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The Skill Thief's Canvas - Chapter 67 (Book 3 Chapter 6)
🕑 Added 2025-02-12 02:21:19 +0000 UTCLord Edmundo, Ruler of Coimbargo, wore red on the day he meant to kill the King of the Frontier.
It was tradition in the House of Crepusculo to do so when taking a man's life. Cloaking yourself in crimson would cloak the victim's blood as well, hiding the stains and making for a less gruesome visage.
Irrelevant when it came to carrying out the deed, yet vital all the same. Land made you rich, titles made you proud, Talent made you special–
But dignity made you a lord.
More than losing his city, it was losing his dignity that had made Gaspar such a despicable sight. That was why Edmundo could never forgive him. Asteria's loss was tragic, but Rot would take much from all of them one day anyhow. This much was unavoidable.
Yet the Fallen Lord's repugnant attire, the way he no longer had servants bow to him, and – worst of all – his utter dismissal at how mere commoners now laughed behind his back…that had been avoidable.
Worse – it had been a choice.
In that regard, Edmundo thought grimly, even the Puppet wretch is better than him.
He'd arranged to meet with Tenver alone that night. It wasn't how he would have preferred to handle things, but the Emperor's orders were unquestionable.
Though scheduling a cup of tea this late in the afternoon, right before the scheduled assassination, was perhaps a mistake on Edmundo's part. Tea after sunset often kept him awake well past dusk.
Ah, well. Sometimes a noble needed to sacrifice sleep for efficiency.
"Lord Crepusculo," Tenver greeted him, a contemptible smile on his face. "How wonderful of you to extend a personal invitation. My friends are busy today, you see, and I was starting to feel a tad lonely."
"My heart warms at the thought," Edmundo grunted. "What a privilege to stave away your boredom, Prince Tenver."
The Puppet was wearing a shiny set of Dragonforged Steel armor. Such beautiful craftsmanship, wasted on a Puppet…! Sacrilege of the highest degree.
Edmundo was no child, his flights of romantic longing be damned. He knew the Dragons had wrought the Rot onto the world before disappearing. It was precisely why elves, who'd once been dragonriders, and the Puppets, monstrosities spawned by those already monstrous creatures, both needed to be exterminated.
However, he was no savage who would disregard fine artistry like Dragonforged Steel merely because of its origins. Edmundo of Crepusculo was a lover of all that was beautiful.
Precisely because of this, he considered – if only briefly – to kill the Puppet before him. But stronger than even the Emperor's orders, it was the False Prince's dignity that prevented him from doing so. This creature might be just an imitation of the dead prince, Edmundo thought, but it copies the way royalty ought to carry itself rather well.
That, if nothing else, he could respect.
"Now then," Tenver began. "While I would like nothing more than to sip at tea and discuss the merits of nothingness with you, I know you loathe small talk nearly as much as I loathe my uncle. Speak plainly."
Edmundo sighed. "Emperor Ciro wants you to bend the knee. His offer is most generous." More than you deserve, you abomination wearing the skin of royalty. "Swear loyalty to His Highness and aid me in slaying the Pretender of Penumbria. Do so, and all your crimes will be erased, your titles restored. You will even receive a City of your choosing to rule upon."
The Puppet couldn't hide the greed in his surprised expression. "A City of mine own?" spoke Tenver's corpse. "But I have not the Talent of a Lord. I could hardly–"
"His Highness will arrange for a Lord of your choosing to name you as their heir," Edmundo said through his teeth. And what a farce that would be. "After the Dark Captain sees the Lord to their grave, the title and city will become yours."
The Corpse gave an eerie, still pause.
And then it laughed. "Seems quite desperate of my dear uncle," it remarked.
"You insult His Highness's kindness to his kin?"
"I do – and I do it loudly." An invisible string pulled up the Puppet's features until it resembled an arrogant smile. "Uncle's kindness to his kin killed my father. Ciro cares as much about anyone as I do about this offer."
It laughed again. "Edmundo, my good man, if you must insult my loyalty with such an offer, at least do so honestly. Ciro wants me back because the Western Hangmen are making movements towards the Capital, not because he wishes to avoid kinslaying…again."
