The air in the kingdom of Aquarelle was completely different from the dreary air of Iris. There were no dust particles or factory smoke; instead, the air was a scented mist of rose and jasmine pigments, sparkling under a sky that shifted colors with each passing cloud. In this world, there was no absolute black—only shades of gray tinged with blue—and no sharp boundaries, only delicate overlaps that made every being appear as if it were a waking dream.
Sol walked toward the turquoise queen, feeling his feet no longer struck the ground; instead, they "slid" over a surface like wet glass. Behind him, Sir Garrett struggled—his armor, once a symbol of solidity and invincibility, now seemed made of melting candy. He tried to grip his sword, but the handle began to "bleed" a liquid silver that ran over his fingers. As for Constantine, he sat on the ground, desperately trying to wipe away the watercolor stains spreading over his magnifying lenses, turning his vision into an incomprehensible abstract painting.
"Sol…" Constantine called in a trembling voice. "This place… it dismantles us with beauty. Iris killed us with cruelty, but Aquarelle kills us with gentleness. If you don't find that pigment immediately, we'll become nothing but oily blotches on this watery grass."
Sol turned to the queen, who floated in the air like a giant droplet of water taking human form. Her eyes were whirlpools of indigo, and her hair flowed like a small waterfall of translucent ink.
"The Well of Reflections lies beyond the Faded Shadows Hill," the queen said, her voice echoing like sound in a glass hall. "But beware, bearer of the diamond-tipped brush… the well does not show your face. It shows your 'unpainted truth.' Many have entered as promising sketches and emerged as blank pages."
Sol left his companions under the protection of the water nymphs and set off alone toward the hill. The path twisted like a random brushstroke. With each step, his body grew more transparent. Through his hand, he could see the bones Constantine had drawn—they were no longer pencil lines, but trembling blue watercolor strokes pulsing with every heartbeat.
At the summit, he found it: the well. It was not made of stone, but a rift in reality, filled with a colorless liquid that reflected all the colors of the sky and universe. Its surface was eerily calm, so still that even the air around it seemed to pause in reverence.
Sol stood at the edge. Looking in, he did not see a distorted version of himself like a preliminary sketch. Instead, he saw "Sol perfected."
He saw a man dressed in royal garments, with a face sculpted in exquisite detail, human eyes brimming with life, and skin that felt truly human. The man smiled at him, extending his hand from within the well as if inviting him into a state of "completion."
"Is this what I want?" Sol whispered to himself. "To be complete? To be a painting finished and placed in a frame?"
Suddenly, the reflection shifted. The perfected man began to freeze, turning into a rigid marble statue—motionless, breathless, unchanging. Sol understood the lesson: perfection is "the end." Perfection is artistic death. To be a "sketch" means you still hold infinite possibilities for change.
In that moment, Sol jumped into the well.
He did not drown in water but in "visual consciousness." He felt every line the Philosopher had drawn in his body, every modification Constantine had made, being washed away. Sol shed his painted clothes, his charcoal hair, his paper-thin skin. He became a mere "idea," floating in a sea of gray light.
From the midst of this void, the first pigment appeared. It was not liquid, but a gem of "pure blue light," pulsing to a rhythm like the breaths of the First Painter. This was the "Psychological Sky Blue," the spirit that brings life to static paintings.
"Take me… if you have the courage to remain incomplete," the pigment's voice echoed in his mind.
Sol extended his hand—which was now only a blue glow—and touched the pigment. Instantly, energy exploded within him. He felt his right eye nearly burst from the intensity of the light. The pigment did not settle in his pocket; it merged with his retina, transforming his electric blue into a deep sky blue that shimmered with every thought.
When Sol emerged from the well, he was no longer as he had been. He no longer trembled, and his lines no longer "bled." He had learned to "anchor" his colors internally without an external frame. He returned to the queen, who bowed in reverence at the new glow in his eye.
"You've done it…" the queen said in amazement. "You've absorbed the pigment without losing your sketch identity."
But the joy was short-lived. Suddenly, Aquarelle's rosy sky turned a hideous metallic gray. Colored raindrops froze midair, becoming sharp needles. On the horizon appeared massive ships of "engineered steel," bearing the Purifiers' emblem.
The Philosopher had crossed the Gray Zone and pursued them to Aquarelle.
"Sol!" Garrett shouted, regaining some strength thanks to the aura of pigment emanating from Sol. "They're firing 'dry-wipe projectiles'! They want to drain this world and erase it!"
Sol looked at the approaching ships, feeling the power of the sky-blue pigment coursing through his veins. He was no longer afraid. He raised his diamond-tipped brush, now engulfed in transparent blue flame.
"Queen… protect your people," Sol said as he lifted into the air, leaving trails of light on the water. "I will paint an end to these ships."
Sol did not attack the ships physically. Instead, he used the first pigment's ability: "psychological liquidity." He focused his eye on the flagship, imagining it not as solid steel, but as a "water idea" that had forgotten its origin.
With a single stroke of his brush in the air, Sol transformed the massive steel ship into a "waterfall of black ink." The ship collapsed, dissolving into the air before reaching the water's surface, and the Purifier soldiers on it turned into pale blotches that vanished into the ocean.
The remaining Purifiers panicked. They had never seen a sketch manipulate matter this way. The remaining ships retreated quickly, disappearing into temporal rifts drawn by the Philosopher from afar.
Sol landed, panting. The first pigment was powerful, but it consumed the user's "imagination."
"We have the first," Constantine said, approaching with eyes shining with hope for the first time. "But the Purifiers will not stop. They now realize you are not just a fugitive; you are the coming 'God of Sketches.'"
"Where to next?" Garrett asked, feeling his armor regain its solidity.
Sol looked to the horizon, where a new gate began forming, shaped by the pigment in his eye. The gate did not flow with colors but emitted black smoke, the smell of gunpowder, and the sound of colliding mechanical gears.
"The next world is the Graphite Realm," Sol said firmly. "A world of shadows, sharp lines, and merciless machines. There lies the second pigment: 'Steel Gray,' the pigment of strength and structure."
Sol stepped toward the gate, followed by his companions, who were now more than mere followers—they were the first "Sketch Army." With each step, the world of Aquarelle bid them farewell with a rain of colors, as if thanking them for saving its beauty from drought.