The Artist Who Paints Dungeon-Chapter 302
First, Yoo Seong-Woon was delivered home.
“May I come inside?”
“The way you ask that... You sound like one of those mysteries who need permission to enter.”
“Requesting entry before visiting someone’s home is common courtesy.”
“Well, that’s true... Come in.”
And so, Gio came too.
“It’s still such a desolate house.”
“But isn’t it a bit better now that I’ve hung a painting?”
“It’s even more desolate.”
“You painted that one.”
“Wrong is still wrong.”
“Your consistency is admirable.”
Then Gio asked,
“How do gardeners usually visit their gardens?”
“It varies from one gardener to another. Some go through dreams, others designate a specific door as a passage, some pray for their garden to summon them... It takes some kind of mutual agreement.”
“And how about you, Mr. Yoo Seong-Woon?”
“To be precise, my garden is the one that calls me.”
Yoo Seong-Woon raised both hands.
“If I clap three times like this, I can enter the garden. Ah, but just clapping won’t work. You have to clap with the palms overlapping top and bottom like this for it to satisfy the condition.”
“Is there a special meaning behind the three claps?”
“Well, people don’t usually clap more than twice unless they’re deliberately trying to get attention. One or two claps are common for that. Four or five would be too much hassle.”
“So does your body move with your mind?”
“That varies too, but in my case, my whole body moves. Most gardeners prefer it that way unless there's a specific reason not to. You never know what might settle into an empty body.”
He crossed his arms.
“But right now, there’s a portal we can see clearly, so...”
“Would you like to go together?”
“This is the first time we’re entering together, so I’d prefer to be a bit cautious. I’ll go in the usual way—can you follow after me? It’ll be easier to handle anything unexpected if the gardener goes in first to scout the situation.”
“As you wish, Mr. Yoo Seong-Woon.”
“In that case...”
Clap, clap, clap.
Three claps.
“See you inside.”
And then, Yoo Seong-Woon vanished.
“......”
“Pboong.”
“That looked convenient.”
Gio ❖ Nоvеl𝚒ght ❖ (Exclusive on Nоvеl𝚒ght) and Honey watched, impressed.
He waited a moment for Yoo Seong-Woon to arrive at the garden. It might seem like instantaneous travel, but a little delay was proper etiquette. Then, he stepped into the frame.
What unfolded before him was a vast snowy field.
“......?”
It wasn’t especially cold.
“Feels like a refrigerated warehouse.”
“Pboogoo...”
“Ah, you froze.”
“Prrrrrrr.”
“Well, that’s familiar.”
Gio didn’t feel the cold. He only recognized the breeze as refreshingly cool. He had been ready to lean on Honey if necessary, but that turned out unnecessary. One less hassle.
Gio gently stroked the frozen Honey.
“Can you still fly?”
“Prrr.”
“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you like this.”
Honey still flew freely. The only difference was that the wings, usually indistinguishable from the rest of the body, were now clearly visible—long tail feathers rattling like strings of stiff beads.
‘At least nothing seems wrong.’
Gio looked out over the snowy plain.
“...It really is vast.”
“Pbooo.”
Honey agreed.
“It’s definitely different from what people normally imagine when they hear the word ‘garden.’”
Most people envision gardens filled with flowers and trees. The gardener’s role in such a place is clear. But what exactly did gardeners manage in a place like this?
And then Gio realized.
“......”
Ah, right.
“...Where is Mr. Yoo Seong-Woon?”
“Pboooboooboo...”
“Are we... lost?”
“Prrrrrrrrrr...”
“Mr. Yoo Seong-Woon...!”
He was nowhere to be seen.
It was hard to believe he’d leave this poor little portrait all alone, but no matter how Honey searched, Yoo Seong-Woon wasn’t there. He couldn’t have been deleted mid-transfer, so there was only one answer.
“We must’ve arrived first.”
“Pboo.”
“Well, that’s awkward.”
