Ultimate Choice System: I Became The Richest!

Chapter 239 Drawing a portrait.

Noah stepped back slightly, crossing his arms. "If this were about liberation, the yellow wouldn't just be a streak. It would expand, it would push back against the red and black. But it doesn't. It's almost lost in the chaos. That's not freedom. That's barely surviving."

"You're looking at this piece and seeing what you want to see. An easy narrative that fits neatly into the scholarly framework you've spent years building. But that's the problem—you're not seeing this piece. You're seeing what you've been told to see."

Diana remained silent, her expression thoughtful. Her eyes flicked between the painting and Noah, her faint smile still lingering as though she'd just witnessed something far more interesting than an art lecture.

Noah stood calmly, his faint smile unwavering, as the old man's words dripped with thinly veiled condescension.

"It seems like you know so much about art," the older man said, his voice polite but with a clear edge of challenge. "I'm sure you're quite a good artist yourself, aren't you? I wonder if you have any works you could show me. I'd love to be enlightened."

His words hung in the air, baiting, his faint smirk betraying his intent. He was clearly trying to corner Noah, to make him stumble, to strip him of credibility now that his earlier arguments had fallen flat.

Noah didn't flinch. His sharp gaze flicked to the man briefly before returning to the painting. "I don't have any works I can present to you," he said simply. Experience exclusive tales on My Virtual Library Empire

The old man's smirk widened. "Hmph, I knew y—"

"But," Noah cut him off, turning to face him fully now, his faint smile never wavering, "I can draw one right now and show you."

The old man froze mid-sentence, his confident facade cracking for just a moment as confusion clouded his features. "Huh?"

Diana's eyes lit up with interest, her head tilting slightly as she studied Noah. Her faint smile grew, soft but curious, as though this entire interaction was an unexpected gift of entertainment.

"How are you going to do that?" she asked, her tone gentle but intrigued. "I don't see you carrying any canvas—or tools, for that matter."

"That's not a problem," Noah replied smoothly, pulling his phone from his pocket. "We're in a gallery, after all. I'm sure the resources are closer than you'd think."

He tapped a few buttons on his phone and lifted it to his ear, speaking in a calm, measured tone.

"Yes, it's me. I need a few things… A canvas, some brushes, paint… Yes, the basics. Bring it to the main exhibition hall of the Regent Street Gallery… Mhm. Thank you."

He ended the call, slipping his phone back into his pocket without ceremony. As he spoke, Diana's gaze didn't leave him, her curiosity clearly piqued. She didn't interrupt or press him further, but the questions were visible in her expression. Who did he call? What is he planning?

The older man, however, frowned deeply. His earlier smugness was starting to waver, replaced by an edge of uncertainty. "You're serious? You're just going to draw something right here, right now?"

Noah shrugged slightly, his tone as calm as ever. "Why not?"

The minutes that followed were quiet but tense, a palpable anticipation building in the air. Diana remained composed, though the subtle glimmer in her eyes betrayed her growing excitement. The old man shifted on his feet, his confidence visibly faltering as he realized Noah wasn't bluffing.

It wasn't long before the sound of hurried footsteps broke the silence. A small group of people appeared, led by a man in a tailored suit.

He was tall and composed, his presence exuding quiet authority as he moved purposefully toward Noah. Behind him, two assistants carried several items—a large blank canvas, an easel, and an assortment of paints and brushes neatly packed in a case.

The old man beside Diana squinted, his brow furrowing as he took a closer look at the man leading the group. Then his eyes widened in recognition.

"James Arthur?" he said, his voice rising slightly with surprise. "Long time no see! How are you doing?"

James turned his head, his composed expression shifting into a polite smile. "William Johnson," he replied, nodding briefly. "It's been a while. I'm doing quite well, thank you."

William—now visibly flustered—smiled back, but his curiosity was piqued. "How are you managing the gallery? is everything going well?"

James's polite smile remained, but he held up a hand briefly. "If you'll excuse me, I need to attend to my boss first."

William blinked, his confusion evident as he nodded. "Of course…"

But before he could process the interaction further, his jaw nearly dropped as James turned and approached Noah with a respectful bow.

