back to the fight. The remaining bandits staggered back, shock and fear replacing their earlier bravado.
"What... what kind of magic was that?" one of them whispered, already backing away.
The brute with brass knuckles recovered first. He charged forward with a desperate roar, but Clive was ready for him.
Clive's trained [Artist's Eye] caught every flaw in the telegraphed motion. From the overextended stance to the poor weight distribution. He saw everything.
He remembered the manga series he'd been particularly fixated on, Blade's Edge, with its meticulous attention to realistic combat. Clive had spent three straight days copying one particular fight scene, over and over, until his wrist ached and his fingers cramped, just to understand how the artist had captured the weight transfer in a defensive sidestep. It paid off when mugger number thirty-seven tried to jump him in the middle of the night.
Now, as the brute charged at him, it was all second nature to him. His body instinctively responded to the attack by shifting left, letting the punch whistle past his ear. The momentum carried the larger man forward, just as Clive had anticipated.
[Skill Upgraded: Artist's Eyes Level 2]
[New Ability Unlocked: Motion Vision]
[Motion Vision allows you to perceive movement trajectories and anticipate action moments before they occur]
As Clive sidestepped the charge, he didn’t have time to paint a fireball. Instead, he dipped his paintbrush in yellow and flicked it out toward the brute's exposed arm.
[Paint: Yellow fever I]
[MP Cost:2]
The yellow pigment sank into the brute's skin like sunlight seeping into parchment. Within seconds, his charge turned into a stumble. Sickly yellow tendrils crawled beneath his skin, mapping out his circulatory system.
"What is this?" he gasped, his voice already growing hoarse as heat radiated from his skin. "What have you done to me?"
Clive watched, fascinated by the efficacy of his spell. He hadn't known exactly what would happen—only that yellow represented heat, energy, and sickness in color theory. He had channeled that meaning with his intent, and the magic had done the rest.
The brute's knees buckled as his temperature spiked dramatically. Sweat poured down his reddening face, his skin flushing with unnatural heat. His companions stepped back instinctively as the fear of contagion overrode their loyalty.
"It's... burning me," the man gasped as his brass knuckles fell from his fingers.
The artistic part of Clive's mind couldn't help but appreciate the aesthetics of it—the contrast of vibrant yellow against the man's flushed face, the way the color moved like liquid sunlight through his system. In another context, he might have reached for his sketchbook to capture the haunting image.
But there was no time for that now. The other bandits were regrouping, exchanging nervous glances as they circled him more cautiously.
"Stay back from that one, he's a mage!" one of them called out in fear.
“Damn, I knew this was a bad idea.”
The brute was still on his knees, his skin burning with heat. "Don't... let him... touch you," the afflicted man managed between gasps.
"Keep your distance and rush him from all sides," the lean bandit commanded. "There’s only one of him. Don’t be afraid."
Clive's mind raced as he assessed his options. Yellow had worked well, but he couldn't count on them getting close enough for direct contact again.
As he gazed upon the blue on his palette, an idea began to form. They were too clustered on his left. He needed something contagious.
"He’s painting!" the lean bandit shouted to his companions. "Don't give him time to—"
Clive's brush was already in motion. This time, he didn't aim for a bandit. Instead, he painted directly into the air between them.
[Paint: Blue Flu]
[MP Cost:3]
An azure mist exploded outwards with unnatural speed.
"Hold your breath!" one of the bandits cried, but it was too late. The mist was already amongst them.
The first bandit to inhale the mist doubled over immediately, a hacking cough tearing from his throat. Blue spit flew from his mouth, carrying the magical contagion further. Within seconds, another bandit began to cough, then another.
[Blue Flu effect: Airborne contagion activated]
[Status effect: Respiratory distress, decreased stamina, highly contagious]
The notifications appeared in sequence as the spell found new victims. One bandit, faster than the others, had managed to retreat beyond the initial spread of the mist. He stood at the edge of the clearing, watching in horror as his companions succumbed.
"What kind of demon are you?" he shouted, backing away further.
“I’m not a demon.” Clive smirked. “I’m an artist.”
The uninfected bandit turned and fled, disappearing into the underbrush. The others were too sick to follow, too sick even to maintain their threatening postures. One by one, they collapsed to their knees, then to the ground, curling into fetal positions as shivers wracked their bodies.
A warm sensation flowed through Clive's body. He felt it settle particularly in his mind, a gentle expansion of something intangible yet essential.
[Level up]
[HP + 5]
[MP + 3]
[Power Level +5]
The system's notifications confirmed what he'd already felt—his magical reserves had deepened, and his connection to the arcane had strengthened. It made sense; using his abilities effectively in combat had honed them further.
With the bandits defeated, Clive turned his attention to the captive girl by the rock. As he approached, the girl pressed herself against the rock, her eyes wide with fear.
"It's all right," Clive said, holding his hands up to show he meant no harm. The paintbrush was tucked safely away, and he made sure to keep his dagger sheathed. "I'm not with them. I'm here to help."
The painter's brush speaks louder than the warrior's blade, for while steel may cut flesh, colors repaint the very fabric of reality itself.
- The Legendary Moonlight Artist
