Chapter 27

The faculty office was quiet.

It didn’t matter if it was during class hours or not—the atmosphere was always the same.

And now, it was P.E. class.

I didn’t want to be outside in this sweltering weather, so I decided to visit the office.

Of course, students can’t just barge into the faculty office like they own the place.

But with my homeroom teacher being the only one inside, and with his permission, I could enter freely.

“...Are you really using that as your wallpaper?”

“Why? Got a problem with it?”

“No, not at all.”

I glanced at the monitor next to the teacher. It was displaying a drawing I had made.

Lately, my drawings seemed to be popping up everywhere. Maybe I was just imagining it.

“Still, even I have to admit—it looks really good.”

“Sometimes I wish you wouldn’t talk. Then you wouldn’t be so insufferable.”

“Well, I’m your only student. Go easy on me.”

I sipped from the instant coffee in my hand.

That familiar mix of sweetness and bitterness filled my mouth.

In my previous life, I couldn’t live without caffeine, but these days, I avoided it.

Probably because my current body couldn’t handle more than a moderate amount.

Sadly, even as an adult, I might not be able to drink alcohol.

And smoking? Forget it—it might as well be a death sentence for me.

“Oh, I almost forgot. Teacher, when are you giving me my reward?”

“Ah, right. I forgot about that too.”

The teacher took a sip of his coffee and then straightened up.

He was hunched over the monitor so much I was starting to worry he’d get a hunchback.

If we ever ran into each other at a hospital in the future, I’d be sure to say hi.

“Let’s see…”

The teacher rummaged through a drawer, presumably looking for my reward.

Wait, why is he digging through a drawer for a reward?

It was like he was fishing through a pile of junk.@@novelbin@@

“Ah, here it is. Take it.”

The teacher straightened up and handed me a piece of paper.

“Thank you~!”

I didn’t know what it was, but it looked fancy enough to be something good.

“Wait. A ticket?”

On closer inspection, it was a golden ticket straight out of a comic book.

“It’s a musical ticket. Took a lot of effort to get it. Go enjoy the show.”

Isn’t it notoriously hard to get tickets to popular musicals?

How did he manage that?

I bowed deeply, filled with gratitude.

“And take a look at this, too.”

The teacher suddenly shoved a flyer in front of me.

“What’s this—oh.”

It was a contest flyer, the same one Choi Ye-Seo had mentioned a while back.

We’d even gone to an art café together because of it.

Judging by the dates, the deadline must be approaching.

“I managed to get one ticket. The rest you’ll have to sort out yourself.”

With that, the teacher turned back to his monitor, burying his face in it once more.

I glanced at him with some pity but didn’t get any further response.

The flyer in my hand read:

Middle and High School Anthropomorphism Contest

Venue: Each school’s auditorium

Date: [Redacted for Contest Day]

Evaluation: Live YouTube voting

Judges: University professors will provide critiques

Awards announced a week after the evaluation

Good luck, everyone!

In summary, that was it. Though if the flyer had been that blunt, the organizers would’ve faced a ton of backlash.

Also, this wasn’t even a contest hosted by our school.

Still, the only thing that caught my attention was the grand prize:

Two musical tickets.

The first-place prize was the tickets, while the other prizes were gift cards or household items.

But then, my conscience reared its head.

Would it be fair for me, a seasoned artist, to crush these rookies?

As much as I was considered a genius, my experience gave me a monstrous advantage.

That’s who I was now—a combination of talent and effort.

Would it really be fair for me to enter this contest?

The contest lasted a week, starting tomorrow morning.

...I’d decide in three days.

Since the event was being streamed live on YouTube, I’d get to see the level of competition.

I wasn’t planning on sitting it out entirely. I’d participate, but the key was figuring out how much effort I needed to put in to win without stirring up controversy.

The goal was to create a piece that my peers could admire as impressive yet believable for someone my age.

If my work surpassed expectations too much, people would start talking.

“Was it done by someone else? Or is it AI-generated…?”

AI? Not yet, I think.

I hadn’t delved into AI art much. My skills were still leagues ahead.

Anyway, here’s my plan: I’d observe quietly for the first three days of the contest.

Especially since this time, there would be plenty of participants from art-focused middle and high schools.

I wanted to see just how skilled they were.

***

Three Days Into the Contest

The submissions I’d seen so far were impressive—well above average. Honestly, I was surprised.

I hadn’t expected works of this caliber.

However, this was strictly my evaluation as an amateur.

From the perspective of a professional artist—which, by the way, is my own standard—the works were a little bland.

“Alright, I’ve got a pretty good sense of the competition now.”

I got out of bed, quickly washed up, and headed out.

When Mom asked where I was going, I told her I was going to the studio. She just waved and said, “Alright.”

She didn’t worry because the studio was just a short walk from our apartment.

The studio was a single room, but it could comfortably fit three people.

“...What are you two doing here?”

It was my studio. So why were they here?

At my question, two girls—Ha Soo-Yul and Choi Ye-Seo—turned their heads toward me.

“Hi! It’s the weekend, so we came to hang out!”