Mayhaps because they lacked human emotion, abominations like this Corpse had the uncanny ability to be often correct. The Empire exhibited weakness when it failed to suppress the rebellion of the Eastern Frontier at the start of winter. And the Western Hangmen had taken that as an opportunity – they'd all left their stations, and even now were rumored to gather beneath Knox's whims. Damn that traitor.
But the creature didn't fully make sense. "Why would His Highness need you to suppress the Western Hangmen?" asked Edmundo.
The Monster's smile turned brittle. "Do you remember the succession crisis instigated by my father's death?"
It was no crisis, and the former Emperor was no father of this automaton mimicking humanity. Edmundo swallowed his emotions and forced himself to speak of it academically. "Aye. Most agreed that His Highness Ciro was a better candidate for the job…despite the claims of some loyalists."
"Knox was the leader of those loyalists," the Puppet quietly said. "Even you must understand my meaning, yes?"
Edmundo felt struck by a bolt of satisfying realization. So this was why His Highness meant to commit such blasphemy and award a City to a Puppet!
Knox was a romantic imbecile. He would think of this Puppet stringing along Prince Tenver's corpse as the real thing – and then lay his sword at the creature's feet. Should the Western Hangmen pledge themselves to the Corpse, and the Corpse to the Emperor, there would be little strife in the Realm aside from the Painter's then-weakened rebellion.
During which his Highness would slowly, surely, assassinate them all.
The notion brought Edmundo no small amount of comfort. How could he have ever thought that the Emperor of the World would allow such blasphemy to occur beneath his banner? Order would soon be restored.
"Will you take the offer, then?" Edmundo asked excitedly. "His Highness will be most pleased to know that no more royal blood needs–"
It shook its head. "Not at all."
Edmundo stopped short, his mouth gaping open for a moment, before he closed it and nodded sadly. "Should've expected as much. May I attempt to convince you once more?"
"By all means – try."
"His Highness gave me a considerable sum of Orbs to complete this mission," Edmundo warned him. "My Lord Talent is now of the 3rd Rank, and we stand here alone. Surely you understand that defying his offer means your death?"
"3rd Rank." The Puppet whistled softly. "How fantastic! Why, that is an expensive purchase on dear uncle's part. I take it he thinks it cheaper than feeding an army in a conflict so far from the capital? More importantly…"
The Corpse lifted an eyebrow, almost as realistically as a human would have. "Are you content with that arrangement?"
"His Highness's will is absolute."
"Edmundo, remember this – I executed your son."
The Lord of Coimbargo curled his hand into a fist. "The guilty party is the Pretender," he said, closing his eyes. "That criminal fooled you into believing he was the true heir to Penumbria – you thought to be following orders according to the Emperor's authority. You…you have committed no crime."
"Wrong." Prince Tenver's corpse twitched, its voice dropping to that of a venomous monster dwelling within a cave deeper than the underworld itself. "Adam gave me no orders. I executed him because he threatened my friend."
The Puppet glared at him challengingly. "Do you still claim to be content with rewarding me for killing your son like the mongrel he was?"
Edmundo drew a deep breath. After a long silence, he said, "It matters little. Bards will sing of the Pretender's treachery – none will think of you as my son's murderer."
"You would, as you damn well should," it retorted. "Yet you still hold that you would be content with merely killing Adam?"
"It may surprise you, Puppet, that some of us know what truly matters."
"Mayhaps it would." The Monster shrugged. "In any case, my answer is still no."
The Ruler of Coimbargo frowned. "Even a Puppet must understand the sheer impossibility of surviving an encounter against a Lord with a Talent of the 3rd Rank." Fury entered his tone. "Do you mistake my meekness against Aspreay for weakness? That was acting! I was biding my time for this chance – for you to agree to a meeting with me alone, where you held no other hope!"
Like only a creature unattached to life could, the Puppet nodded dispassionately. "Ah, very good acting. Rather impressive of you to allow your limbs to be severed so many times lest you reveal your true capabilities."
"I am a Lord of the 3rd Rank, Puppet – you are an Archer of the 6th." Edmundo's composure cracked as he spat the words, his mouth twisting into a sneer. If this monster had somehow inherited Prince Tenver's emotions, it would feel burning shame over the inferiority it held to a mere city lord.
