[Soul Fusion: 40%] [Perfect Brush Acquired] [Created a Tier 1 Epic Purple Painting] [Congratulations! All Conditions for Painting Skill Promotion Met!] [Lv1. Lifelike Imagination → Lv2. Unfettered Imagination] [Your Skill Has Been Further Enhanced!] [If Painting Is the Expression of One's Soul, Then Now, You Can Actively Invite Others into Your Soul] [Acquired Knowledge: Mural]
In that moment, a low hum resonated in Ethan's mind, and a radiant, otherworldly scroll unfurled before his eyes. No, this was no ordinary parchment. It was a living canvas, pulsing with magic, begging to be touched and explored. One moment, Ethan stood amidst a sun-scorched desert, trading gleaming gold and sweet water with robed travelers astride camels. The next, he was in a frost-kissed castle, staring across a snowy expanse at a forlorn knight, lost in the haze of time.
"—Ethan?"
A voice sliced through the vision, yanking him back to reality. He turned, meeting Penelope Clearwater's concerned gaze.
"—I'm fine," Ethan said, flashing a grin.
But in his cobalt-blue eyes, a dazzling light flickered—brighter than the stars, like twin flames smoldering with cold, unearthly fire. He felt the weight of his newfound power. If Tier 1 paintings could bend reality, Tier 2 paintings obliterated the boundary between the real and the imagined. They could pull people from the waking world into the painted one.
A wicked idea sparked in Ethan's mind—the ultimate prison, inescapable. What could be more secure than trapping someone in a two-dimensional painting? Azkaban? Hardly. That was Lord Voldemort's playground, not a true cage.
The new knowledge—[Mural]—confirmed his suspicions. Ethan sifted through the information flooding his mind, his lips parting in a quiet murmur of awe: "Such intricate magic…"
Murals were no mere paintings. They wove together complex spells, summoned creatures, and environments crafted from enchanted pigments. They could be entered, experienced, lived in. But they came at a cost. Every Mural was a masterpiece built on a fortune in Galleons and rare, forbidden treasures—artifacts hidden from the prying eyes of the wizarding world. And right now, the easiest to obtain lay within this very place: Herpo the Foul's Abandoned Mansion, the legacy of a Dark Wizard whose name still sent shivers through history.
Ethan ran his tongue along the back of his teeth, a habit born of restless ambition. The craving gnawed at him, like a cavity that no amount of prodding could satisfy. Not that his teeth had any flaws, of course—Ethan Vincent's smile was as flawless as it was unsettling.
He turned to Penelope and Gemma Farley, who stood watching him with puzzled expressions. With a theatrical flourish, he spread his arms and declared, "I have incredible news for you both! I can now create paintings that people can actually step into!"
He bounced on his heels, eyes gleaming with manic excitement. "Do you get it? Next time, you won't even need to visit this crumbling old mansion. You can dive straight into a battle royale inside my painting! How's that for spectacular?"
Penelope and Gemma exchanged a glance, their silence louder than words. Spectacular wasn't quite the term they'd use. They had no desire to ever face Ethan in a competition again—not in this lifetime, nor the next. They couldn't fathom what wild epiphany had seized him, but a primal chill slithered down their spines. Ethan Vincent was becoming less human by the second.
"As long as you're happy," Penelope said, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
It was only when he spoke of art that Ethan shed his menacing edge, reverting to the gleeful enthusiasm of a child. No one would guess that this same boy had single-handedly crushed Durmstrang's golden champion, Viktor Krum, in the challenge. He'd claimed first place in a way that defied all convention, rewriting the rules with a smirk and a flourish.
Penelope could already imagine the uproar Ethan Vincent's name would ignite across the wizarding schools once the results were announced. Or, perhaps, the chaos had already begun at St. Mungo's, where the defeated contestants—screaming as they fell—were likely still recovering. She sent a silent prayer their way: May you never cross paths with Ethan again.
"So, Ethan wasn't exaggerating," Penelope muttered under her breath. "It was always us who underestimated him…"
Just then, Gemma Farley, Slytherin's sharp-eyed Prefect, stepped forward. Her fair hand extended toward Ethan, and a rare smile softened her usually glacial expression. "Ethan, congratulations on your imminent victory," she said smoothly. "Have you made plans for the holidays? I'd like to invite you to our family's home for Christmas. My parents have heard so much about you, and they're eager to meet you."
Ethan looked up, catching the glint of ambition in Gemma's proud, beautiful face. She was calculating, poised, like a serpent coiled in the shadows—ready to strike and hold fast once she chose her target. Far sharper than Draco Malfoy, with his posturing and predictable schemes.
But, alas, Ethan was already spoken for.
"Thank you for the invitation, Miss Farley," he said, his tone polite but firm. "But I've already promised to spend Christmas with someone else."
As he thought of the upcoming rendezvous, his lips curved into a smile—soft, almost tender, a stark contrast to his usual sharp-edged charm.
Gemma's eyebrows shot up. She'd anticipated a possible rejection, with Christmas so close and plans likely set. Her invitation was a calculated move, a signal of her intent to align with him. But to be turned down because of another girl? And that gentle, infuriatingly human smile on Ethan's face? Her teeth clenched, an itch of irritation flaring at the roots.
Looking down at his deceptively innocent expression, she said slowly, "Perhaps I'm mistaken, but isn't your name Vincent, not Wood?"
Ethan tilted his head, genuinely confused. "Wood? No, it's definitely Vincent."
"Heh," Gemma let out a sharp, humorless laugh.
Before he could respond, she seized his hand, gave it a brisk shake, and said, "Well, Mr. Vincent, the Farley family will always welcome you."
With a crisp snap, she released his hand and resumed her cool, dignified air, as if her fleeting display of pique had never happened.
Ethan blinked. I'll never understand Slytherins.
After a pause, he grinned and said, "By the way, I've hidden a Portkey in a toilet on the third floor. Better go find it before someone else does!"
He watched as Penelope and Gemma trudged off, their faces grim as if marching to their doom, and he sighed with mock sincerity. "Such humility, not even fighting over it. Truly the finest spirit of Hogwarts!"
He gave himself a mental thumbs-up for so generously offering them a chance to advance.
As they disappeared, Ethan's gaze drifted to the study on the first floor. It was time to claim the secret treasure. What a shame, though—no one was left to witness this once-in-a-millennium discovery.
Or so he thought.
Behind him, in the shattered ruins of the hall, a finger twitched. Hamburg Carrow, the Slytherin student Gemma had knocked out cold at the challenge's start, stirred awake. His bleary eyes locked onto Ethan's retreating figure as he slipped into the study. In an instant, his gaze sharpened, blazing with fury. Memories of his humiliating defeat surged back, twisting his features into a mask of raw hatred.
Hamburg clawed his way free of the rubble, scrambling toward the study on hands and knees, his movements frantic and unhinged. "—Ethan! Ethan! Ethan! Ethan! Ethan! Ethan! Ethan! Ethan! Ethan! Ethan! Ethan! Ethan! Ethan! Ethan! Ethan! Ethan!"
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