The gray void stretched endlessly, a place untouched by the laws of perspective or the logic of gravity. Here, for the first time, Sol felt the weight of his existence lighten, as if the ink that formed his body had begun to breathe freely, far from the pressures of Iris.
In the middle of this nothingness, the old man sat upon his wooden chair, surrounded by piles of papers floating around him like tiny planets. He wasn't looking at them; he was engrossed in drawing delicate lines on a worn sheet, lines that began to transform into colorful butterflies and fly away before fading into the gray.
"Are you… the First Painter?" Sol asked, his diamond-tipped brush sending out faint blue sparks.
The old man stopped drawing. He lifted his head slowly, and his eyes were not mere holes—they contained "depths" resembling galaxies made of ink dots. He gazed at Sol intently, as if reading the history of Sol's "painting" from the moment his first pencil stroke had been made.
"I am not what you think, my child," the old man said in a voice like the rustle of pages in an ancient library. "I am merely the 'Archivist.' I am the memory left behind after the painter abandoned his studio. He left when he discovered that his painting, Iris, had been struck by 'visual mold,' a plague that turns imagination into rigid, lifeless forms."
Constantine stepped forward with trembling steps, his magnifying lenses spinning in astonishment. "Visual mold? Do you mean that the 'Purification System' led by the Philosopher is actually a disease?"
The old man nodded, and with a wave of his hand, the gray void around them transformed into a massive display screen. Sol saw images of other cities, worlds he had never imagined: cities made entirely of glass mosaics, forests drawn with charred charcoal, oceans of watercolor.
"The painter created many worlds," the old man continued. "But Iris was the 'central canvas.' When the Philosopher tried to impose 'absolute perfection' upon it, a cosmic fracture occurred. They trapped the colors and blocked growth, and reality began to peel away. Now this 'mold' is creeping from Iris, threatening to erase the rest of the artistic universes."
The old man turned to Sol directly. "You were not created to be just an eraser, Sol. You are the 'mobile raw canvas.' You are the only being who possesses the 'Eternal Pigment Eye,' capable of absorbing the properties of other worlds without dissolving into them."
A shiver ran through Sol's paper-thin body. "What must I do?"
"You must leave Iris and traverse the 'Seven Universes.' In each world lies an 'Eternal Pigment' that embodies the soul of that art. If you collect all seven pigments in your eye, you will be able to 'repaint' the cosmos, merging worlds into a single indelible canvas. By doing so, you will end the era of the Purifiers and build a reality open to both drafts and the perfected alike."
The old man pointed his pen toward a massive gateway forming from the void. The portal was transparent, flowing with soft colors and exuding the scent of rain and wildflowers.
"Beyond this gate lies the realm of Aquarrelle, the world of watercolors. There resides the first pigment: the 'Psychological Sky Blue.' But beware, Sol—here, your solid body and sharp lines are your greatest enemies. If you cannot learn to 'melt' without 'vanishing,' you will become nothing more than a pale blot at the bottom of the Lake of Oblivion."
Sol looked at Sir Garrett, who appeared ghostly and translucent, and at Constantine, who had lost his identity as a restorer.
"Let's go," Sol said resolutely. "Iris was just a narrow frame—it's time to see the greater canvas."