The Guardian gods-Chapter 236

When these common folk turned to other artists, Alexander spared no time in mocking their work. He would publicly ridicule these artists, tearing apart their efforts with biting critiques and cruel laughter. His words stung more than any physical blow, leaving his victims feeling worthless and defeated. Among those who suffered under Alexander’s scorn was a young artist who always looked up to him.

He admired Alexander’s skill but was always crushed by his harsh judgments. Every time he presented his work, Alexander’s words cut deep, magnifying the admirer’s own insecurities and deep-seated shame for not measuring up. Despite his best efforts, he could never escape the shadow of inadequacy cast by Alexander’s brilliance and cruelty.

Unknown to Alexander, his behavior had sown seeds of resentment among the artists and art lovers of the city. Their collective bitterness and anger began to coalesce, calling upon the curse that befell Alexander. This curse was a manifestation of their collective resentment, born from the pain and humiliation Alexander had inflicted upon them.

As for the other curse, In the sprawling Empire in the southern continent led by Chen, known for its rich culture and rigorous training of young, talented children, lived a young man named Thomas. The empire valued skill and excellence, and from an early age, children were selected and trained to perfect their talents in various disciplines. Those who showed promise were celebrated and nurtured, destined for greatness. However, Thomas was not one of these fortunate souls.

Born with no discernible talent, Thomas struggled from the beginning. He worked tirelessly, dedicating every waking moment to improving himself. He practiced painting, music, martial arts, and more, hoping to find his niche. Despite his relentless efforts, he could never measure up to the gifted prodigies around him. His movements were shaky and unsure, his hands clumsy and weak. The things that came naturally to others were insurmountable challenges for him.

Thomas became a figure of mockery in his city. His lack of talent made him an easy target for ridicule. People used his name as a punchline, a joke that encapsulated the concept of failure in the central city of the continent. Even children would chant his name in derision when they wanted to taunt someone. The humiliation weighed heavily on Thomas, and the spark of hope in his eyes gradually dimmed, replaced by a deep-seated despair.

All this led to Tomas having a deep resentment against the world itself and against the system used by the empire. His deep resentment and the humiliation called upon the curse that took hold of him.

The forest was silent except for the rustling of leaves, everyone available looking at The two figures stood at opposite ends of the room, their eyes locked in a gaze that spoke volumes of their intertwined fates.

The Arrogant Artist, his long, nimble fingers wrapped around his brush, looked down at the frail figure before him with a sneer. His hollow eyes glinted with disdain. "So, you’re the unfortunate soul chosen to face me," he began, his voice dripping with contempt. "It’s almost laughable."

The Tragic Failure, trembling and weak, their hands twisted and useless, stared back with a mixture of fear and defiance. "I don’t know why we’re here, but I won’t let you belittle me," they replied, their voice shaky but determined.

The Artist chuckled, a cold, mirthless sound. "Belittle you? I’m simply stating the obvious. Talent is a gift, a weapon that I wield with precision and mastery. Those without it are destined to languish in mediocrity, forever dreaming of what they can never achieve."

"Talent isn’t everything," the Tragic Failure shot back, their eyes burning with a mix of sorrow and anger. "Some of us struggle our entire lives, not because we lack dreams or ambition, but because the world denies us the means to realize them. Talent can be a curse, too, especially when it’s used to crush others."

The Artist’s sneer widened. "Spoken like someone who’s never known the ecstasy of true creation, the power to shape reality with a mere stroke. Your bitterness only proves your inadequacy. Talent, true talent, is undeniable and unstoppable. It’s the mark of those destined to rise above the rest."

"Your so-called talent has made you blind," the Tragic Failure retorted, their voice growing stronger. "Blind to the beauty of effort, of perseverance. You mock those who strive because you’ve never known the pain of striving without reward. Your arrogance is your real curse."

The Artist’s eyes narrowed, his sneer faltering for a moment. He stepped closer, looming over the Tragic Failure. "You speak of beauty in struggle, but that’s just a consolation for the weak. Effort without results is just wasted energy. It’s the successful who write history, who leave a legacy."