My son was not admirable…but in death, he has granted me powers I could scarcely have dreamed of. Without his demise, the Emperor would've never given me so much coin.
"I have the power to reshape reality," Edmundo slowly began. "The power to make a mockery of death, to rule above all mortals. You are a macabre puppet show made out of a fallen Prince's cadaver, with a Talent to shoot little bows and arrows – what could you ever do to me? Even the lifeless body you stole was never good for anything but petty scheming!"
Prince Tenver's Corpse nodded, and far too enthusiastically at that. "You are correct, of course," it said, giving an elaborate bow of respect. "If you will forgive my lack of modesty, I am quite good at petty scheming."
Edmundo narrowed his eyes. "What do you–"
"Genius Realm – The Palace of Eternal Life," said a new voice.
He didn't even have the time to identify the source of the attack.
It was only when an ethereal white sphere had already enveloped him that the Lord of Coimbargo managed to even speak. "What the devil is that elf–"
And by then it was too late.
–
"The most dangerous person you need to be aware of," Ciro had warned him, "is neither the Pretender nor my Nephew. Not even Aspreay. No. It's the damned Elf."
The Emperor of the World drew a deep breath, as though the admittance brought him physical pain. "From my understanding, her ability creates an entirely new universe, trapping its victims there until that new universe…ends. Even after the Genius Realm is undone, your mind will never recover from witnessing the full length of a universe from birth until death. Ernanda would tell you as much – should she ever prove herself able to speak again."
Edmundo had laughed at the idea. "But my Emperor, the Elf's Talent is of a pitifully low Rank when compared to mine." At least as he was now. For most of his life, he'd lived as a Lord of the 6th Rank. Powerful, and respectable enough, to be sure…
But never in his life, not even in his most private, ambitious dreams, had he conceived of the power he held now. "The Orbs that your Highness entrusted to me have advanced my Talent to new heights. A mere Elf cannot touch me."
Ciro let out an aggrieved sigh He sank into his throne, pausing for a long silence. When his eyes snapped open, they were as cold and sharp as an icicle. "Does a mere lord dare to question my reasoning? Bold, Edmundo. Quite bold."
"N–no! Of course not, Your Highne–"
"I will not waste time giving warnings to those who refuse to heed them." The Emperor of the World stood to his feet. "Your Rank is to protect you should you need to pit your Realm against the Pretender's or Aspreay's – it will do nothing to protect you against the Elf's. Explain to me, imbecile, how you think you'd be able to Clash your–"
Ciro shook his head and stood up with an annoyed expression. "Forget it. Low calibre blood such as yours wouldn't understand. Not even if I forced the knowledge into you."
"My Emperor! Please, forgive me! What do you mean?"
–
All too late, Edmundo came to understand it all too well.
When a white dome of nothingness encompassed him, he was confused, at first. Mayhaps His Majesty had overstated the Elf's power. Edmundo sensed none of the overwhelming might he'd experienced when witnessing the Dark Captain or the Emperor's Talent. This felt much more…subdued? There wasn't anything truly oppressive about it.
Surely, he could break out of it at any point, could he not? He hadn't faced a Genius Realm before, but Lords knew more about the construction of such realities than anyone else. I can easily win a Clash against it – our Ranks are simply too different.
And so, Five Years Passed.
"REALM–RECON..STRU…CTION!" Edmundo called out once again.
Once again, his voice dissipated into the endless silence, as if swallowed by eternity itself.
Any concerns he'd once held for Coimbargo had long since perished. A week of mind-numbing solitude was all it took for him to attempt his first Realm Clash. His survival was necessary for the city, of course. He – he couldn't be trapped here forevermore.
Yet even after indulging in rationalizations like a starving beggar at a buffet, Edmundo was no closer to dispelling the white void of a universe around him than when he'd arrived. His Realm Clash had failed. So did the next, and then the thousands more that followed.
This is my punishment for not listening to His Imperial Majesty.
Only now did he understand what the Emperor of the World had meant. In a clash between their Realms, Edmundo would have won without issue…but that mattered little when his attacks never hit their mark in the first place.
The Elf's Genius Realm was a universe. It continued to expand.
