Confined Together with the Horror Game’s Male Lead - Chapter 63
Chapter 63
Translator: Yonnee
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“…Let’s just look at the paintings for now.”
Strangely, it became difficult to engage in conversation with Dietrich.
I used to easily approach and talk to him even when he’d try to push me away, but not anymore.
I looked at the painting depicting us. It still gave me chills upon a second glance.
Lost in thought, Dietrich stared at the painting before speaking.
“This is similar to the style of Santorini.”
“…Santorini?”
“One of the three grand master painters who lived several centuries ago. In his later years, his fame plummeted, forcing him to endure a difficult period.”
Wasn’t his reaction a bit strange?
Normally, one would expect to feel creeped out in such a situation, but instead, he was calmly reciting a piece of art history.
Or had he become too accustomed to these kinds of situations?
“Why were his later years not good?”
I asked nonchalantly while picking up the painting.
“His apprentice’s work caused controversy. It was deemed blasphemous and led to his execution by the temple. Santorini narrowly avoided punishment, but his life as a painter was over.”
“I see.”
“Now that I think about it, both the clothing found in this mansion and the paintings match the fashion of several centuries ago.”
The worldbuilding of this game was solid.
“If this painting is similar in style to Santorini’s, it might also be related to him.”
Or perhaps not.
I tapped on the bottom right corner of the painting for emphasis.
[ V ]
The initial presumably of the painter’s name was written right here.
“It seems unrelated to Santorini though?”
“……”
“Still, to speculate about the artist from just a few paintings, you must have an interest in art?”
“More than just interest. I’ve enjoyed looking at paintings since I was young.”
“Did you like painting?”
“No, as I just said, I only liked looking at them.”
A faint smile lingered on Dietrich’s lips as he spoke.
“It’s the opposite for me. I prefer drawing over just looking.”
Of course, one needs to look at a lot of artwork first to paint.
“…You draw?”
“A long time ago.”
So long ago, I’ve probably forgotten how to hold a pen.
“Is this painting an oil painting?”
“No, it looks like tempera.”
“Tempera?”
“Tempera is made by grinding colored minerals on a millstone and dissolving them in egg yolk…”
Dietrich suddenly stopped talking and looked at me.
I met his gaze and casually asked.
“The pigment?”
“Did you know?”
“What are you talking about?”
Tempera.
A paint made by grinding colored minerals and dissolving them in egg yolk or honey, fig juice, etc.
It required several coats on wooden panels, a very labor-intensive process.
“I think I understand what the diary means by ‘sparkle’.”
As if he realized something, he looked around the room, then picked up a bottle and a brush.
He opened the bottle, dipped the brush in it, and looked at me.
“When you apply resin oil at the end, you can make the tempera shine.”
Resin oil.
An oil distilled from pine tree resin.
Applying resin oil enhances the durability of tempera.
In simple terms, it was an old coating technique.
Before transmigrating as Charlotte, I remember watching a video of someone painting with tempera.
The tedious work of painting and sanding the wooden panel intrigued me, making me want to try it at least once.
Now, I can’t even hold a pen.
[ ‘Dietrich’ has obtained ‘Crushed Shards’. ]
As Dietrich applied the resin oil to the painting, powder fell off.
Dietrich carefully picked up the fallen powder.
“Is it enough if I just don’t leave?”
“What?”
“You told me not to leave a moment ago, didn’t you?”
It’s surprising he’s still thinking about that, but even more astonishing that he’s actually considering doing it.
“You’re really not going to leave?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve got to be honest with you. You seem a bit insane right now.”
“Is that so?”
Dietrich burst into laughter again.
Why is he laughing again?
“Then don’t leave. Until I say you can.”
“Understood.”
…This was truly absurd.
Of all the tasks I had undertaken so far, this was the easiest to achieve…
But the most unsettling.
* * *
There wasn’t a moment his mind was at peace.
Having decided not to trust the woman, he was restless at every moment.
The woman’s blue eyes looked at him without malice.
Her bright and clear gaze was so transparent that he dared not meet her eyes, making him uneasy.
Red eyes, blue eyes.
The question had been nagging at him ever since.
Perhaps his hypothesis was wrong.
But, in the end, Dietrich truly wanted to trust the woman.
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