My Anime Shopping Tree & My Cold Prodigy Wife!
Episode :55

Chapter : 109

He felt a cold sweat break out on his back. He was trapped. Refuse, and he confirms her suspicion, looking like a liar and a coward in front of the entire Guild Hall. Accept, and he faces public humiliation when his skills inevitably fall short of whatever 'passionate opinions' his past self apparently spouted. He was caught between a rock and a very talented, very competitive hard place.

Well, damn, his internal monologue sighed, surveying the impossible situation. This is… problematic.

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Trapped. The word echoed in the sudden, ringing silence that followed Faria Kruts’s audacious challenge. Lloyd Ferrum stood rooted to the spot in the middle of the bustling Guild Hall, feeling the weight of dozens, perhaps hundreds, of expectant eyes boring into him. An art competition. Here. Now. Against the fiery, crimson-violet-haired daughter of a Marquess who clearly remembered his alleged artistic opinions with painful clarity.

His mind raced, frantically trying to access long-dormant memory files labeled 'Artistic Skill'. He vaguely recalled hours spent sketching as a teenager in his first life – landscapes, mythical creatures, maybe even attempts at portraits. Finding solace in lines and shading, a quiet rebellion against the rigid expectations of his martial family. But that felt like centuries ago, literally. Eighty-six years of starkly different experiences lay between that young, artistically inclined Lloyd and the pragmatic, eighty-year-old engineer-soldier currently piloting this body.

What did I even draw back then? His internal monologue was a frantic scramble through corrupted data. Flowers? Dragons? Angsty self-portraits? Probably terrible. The only drawing he’d done consistently for decades on Earth wasn't 'art' in the conventional sense. It was technical illustration. Schematics. Blueprints. Detailed renderings of mechanical components, stress points, energy flows. He’d drawn his greatest creation, the Flying Mechanical Battle Suit, countless times – from every conceivable angle, cross-sections, exploded views – collaborating with his scientist colleague, refining the design, translating complex engineering concepts into visual form. It was precise, functional, utterly devoid of 'soul' or 'atmospheric haze'. It was engineering rendered in graphite.

This is bad, he thought, feeling a bead of sweat trickle down his temple despite the relative coolness of the hall. Accept, and I produce a technical drawing that everyone here will dismiss as soulless mechanics, confirming Faria’s suspicion that I’m a fraud. Refuse, and I look like a coward who lied about his passions. He glanced at Faria. Her amethyst eyes gleamed with competitive fire, her challenging smirk daring him to back down. She wanted this. She wanted to expose him, to humiliate him for his perceived slight and earlier deception.

He saw the expressions in the crowd. Eager anticipation. Malicious glee. They smelled blood in the water. The 'drab duckling' heir, caught in a lie, about to be publicly shamed by the talented, beautiful Lady Faria. It was high drama, and they had front-row seats.

No winning move, he assessed grimly. Unless… An idea sparked, unconventional, risky, born of desperation and a refusal to simply roll over. Unless I redefine the terms. Don't try to replicate what first-life Lloyd did. Don't try to meet her challenge on her terms. Do what I know. Lean into the perceived weakness, the 'soulless mechanics'. Own it. Present something so utterly different, so technically proficient yet artistically alien to this world, that it short-circuits their expectations entirely. Maybe they wouldn't call it 'art', but perhaps they couldn't deny the skill involved. It was a gamble, a wild deviation from the expected script, but it felt more authentic, more him, than trying to dredge up forgotten Impressionist theories.

He took a deep breath, meeting Faria’s challenging gaze with a newfound resolve. The faint, amused smile returned to his lips, this time genuine, tinged with the thrill of the unexpected gamble. "An art competition, Lady Faria?" he repeated, his voice calm now, carrying easily. "An intriguing proposal. Bold. I accept."

A ripple of surprise went through the crowd. He accepted? Just like that? Faria’s smirk widened fractionally, confident she had him trapped. "Excellent," she replied crisply. "Subject?"

"Hmm," Lloyd tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Something… universal, perhaps? Something embodying strength, protection, maybe even grace?" He deliberately kept it vague, allowing interpretation.

"Strength and grace?" Faria considered, then nodded sharply. "Agreed. A fitting theme." She snapped her fingers, addressing one of the Guild attendants hovering nearby. "Materials! Two sturdy easels, drawing boards, ample sheets of the finest quality art paper the Guild possesses, and sets of drawing charcoal and graphite sticks. Immediately!" Her command held the easy authority of someone accustomed to instant obedience.

The Guild Hall buzzed with renewed excitement as attendants scrambled to fulfill her request. Within minutes, two easels stood side-by-side in the cleared space, draped with large sheets of thick, creamy-white paper. Sets of charcoal and graphite sticks of varying hardness lay ready on small adjacent stools. The stage was set.