Much like Aspreay had managed to construct his Realm inside the Capital so that edges of its Walls wouldn't touch the Emperor's city-sized barrier, the same principle applied here. The Palace of Eternal Life was a vast, ever-growing universe. Edmundo's Realm would never be able to reach borders that didn't exist.
Moreover, the Genius Realm's effect was technically nonviolent. Abilities that did no physical harm would bypass the protection afforded by his superior Rank.
So long as I am here, I…cannot die.
The Elf's sorcery had cursed him thus Death was beyond him – as were injuries. With the Dragons of Old as his witnesses, he'd tested that extensively.
Even the Canvas of his Soul was seemingly impervious to harm. It never appeared to Stain, regardless of how many times he attempted a Reconstruction.
–
And so, 10 years later, he discovered otherwise.
In fact, his Canvas was affected by it, though ever so slowly.
The Palace of Eternal Life had banished Edmundo from death and prevented wounds from afflicting him – which also applied to his soul, to an extent. Yet he was beginning to notice a measure of Staining there, albeit small.
Had it been his overuse of his Realm? Mayhaps so. He could only use Reconstruction up to once a day, but he'd used it almost ten times a day ever since coming here.
At first simply trying to break out, but soon he'd started using Orders to construct himself furniture, books, and the line. He battled the void in the only method available to him; by filling it with relics of a world now lost to him. Each memento and keepsake helped retain whatever remained of his sanity.
Although even that much had started to slip.
Have to survive. NEED to survive. If not, what will they write of my noble house? That its head shamefully went insane after being attacked by a dragonburned elf?
Edmundo could live with dying in battle. But the humiliation of being remembered the same way as the Lady of Ash, of being reduced to a stuttering mess that stared blankly into nothingness, unable to acknowledge the Empire's envoy sent to recover her–!
Edmundo could not have that.
No.
He was still the Lord of Coimbargo, and he would find a way to escape, even if–
And so, 15 years passed.
Even if he had to Reconstruct his Realm daily, he could keep himself from going mad. Unlike Ernanda, his Talent allowed him to conjure up entertainment to heal his ailing mind.
While his lack of human interaction had been a problem thus far, it would be fine in the end. I can conjure up illusions – they'll be as intelligent as the idiots who served me, anyhow.
He would survive this.
And so, 20 years passed.
Even if his emotions were starting to dull, even if his sanity was starting to slip, he was the Lord of Coimbargo. He would survive this. He would prevail.
Though...my Canvas is starting to become more Stained. It was a dark, sobering realization. Once his overuse caught up to the Palace's healing, would he need to wait for his Canvas to clear up once again?
His rationality was already hanging by a fraying thread. What would he do when his material comforts – his precious illusions and luxuries – vanished away?
What then?
And so, 30 years passed
Even if…even if his resolve started to waver…he–he was still Edmundo! The Lord of Coimbargo! I will resist! I–
And so, 45 years passed.
His Canvas had fully Stained five years ago.
It healed, ever so slowly, but the Lord of Coimbargo now ruled over nothing in that void of white. All he had once conjured up for entertainment was gone. The false people, the books, the furniture, the castle – all gone.
But he was still there.
He would always be here.
Always. Always always always. Always.
Always.
And so, the Palace disappeared.
There was no transition.
At one point, Edmundo had been sobbing within an empty universe, his Canvas hopelessly Stained, and despair overwhelming his entire being.
A second later, without warning, he found himself back in the courtyard he had nearly forgotten.
Wh–what? A jolt of cognition lanced through his brain as if it were a shock crashing down from the heavens. Like a discarded machine left to rust, the wheels of his mind gradually began to turn, groaning and creaking with disuse.
Only when he regained a sense of self again did he even begin to perceive his situation. Is this…
Is this real?
His breaths were coming in fast and harsh. I didn't break free. Realm Clash never worked. But…I'm here. He could feel the stone floor beneath his feet, see blessed color instead of the whiteness of eternity. I'm here. Emperor preserve me, I'm here!
Edmundo felt tears of joy flowing from his eyes. His chest tightened with emotion, a hysterical sob nearing his lips–
Before he stopped himself.
No. It didn't matter how long he'd been…been there for. A flickering ember of pride rekindled within his chest, impossibly weak and fragile. He was the Lord of Coimbargo, and he would not bow to anyone below his station! Men were not meant to cry before anyone, least of all their enemies.
