Rewind a few weeks from the opening of the AI commission.
The first day of moving in.
The attic of Groomrok’s atelier.
Chloe sat in front of a pencil and some paper she had picked up, wrestling with reality.
> “What do I do with this…”
Chloe Turing.
A body that had only just turned eight this year.
Whether she had an AI or a twenty-something adult in her head, the reality was that physically, she was weaker than her peers.
So even if she wanted to open commissions, she had no way to get canvases or paints.
Buying them was out of the question from the start.
> “If I had that kind of money, why would I even bother opening AI commissions?”
Things were off to a rocky start.
In any world, it’s not easy for an eight-year-old to survive.
However.
To reiterate, Chloe wasn’t just any eight-year-old.
Inside her head was a seasoned working adult,
and—
> [You’re talking about subtly showing off your art skills to your uncle, right?]
—an AI perfect for these kinds of consultations.
> “Groomrok isn’t my uncle… oh, whatever. Let’s go with that. So, what do you think? Got any ideas?”
[Of course! I’ll suggest a way to draw attention naturally!]
And from there, it went as always.
Meaning, just like the past eight years.
A parade of ridiculous suggestions,
and Chloe rejected dozens of them.
Until—
> “This one’s the best, I guess.”
She picked the most realistic future from the bunch.
An outcome of the most mundane discussion between AI and human.
It was the moment Chloe took her first step in the struggle to survive in this world.
> [Technically, your first step was the failed investment in the Nelsus Guild! So it’s more accurate to call this the second step!]
“Can you not talk?”
Absolutely insufferable.
***
> “Chloe, it’s Groomrok. May I come in?”
It was early evening.
Groomrok had returned once again to the room arranged for his friend’s daughter.
> “At the very least, she should have a solid meal on her first day.”
Three knocks before entering a student’s room.
And he even brought proper food, not just coarse black bread!
In Yaltessance, that was borderline saintly behavior.
Even so, it didn’t sit quite right with Groomrok.
Orcs were a communal parenting race, after all.
> “Still, I can’t just outright give her special treatment.”
Groomrok was a renowned painter,
the master of his atelier.
Favoring a newcomer—especially one who wasn’t even planning to become a painter?
> “That’d only stir up trouble.”
He couldn’t even feed her separately without issue.
Human society really was cold and harsh.
So what else could he do?
He just had to watch for chances like today to sneak her a good meal.
> “Chloe, I’m coming in. Hmm… asleep already.”
When he opened the door, Chloe was already sleeping.
She hadn’t even fully pulled the blanket over herself—
as if she’d scrambled into bed just moments ago.
It was such a childlike image that it made him smile wryly.
> “Sleeping without dinner… must still be tired from the trip.”
She was sleeping so soundly it didn’t feel right to wake her.
He’d feed her tomorrow.
Groomrok gently patted her silvery hair, smiling fondly—
and that’s when he saw something unexpected.
> “Huh?”
A few scattered sheets of paper.
A pencil.
Some drawing tools rolling on the wooden floor.
> “Leftover from cleaning the room?”
The attic used to be a storage space, after all.
It wouldn’t be strange if some art supplies had been left behind.
Not strange—but—
> “This… is a sketch.”
No real artist would leave behind their work like that.
A piece.
There was no other word to describe it.
Rendered in monochrome, with delicate strokes.
Even traces of motion captured in sweeping lines.
However, speaking as a painter, the quality isn’t that high.
There were awkwardly muddled depictions here and there, and the drawing lacked aesthetics to a near-fatal degree.
It’s hard to even understand why it was drawn this way.
If this were a disciple’s work?
Even someone as saintly as Groomrok, the orc, would’ve chosen a thunderous scolding as a method of discipline.
But—
Within those bizarre drawings, there was a very small portion—a landscape, painstakingly rendered—that stirred even a first-class artist like Groomrok with a deep sense of nostalgia.
Groomrok’s eyes widened.
Nostalgia?
To feel nostalgia meant he recognized the place.
As he flipped through a few more pages, the answer became clear.
…This is the path leading into Yaltessance.
An artistic city.
Groomrok’s second hometown, the place he settled in after leaving his real home.
That road—sometimes traveled by wagon, other times by foot—had been watched, drawn, and delighted in.
And now, those memories had been transposed into a fresh art style.
A fresh art style.
In other words, a drawing style Groomrok didn’t know.
So then—who is the owner of these drawings?
Someone who had recently seen the path into the city and found it striking.
Someone whose art style even the head of the atelier, Groomrok, didn’t recognize.
And most importantly—
The person staying in this room.
Half in doubt, Groomrok lifted Chloe’s blanket.
He felt the warm little fingers typical of a child.
And on the tips of those dainty fingers—pencil dust.
“…No way.”
The artist’s intuition delivered its verdict.
Groomrok stared in disbelief as the realization hit him.
“Did… Chloe draw all of this?”
The goosebumps rising on the back of his hand told him everything.
Today, he had discovered yet another genius.
***
Now?
[Yes, right now!]
And right at that moment, Chloe slowly opened her previously shut eyes.
“Mm… Mister Groomrok…?”
Still half-asleep, she rubbed her face.
In other words, she stopped pretending to be asleep.
I considered letting a single tear drop and whispering “Dad…” while crying, but wouldn’t that be too much?
That might’ve helped earn some sympathy points.
But guilt held her back—and more than anything:
Considering the people around here, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone said, “Man up!” and slapped me across the face.