And so, Gio was left behind.
“......”
“......”
“Should I make a snowman or something?”
Eventually, he decided to enjoy the moment.
How many times in life do you get an experience this novel? Even if you had hundreds or thousands of such chances left, the wonder of this moment wouldn’t be the same. Gio felt invigorated.
“Back in school, when the yard was packed with snow, we once built a 3-meter-tall snowman. It was so fun.”
“Prr?”
“There was so much snow that day. We scraped together every flake we could find. Other students saw us building it and rushed out after lunch to help... It’s a good memory.”
“Prrrr.”
“So maybe... a snowman?”
“Pboo.”
“Or a snow duck...?”
“Pboo.”
“Yeah, this isn’t really a place where people or ducks could live.”
Gio was the kind of adult who even considered the living conditions of his snow sculptures. If people lived here, they’d need shelter, clothing, and food. If ducks lived here, they’d need water. And here—there was nothing.
After some thought, Gio narrowed down the possibilities to a few animals. Mostly burrow-dwellers.
“Polar bear?”
“Pbooboo...”
“That would take too long to build. How about a fox?”
“Pboo?”
“Still too big? Then... a rabbit?”
“Prrr.”
“You’re not that big either.”
So Gio sat down on the snow—no, on the ground of snow. With the snowstorm swirling around him and the auroras waving above, he began shaping snowballs.
‘If I make them out of snow, they’ll be easy to remove later and eco-friendly. Mr. Yoo probably won’t mind.’
With that in mind, Gio went on to make... 194 elaborately crafted snow rabbits.
***
And so, we come back to the beginning.
“You got bored while I was gone and made this many snow rabbits...”
“I originally planned to break them after making them.”
“Unless my eyes are broken, these little guys are moving.”
“They are.”
Gio looked genuinely apologetic.
“My deepest apologies. If needed, I can transfer them to our ice storage.”
“I’m not sure if our Snowfield can be transferred over there...”
“You’re saying this just for the rabbits? Are you treating this as if the whole Snowfield is being moved?”
“They were made from the flesh of the Snowfield, weren’t they?”
“Calling it flesh makes it sound... a little terrifying.”
Have I really been shaping rabbits from flesh all this time?
“I didn’t expect them to come alive either.”
Even if you shaped a pig from butchered meat, it wouldn’t suddenly breathe. That was just how Earth’s dimension worked—or so Gio had thought. He had to admit now he’d been careless.
After all, painting a bird with pigments wouldn’t make it a living bird either—not on Earth.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Yoo Seong-Woon.”
“Uh... I have a lot of things I could say, but—so even up to rabbit number 194, you had no idea?”
“They were completely still when I placed them down...”
“And then they started moving the moment I arrived?”
“Yes. You’re absolutely right.”
Were they pretending to be still?
“...Okay, got it.”
Yoo Seong-Woon accepted reality as it was.
“I freaked out a bit, but... the Snowfield doesn’t seem angry or destabilized. I honestly didn’t expect things to be this quiet. I guess you’re receiving special treatment, Gio.”
“Is there any reason for me to be favored?”
“You’re kind of the type who gets favored.”
It’s like overeating—your stomach might complain, but it can’t really stop you. In truth, Gio’s portrait and Yoo Seong-Woon’s garden were basically the same body.
‘If it’s just me adjusting my own body, it’d be even weirder if there was a problem.’
Whether that was a perfect metaphor or not was another story. Yoo Seong-Woon still didn’t fully understand what kind of relationship Gio’s portrait and the gardens had.
‘Are they master and servant? Boss and subordinate? Parent and child? Or are they truly parts of one body?’
Even now, the Snowfield showed no reaction. Yoo Seong-Woon thought it might show something when Gio visited—but this was unexpected.
With his thoughts organized, he smiled again.
“I’ll trust that you’re paying generously for their upbringing.”
“Of course. I’ll also come by regularly to groom their fur. You won’t have to worry.”