I will die before that happens. Even if his sanity crumbled, his dignity of a lord would not.
From her spot nearby, leaning against the wall with an unconcerned posture, the Elf sighed. "I hope he's not broken," she muttered. Dragonfire burn him, but even the sound of her filthy kind's voice sounded beautiful to Edmundo right now. "Not completely, at least. Adam asked me to keep him functional – said painting the guy would be harder if he'd changed too much. Sorta cruel if you ask me."
The Corpse of Prince Tenver laughed. "Cruel?" he asked in disbelief. "You were going to let the Palace run its course, make him experience more than his mind could bear – Adam only wants his soul."
My…soul?
Slowly the memories flowed back into him. The Pretender – Pretender of what? Oh, he stole his city from…from who again? As…Asproy? No. What was his name? What was the city? – the Pretender was capable of stealing souls, somehow. But what did they mean by that?
"Elf," Edmundo started, his own voice unfamiliar to him. "You mean to say that you let me go on purpose? That I didn't break your Realm?"
"Break it?" She laughed. "No, you fool – I left you there for less than a second. I broke down my Genius Realm right after constructing it, quite literally as fast as I could."
His breath caught. Less than a second? Her words repeated endlessly, reverberating within his skull. How…
How many years did you live in there, Edmundo?
The question rang as though asked by a stranger, crushing him like a tidal wave. Reality lost its permanence. His senses dulled, smearing sight and sound like smudged paint. This world was wrong – alien, unfamiliar, and yet…too vivid. The time he'd spent inside didn't fit anymore.
Time.
That word, that…that concept shattered like glass around him. A second? No – forty-five years inside a timeless white abyss. His mind fractured under a mountain of pitiless comprehension. Every second of those ceaseless decades clawed at his thoughts like ghosts.
You were nothing to it. Less than dust. The Elf's voice echoed, mocking him with cruel harmony. You couldn't stop her. You never could. You were powerless before a fucking elf.
Even his rage started to dull, buried beneath the sands of time. I didn't break out. She let me go. It was a thought that festered like rot, the weight of those 45 years returning all at once. Isolation, despair, failure. He hadn't survived her Realm.
He'd only been brought out of his cell for his execution.
Edmundo clenched his fists, quivering with barely-contained rage. "You fucking abominations…"
His voice faltered. He wanted to look them in the eye, but their gaze pierced him like swords, their laughter mocking his soul. This wasn't a battle he'd won or lost; it had been a trial of his very existence.
The Emperor gave me Orbs to compete with the Painter's Realm, he remembered, like a distant dream. Made it so they couldn't defeat me in a direct fight. So…they, they did this…all those forty-five years…just to ensure that my Canvas would be too Stained to fight back.
They'd played with his soul until it was weary enough to take.
Because their goal hadn't been to kill him. They wanted more than just his life. They wanted–
"YOU WANT MY LORD TALENT!" Edmundo's voice was shrill and desperate. "Y-YOU! All of this…it was just so that you could take my House's dignity, the ancestral power that…no! Please–don't you dare-!"
The Elf's eyes shimmered like a starry void, cold and detached. The Puppet's smirk deepened. Edmundo cursed them, but deep inside, he knew the truth: he wasn't even in the same realm as these beings. Their strength went beyond Talent and Rank.
Hatred rose like bile in his throat, yet it crumbled under the implacability of terror. The Elf had trapped him in a world that twisted time and reason. The Puppet, with his eerie grace, watched him like a predator sizing up wounded prey.
They're not human. They weren't even facsimiles of it. I don't know what they are.
And so, he ran.
He ran. Not walked, not stumbled – he fucking RAN, as if the white void were still chasing him. The courtyard stretched endlessly before him, his footsteps echoing like distant cannon fire.
Where am I? What city is this? The name fluttered on the edge of his memory, dissolving into incoherent static. Doesn't matter. You're Edmundo, Lord of Coimbargo, and these are your enemies! Run! Run! Survive!
He gasped for breath. Time warped in his mind like a nightmare, forty-five years reduced to a fading dream. Trembling legs carried him forward on instinct, his body fueled more by fear than desire. He slipped on an icy path, falling hard on the snowy cobblestones, but the panic didn't subside.