A rather rude assumption about Groomrok’s character.
Fortunately, it was an insult that went unnoticed by both sides.
Understandably so—
Groomrok was far too overwhelmed.
“Ah! Y-you’re awake? Uh, I mean, this, um…”
Was it you who drew this?
I just came to call you for dinner!
I swear I wasn’t up to anything weird!
A jumble of sentences spilled out of Groomrok’s large mouth.
Understandably so.
I mean, just look at him objectively!
An orc sneaking into a sleeping girl’s room, lifting her blanket and fumbling with her hands?
If Chloe were even a few years older, this would be the end of Groomrok’s reputation.
No, even now—misunderstood the wrong way, this could still be the end!
He might get split into three by his wife and friend—literally Groom-rocked!
Never before had the saying “Age doesn’t matter in love” felt this gross or terrifying!
“Ubbubububuhbbbbb…!”
A first-time experience in honey-trap law territory!
Famous painter G (age 40) was dizzy from the panic!
Of course, Chloe had no intention of dragging her dad’s friend into ruin.
That’s why she widened her eyes and pretended to be shocked.
“Ah…! Y-you saw it?”
For a second, Groomrok almost blurted out, Saw? What?
My prison sentence?
But then he realized she meant the drawing and narrowly avoided disaster.
“Y-yeah! The drawing! It’s, uh, amazing! I mean—it must look like I snuck in, but I swear, this is a misunderstanding—”
“Huh?”
“Ahem ahem…!”
Suppressing his fear and collecting his panic, Groomrok asked as calmly as he could—as a painter:
“T-these drawings… did you draw them, Chloe?”
“Yes. The scenery I saw on the way here was so pretty. But…”
Chloe said that, leaving a small pause on purpose.
“I don’t like it.”
“…You don’t like it?”
Even after drawing something this impressive with such small hands?
“Yes.”
Groomlok almost lost his mind, but Chloe nodded without hesitation
.
This was all part of Chloe and Clicky’s plan.
“Something’s missing. I can’t explain it in words, but—”
“No, it’s okay. I think I know what you mean.”
“Actually, I… huh?”
You do know?
Know what?
Just as Chloe was about to get into the swing of things, she was caught off guard.
She’d been planning to hint that pencils weren’t enough, and she needed paints.
“Wait, wait! Just hold on! Don’t go back to sleep!”
Groomrok sat Chloe down and rushed downstairs, looking absolutely radiant.
Of course, Groomrok had figured it out—
The name of the curse that had been holding this genius girl back.
‘The Wall of Effort!’
Mediocre people often misunderstand this.
They think geniuses stand tall by talent alone.
That effort is inferior to natural ability.
‘That’s nonsense.’
Groomrok knew.
Geniuses value effort more than anyone.
The only ones who don’t try are those with ambiguous talent.
And that’s understandable.
How can one be satisfied with “just” talent?
‘When you can see a higher level.’
When your own skill doesn’t satisfy you.
When your ability hasn’t yet reached its limit!
The “wall of talent” is mostly an illusion.
It’s a sad delusion held by mediocre people who tell themselves:
“I wouldn’t be suffering if I were a genius,”
“I wouldn’t have to work this hard.”
But is the reason humans can’t fly because they lack talent?
Limitations of ability—those exist for every living thing.
But what about when a bird, born with wings, cannot take to the skies?
That’s when the ‘Wall of Effort’ truly strikes.
The thirst for techniques you haven’t yet learned.
The pain of being unable to unleash your talent,
because you don’t even know how to try.
That deep dissatisfaction, that torment, that obsession—
“Is the irrefutable proof that Chloe is a genius!!”
“Eek?!”
SLAM—!
Groomrok burst through the door of his first-floor atelier.
His lone apprentice shrieked in surprise.
She had been whittling a mixing stick with a stolen carving knife and had just nicked her finger, her face a mask of pain.
“What now?! Why don’t you just break the door down already!”
“Sorry about that! It’s urgent! Never mind that—where are my art supplies?!”
“…Your paints, Master? One sec, let me look!”
The apprentice, Jixly, didn’t grumble any further.
Instead, she wiped her expression clean and leapt into motion.
‘Master’s been struck with inspiration again!’
Anyone could see it: this was the face of an artist in the throes of a muse.
If you stood there going “Huh? Your paints? What for?”, you weren’t fit to be an apprentice.
Organizing the master’s tools is the apprentice’s right.
So Jixly rushed to retrieve them.
“Here, go ahead and paint! No pressure!”
And even when those prized tools were handed off to the attic-dwelling girl,
She held back her questions with superhuman patience.
A truly un-goblin-like restraint, one might say.
‘…This is getting way more serious than I thought.’
Meanwhile, Chloe was internally drenched in cold sweat.
It felt like tricking a medieval painter with AI art.
(And to be clear—it wasn’t just a feeling. It was a fact.)
Let it be said again:
Chloe does not consider AI-generated images to be art.
And yet here they were—real artists treating that AI art like it was the work of a prodigy.
Half guilt, half nerves.
Her conscience weighed heavier than the thrill of success.
But Chloe’s tension didn’t matter much now.
‘Clicky, you can do this, right?’
[Of course! Let’s do it together!]
After all, it wasn’t Chloe who would create the next image.
Click.
Like flipping a switch, the light in Chloe’s eyes vanished.
‘What… am I even looking at right now?’
The god of machinery descended into the attic.