“...That sounded like someone bringing home stray animals and calling them ‘your responsibility’... But whatever.”
He could just think of it as a new landscape feature in the garden.
‘Whether it’s really that simple is another matter.’
Even if something happened, it’d be between mysteries. Yoo Seong-Woon, as just a gardener, wouldn’t have to stress about it.
“...So, want to see how I manage the Snowfield? Or did you already see everything?”
“Not at all. I spent the whole time making rabbits while waiting for you—I haven’t looked around at all.”
“Not sure why you did that, but okay. Sorry. I didn’t realize it would take so long—I had no way of objectively measuring how long my transfer would take.”
“I don’t think it’s something you need to apologize for, but I appreciate the thought.”
“Then, let’s start moving...”
Yoo Seong-Woon took a step but paused.
“...Gio, don’t you think they’re following us?”
“They seem eager to keep watching you.”
“...Watching me for what?”
Still, he understood.
After all, Gio’s portrait always regarded humans with an attitude of observation. And these were mysteries created by him—they were bound to adopt similar behaviors.
‘So what are these rabbits, exactly? They’re probably some kind of children of Gio... but are they also my Snowfield’s children? Little gardens I’m supposed to tend to...?’
It was rare for animated “creatures” to appear in gardens. On occasion, some would serve as gatekeepers or attendants, but that was beyond Yoo Seong-Woon’s familiarity.
‘I should contact the elders when I have time. Figure out what I need to do to get along with these rabbits.’
Putting aside the confusion, he guided Gio.
“So, the job of a gardener isn’t anything fancy. You walk around your garden, listen to its voice, and fulfill its wishes. If you think of the garden as an artwork, like a collector would, it might be easier to understand.”
“I understand that it requires management.”
“Exactly. Management. But on a snowy, stormy day like this, you really need to focus to hear the Snowfield’s voice. Even calling it a ‘voice’ is generous—it’s more like the garden expressing its will in a way you have to interpret.”
“Is it hard to describe?”
“...Yeah, honestly. I’ve never had to explain this to anyone who isn’t a gardener. And between gardeners, it’s a given—we already know the feeling. I don’t even know what words to use to describe what the garden is asking of me.”
It was like a whisper. Or a signpost you could see. Or an invisible wall that only made itself known when you collided with it. It wasn’t as weighty as a divine oracle, but too solemn to call a child’s tantrum.
Still, this was unmistakably a garden.
“Think of a regular garden. Leave it unattended for a while, and it turns into a mess, right? Same here. You check the time and weather to make sure the flowers and trees don’t wilt, overgrow, or get diseased...”
Yoo Seong-Woon stopped at a certain spot and knelt down, brushing the ground with one knee.
“Today’s work will happen beneath this.”
“Cold ice. Is there seawater underneath? Or just ice?”
“Looks like water to me... but this isn’t good.”
Crack—
With a dull noise, the ice broke.
“Sometimes stuff like this happens.”
“Is it a problem?”
“The Snowfield has to remain frozen. Cold, still, unmoving, absolute...”
“That’s what defines it.”
“Exactly. It mustn’t melt.”
Looking down at the now-open hole, Yoo Seong-Woon said,
“Which means I have to freeze it.”
“Shall I accompany you?”
“Want to come?”
“...Yes.”
That day, Gio witnessed a sea turning into a glacier.
Waves that had dared to move against the cold halted—and froze, solid and silent.
***
“Did you die?”
“No. Gardeners don’t die from this sort of thing.”
“I thought you’d become part of the glacier.”
“I probably did, at least visually.”
“Aren’t you cold?”
“Cold enough to want to die.”
“You love the Snowfield.”
“I’ll still love it after I’m dead.”
“Gardeners...”
Gio murmured thoughtfully.
“...Must be lonely.”
“...Yeah. Honestly, a bit.”
It was just too vast.
And people were too small.