The Tragic Failure held their ground, though their frail body shook with the effort. "History is more than the achievements of a few. It’s built on the backs of those who persist, who endure. Your legacy, built on disdain and superiority, will crumble when people see it for what it is: hollow and devoid of compassion."

A flicker of something—doubt, perhaps—crossed the Artist’s face, but he quickly masked it with a cruel smile. "Compassion? That’s a luxury for those who can afford it. In the world of art, only the extraordinary survive. I have no need for the pity of the ordinary."

The Tragic Failure took a deep breath, their voice steady and clear now. "Extraordinary art isn’t born from arrogance or cruelty. It’s born from the soul, from the depths of human experience—joy, sorrow, love, pain. Your art may be technically perfect, but it lacks heart. It lacks humanity."

The Artist recoiled as if struck, his sneer replaced by a cold fury. "How dare you lecture me on art? You, who can barely hold a brush! You know nothing of the sacrifices I’ve made, the battles I’ve fought to achieve my mastery."

"And you," the Tragic Failure said softly, "know nothing of the sacrifices I’ve made just to stand here and face you. My battles may not have brought me fame or glory, but they’ve given me something far more valuable: the strength to keep going, no matter how many times I fall."

For a moment, silence hung between them, heavy with unspoken truths. The Artist’s face twisted with rage and confusion, while the Tragic Failure stood resolute, their spirit unbroken.

Finally, the Artist turned away, unable to meet the unwavering gaze of the Tragic Failure. "Believe what you will," he spat, "but in the end, it is I who will be remembered, not you."

"Perhaps," the Tragic Failure replied, their voice filled with quiet dignity. "But I will be remembered by those who matter, by those who understand that true greatness is not measured by success alone, but by the courage to face life’s challenges with grace and resilience."

After saying that, the Arrogant Artist, with his unnaturally long and nimble fingers, sneered as he dipped his brush into a palette of vibrant, toxic colors. His hollow eyes, devoid of joy, fixed on the frail figure before him. The Tragic Failure, trembling and weak, their hands twisted and useless, stood there with eyes clouded by despair.

The Artist moved first, his brush flicking through the air with the precision of a master. Colors swirled and leapt from his canvas, forming a monstrous, mocking face that lunged at the Tragic Failure. The face’s eyes glowed with a menacing light, its mouth contorted in a cruel sneer.

The Tragic Failure staggered back, their movements shaky and unsure. Desperation fueling their actions, they swung their clenched fists, attempting to dispel the illusion. They narrowly dodged the apparition’s attack, the force sending them sprawling to the ground, their frail body convulsing in pain.

The Artist laughed coldly, dipping his brush into a deep, blood-red color. With a flourish, he painted a dagger that materialized in his hand. He lunged at the Tragic Failure, slashing with deadly precision. The blade sliced through flesh, and the Tragic Failure screamed in agony as blood splattered across the floor.

Wounded but undeterred, the Tragic Failure clutched their side and forced themselves to their feet. They charged at the Artist, their fists swinging wildly. The Artist sidestepped, his sneer widening as he effortlessly avoided their attacks. However, the Tragic Failure’s wild swings kept coming, each driven by sheer desperation and the will to survive.

In a moment of unexpected agility, the Tragic Failure landed a solid punch to the Artist’s face, knocking him off balance. Seizing the opportunity, they tackled him to the ground. The Artist, surprised by the sudden shift, dropped his brush. They grappled on the floor, the Tragic Failure’s desperation pitted against the Artist’s arrogance.

The Artist struggled to free himself, his long fingers clawing at his opponent. He reached for his brush, but the Tragic Failure, driven by sheer willpower, knocked it out of reach. The Artist’s eyes widened in fear as the Tragic Failure’s hands closed around his throat.

The Artist managed to knee the Tragic Failure in the ribs, forcing them to release their grip. Both of them gasped for air as they rolled apart, their bodies battered and bruised. The Artist scrambled to his feet, his face contorted with fury. He reached for his palette, but the Tragic Failure, driven by sheer willpower, lunged at him once more.