Chapter : 110

Faria strode to her easel, shedding her riding gloves with a flourish. She selected a piece of soft charcoal, her expression focused, intense, the competitive fire burning brightly in her amethyst eyes. Without hesitation, she began to sketch, her hand moving with fluid confidence, broad strokes rapidly defining a shape on the pristine paper.

Lloyd walked to his own easel, feeling the weight of hundreds of eyes dissecting his every move. He ignored them. He picked up a stick of hard graphite, feeling its familiar, precise weight in his hand. Not the soft, expressive charcoal Faria favored, but the tool of engineers, of draftsmen. He took another deep breath, clearing his mind, shutting out the noise, the expectations, the potential humiliation. He focused solely on the image held sharp and clear in his memory, an image he knew intimately, technically, from every angle.

He began to draw.

His style was utterly different from Faria’s fluid, expressive strokes. His lines were clean, sharp, precise. He started not with an overall shape, but with structural elements – the curve of a reinforced shoulder pauldron, the articulated joint of a mechanical elbow, the sleek, aerodynamic lines of a thruster pack. He worked methodically, building the form piece by piece, his graphite stick moving with the unwavering accuracy of a plotter pen. There was no hesitation, no wasted motion. He wasn’t capturing emotion; he was rendering function, engineering made visible.

The crowd murmured, confused. What was he drawing? Strange angles, metallic shapes… it looked like pieces of armor, perhaps? But disjointed, futuristic, unlike any armor worn in Riverio. Faria, absorbed in her own work, occasionally glanced over, her brow furrowing slightly at the bizarre, mechanical shapes emerging on Lloyd’s paper before returning her focus to her own more traditional subject.

Time seemed to stretch, measured only by the soft rasp of charcoal and the harder whisper of graphite on paper. Faria worked with passion, pouring emotion into her lines, capturing the soft curve of a cheek, the tender fold of fabric, the protective curve of an arm. Lloyd worked with focused intensity, rendering the complex interplay of plates, servos, power conduits, the subtle weathering on hardened alloys, the reflected light on a polished visor.

Finally, both seemed to finish simultaneously. Faria stepped back from her easel, adding a final softening smudge with her thumb, her expression confident, pleased with her creation. Lloyd placed his graphite stick down carefully, his own face revealing nothing but the quiet satisfaction of a complex task completed accurately.

"Finished?" Faria asked, a challenging lilt in her voice.

"Finished," Lloyd confirmed calmly.

"Then let the judgment commence," Faria declared, gesturing towards her work.

The crowd surged forward eagerly, forming a semi-circle, craning their necks to see the results. First, they looked at Faria’s drawing.

A collective gasp of admiration went through the hall. Rendered in soft, expressive charcoal, Faria had created a stunningly beautiful portrait. A young woman, face filled with serene tenderness, cradled a swaddled infant protectively in her arms. The detail was exquisite – the soft folds of the blanket, the delicate curve of the baby’s cheek, the loving gaze in the mother’s eyes. It radiated warmth, emotion, classical beauty. It was undeniably high art by Riverian standards, showcasing skill, sensitivity, and a mastery of traditional technique. "Magnificent!" someone breathed. "The emotion!" "Truly captures the theme!" Applause began to ripple through the crowd. Faria inclined her head gracefully, accepting the praise, her confident smirk returning, directed pointedly at Lloyd. Beat that, her expression clearly stated.

Then, the crowd shifted its gaze to Lloyd’s easel.

And the applause died instantly. Replaced by stunned, bewildered silence.

What…? What was it?

On Lloyd’s paper, rendered with stark, razor-sharp precision in clean graphite lines, was something utterly alien, yet strangely compelling. A figure, undeniably female from the powerful yet elegant lines of the form beneath the armor, stood poised against a blank background. But she was encased, not in traditional plate mail, but in a sleek, complex, form-fitting suit of articulated metal plates, streamlined and aerodynamic. Integrated thrusters flared subtly from the back and calves. Intricate wiring and power conduits snaked across the surfaces. One armored hand rested on her hip, the other held aloft a complex rifle-like weapon that looked like it belonged in another century. Her face was obscured by a full helmet, its visor reflecting an unseen light source with photographic realism.

There was no softness, no overt emotion. But there was undeniable strength, power, contained grace. The sheer detail was staggering – every bolt head, every seam line, every subtle reflection on the polished metal rendered with absolute fidelity. The perspective was perfect, the lines clean, unwavering. It wasn't a 'painting' in the traditional sense; it felt like a window into another reality, a meticulously documented artifact from a future they couldn't comprehend.