“Weekend or not, why are you in my studio?”

“Here, Ha-Eun. Look at this.”

Ha Soo-Yul stood up and showed me a sheet of paper.

“Hmm. Not bad.”

I gave her a double thumbs-up. She puffed out her chest proudly and sat back down.

...What is this? Is something wrong with me?

I slumped into a chair in the corner of the studio and sighed.

Technically, there wasn’t an issue with them being here.

I’d given them the door code.

They’d been so excited about having a “shared hideout” that I couldn’t bring myself to tell them not to come.

Besides, I had set up this studio because I had no space for my art at home.

There was simply no room.

For the record, this studio was funded by my YouTube earnings.

I’d considered buying a house, but that felt a bit excessive, so I decided against it.

Maybe later, if I really needed one.

Resting my elbows on the armrests, I propped my chin on my hand.

I figured I’d take a closer look at how much effort they’d put into their work.

But just a glance was enough. The papers were a mess.

These two had no talent for drawing.

“Ha-Eun, aren’t you participating in the contest?”

At Choi Ye-Seo’s sudden question, I shook my head.

“No, I am. That’s why I came here, but you two are here.”

Art requires a quiet, serene environment.

Of course, everyone’s preferences vary, but that’s how it is for me.

The level of noise I can tolerate depends on my mood.

When I’m drawing, even the slightest sound can throw me off, so I try to block it out.

“Oh… um… should we leave, then?”

Scratching the back of her head, Choi Ye-Seo laughed awkwardly.

Ha Soo-Yul seemed to agree with her.

“No, it’s fine. Just sit back there and watch me draw.”

In any case, their presence wasn’t particularly bothersome.

It was… manageable.

Still, I hoped they’d stay quiet. I’m not a fan of noise.

The two of them moved to a corner of the studio and sat in the remaining chairs.

They soon pulled out their phones and went silent.

I smiled faintly at their consideration and sat down in front of the canvas.

Picking up the palette below, I grabbed a brush with my right hand.

It had been a while since I felt like this.

The only difference was that I was in a good mood.

I had to admit, it was thanks to those two.

Their presence made it easier for me to draw.

The theme for the contest was anthropomorphism.

Anything could be depicted as human-like.

This was an easy, straightforward task for me, given how much practice I’d had drawing people.

First, I needed to choose an object.

Turning back, I addressed the two behind me.

“Name any object or thing that comes to mind.”

At my sudden question, they tilted their heads.

After a moment:

“Hmm… a peach! Oh, I want to eat one.”

“A shark.”

A shark isn’t an object, though.

Alright, we’ll go with the peach, courtesy of Choi Ye-Seo’s craving. It reminded me of something I’d drawn in my past life.

Turning back to the canvas, I began to paint.

The type of tool didn’t matter much, but brushes suited me best.

Let me summarize my artwork categorization like this:

7 masterpieces, 10 excellent works.

Why the distinction? Because excellent works are a step below masterpieces.

What I was working on now was close to an excellent work.

Not a masterpiece, but close.

That subtle difference is what shakes the art world.

One hour, then two.

In total, it took seven hours to complete the painting before me.

With a bit of refinement, it could become an excellent work. But I couldn’t send something like that to a mere contest.

I turned to look out the window, noticing the setting sun.

The two girls had fallen asleep, phones resting on their laps.

Taking out my phone, I noticed a few messages from my parents.

After replying, I snapped a picture of the painting and sent it to them.

Peaches immediately evoke the color pink.

Naturally, pink was a dominant color in the anthropomorphism.

The peach took the form of a girl with short pink hair and yellow eyes.

Her outfit was a school uniform, but it incorporated the peach’s pink skin and yellow flesh.

In her hand was a peach, with a bite taken out of it.

Her vibrant smile and lively expression exuded life, though it was still clear she was merely a painting.

But my excellent and masterpiece works always felt alive to me.

At least, that’s how I saw them.

The background featured a school gate, matching the uniform’s theme.

I blended pastel shavings and smoothed them with tissue, adding a fresh touch.

Every painting has its limits.

Breaking those limits is what artists do.

Choosing the right tools and colors, balancing everything—it’s all part of an artist’s approach.

“Alright… time to wrap up the recording.”

I’d filmed the entire painting process just in case.

Picking up the camera, I reviewed the footage.

Everything was captured perfectly, much to my relief.

Then it hit me—I was drenched in sweat.

The aftermath of seven hours of painting was catching up to me.

...I need to go home and crash.

Sleeping in the studio was off-limits; my parents had made that clear.

And I had agreed.

But right now, my legs and back were refusing to cooperate.

With a deep sigh, I called my dad for a ride home.

Looking down at the bottom of the painting, I noticed the initials I’d signed along with its title:

-HAEUN [Peach Blossom Village (도원향 桃園鄕)]

This was my submission for the contest.

But I had overlooked one thing. This contest was for kids—was it really okay to enter this?

Oh well. It’ll work out somehow. If people complain, I’ll just upload the recording.

And now… what to do about these two? I was completely drained, and they were still asleep.

“If you’re going to sleep, at least do it at home, you two.”