Don't stop running. Don't let them – don't let them hurt you again.
The moon hung low, casting pale light over the courtyard. Snow fell, soft and eerie in its stillness. His eyes darted around, searching for landmarks, but the familiarity felt distorted. Names, places – they were ghosts now. What was the Pretender's name? Alan? Alan…
He kept running.
From the Elf.
From the Puppet.
From the Pretender.
From his own mind.
Snow crunched beneath his boots. Edmundo wandered aimlessly until the moonlight glinted off something strange. He squinted…
And there it was. Blissfully – nay, mercifully, as if the Emperor himself was rewarding him from his efforts.
An Imperial Vending Machine.
If…if I recall, those are placed to help travelers survive the Rot. In exchange for Orbs, it can enact a barrier strong enough to keep even a Ghost from entering. Whatever is spent on these devices helps the Empire thrive.
The vending machine stood tall, a relic of imperial pride. Edmundo had spent decades conjuring false luxuries, false people, false structures. But this – this was real.
Half-deranged laughter echoed throughout the courtyard. "By the Dragons…" He leaned against his savior of cold metal, feeling overwhelmed with gratitude. His hands moved frantically, shuddering as he dug into his soul to access his Orbs.
Coin…money…I almost forgot those concepts. Edmundo knew what he needed – the Barrier. He slammed his Orbs into the machine and tapped furiously on the options.
A faint, comforting hum surrounded him as the Barrier began to activate Relief washed over him like a warm blanket.
Safe. Finally safe.
But then, a shudder; a pressure beyond sight, beyond sense. Something was out there. Something stronger than even a Ghost.
Worse – someone.
"Hello," said Adam the Pretender. "I hear you were planning to kill me."
No, no, no! Edmundo desperately turned towards the machine, feeding it more of his fortune, hoping to stave off the specter of death that now approached. Orbs were sucked into the slot as he gasped for air, his mind spiraling.
With a subtle beep, the automaton displayed the Barrier option in glowing text. What a marvel of technology. He confirmed it. Immediately, he felt the protective energy encase him, reinforcing it all.
Edmundo exhaled shakily, almost chuckling with delirium. Safe. Even you can't touch me here, Pretender. Not you. Not your Elf. Not your Puppet. Not–
The opaque Barrier trembled as though struck.
Edmundo jammed more Orbs into the machine, each transaction buying him a few precious moments of peace. The Barrier hummed softly, shielding him from the encroaching void.
He clutched the vending machine like a lifeline in a storm, laughing hysterically. "Y–you can't touch me! I have the Orbs! The coin! The Empire protects those that give it the money to fulfill its ambitions, it–"
A deep, vibrating pulse rippled through the shield.
His Orbs bought him temporary comfort…until a sharp jolt rattled the air around him, heralding what was to come like thunder – and the Pretender's voice was the lightning. "Your money can protect you. True. Yet there's something that people like you don't seem to understand."
The Barrier faltered again. Edmundo spent more Orbs again. "All money runs out eventually." The Barrier shattered. "Don't champion a man who wouldn't even pay for your funeral. Don't champion this Empire."
Light shimmered faintly around the Lord of Coimbargo. I need more Orbs. Emperor – my Emperor, can you hear me? C–can you hear my plea? Help me! I need – I need help!
The Pretender broke through the Barrier once more. Edmundo froze, his laughter dying in his throat. And when the dust had settled beneath the pale moonlight…the Pretender held forth a paintbrush.
In an instant, the Lord of Coimbargo knew what it represented. Ernanda, the Lady of Ashe, had wielded a scythe. Eric, the Gryphon, had donned winged boots. Valente, the Dark Captain, erased life with his Orbs.
This paintbrush was no lesser. It announced a promise of power so great that not even forty-five years in nothingness had been able to expunge the concept from Edmundo's memories.
"You…" He whimpered and stumbled back. "You are a Hangman now." Somehow. Somehow, the Pretender had stolen yet another sacred Imperial blessing.
"Yup," Adam replied cheerfully. "I am." He raised his paintbrush. "But first and foremost, I'm a painter. So…care to stand still for a moment? I'd like you to model for me."
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