"Mr. Thompson," James said, his tone warm but professional. "Everything you requested has been brought. Where would you like us to set up?"

Noah glanced at the items James's assistants were carrying, then gestured toward a clear space near the center of the gallery. "Over there will do."

James nodded, directing the assistants to move swiftly. Within moments, the canvas was propped up on the easel, the paints and brushes arranged neatly on a small portable table beside it. The efficiency was seamless, the setup professional—like something you'd see in a high-profile artist's studio.

William's mouth opened and closed a few times as he stared, his earlier confidence completely shattered. "Wait—he's your boss?" he stammered, looking between James and Noah as though he'd missed a critical piece of information.

James raised an eyebrow, his expression calm but faintly amused. "Yes," he said simply, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

William looked like he'd swallowed a lemon. His gaze darted to Diana, but she didn't seem fazed at all. In fact, her smile had deepened, her eyes sparkling with curiosity as she looked at Noah.

Noah, meanwhile, stepped forward, his movements calm and deliberate. He picked up a brush, inspecting its bristles briefly before dipping it into the paint. Without hesitation, he began to work.

The gallery grew quiet, the soft scrape of the brush against the canvas the only sound in the room.

Noah stood calm and composed as the brush moved across the canvas, his focus sharp and unshaken. Around him, the gallery's natural hum of quiet footsteps and murmured voices began to shift as people noticed the unusual scene unfolding.

A few visitors slowed as they passed, their expressions curious and slightly confused. One man leaned toward his partner, whispering, "What's he doing? Is he actually painting in the middle of the gallery?"

Another visitor, an older woman clutching a guidebook, frowned in mild disapproval. "Is this even allowed? Who just sets up an easel in the middle of an exhibition?"

Diana stood silently to the side, her usual composed demeanor slipping slightly as she watched Noah work. Her head tilted ever so slightly, her eyes narrowed, not with doubt, but with intense curiosity. The way he held the brush—his movements precise, controlled, and fluid at the same time—it wasn't just skill. It was mastery. It was as though each stroke of the brush had already been decided in his mind before it even touched the canvas.

William, however, crossed his arms tightly, his earlier smugness giving way to a mix of skepticism and unease. "Anyone can splash some paint on a canvas," he muttered under his breath, though his tone lacked the confidence it carried before. "Let's see if this 'master' actually delivers anything meaningful."

Noah didn't respond. He didn't even glance in William's direction. His focus remained entirely on the canvas, the colors on his palette blending seamlessly as he worked.

As the minutes ticked by, a small crowd began to gather, their whispers growing louder.

"Who is he?" someone murmured, standing on tiptoes for a better view. "Is he one of the artists featured here?"

"I don't think so," another person replied. "But look at him—he knows what he's doing. That's not just a hobbyist."

"What's he painting?" a younger man asked, craning his neck.

"Looks like a portrait," came the answer from someone closer. "But it's still taking shape…"

The gallery staff exchanged more nervous looks. One of them started to approach, only to pause as realised James was there. He shot them a look that stopped them in their tracks.

His calm authority seemed to reassure them that whatever was happening was under control, even if they had no idea why.

As the strokes of Noah's brush grew more deliberate, the murmurs of doubt and confusion started to fade. Shapes began to form on the canvas, bold yet refined. The colors, layered with remarkable depth, started to create something unmistakable—a face.

A collective hush fell over the crowd as the portrait came to life.

"It's her," someone whispered, pointing discreetly at Diana.

The realization spread through the onlookers like ripples in a pond. The woman in the painting wasn't just a subject—it was Diana herself, captured with stunning accuracy. Her golden hair seemed to glow on the canvas, her expression serene yet commanding, her gaze piercing as if it could see through to your very soul.

Diana's breath hitched slightly, her usual composure faltering as she stepped closer to the painting. She didn't speak, her blue eyes tracing every detail, every brushstroke. It wasn't just a likeness—it was her essence, the layers of herself she rarely showed but that Noah had somehow captured effortlessly.

"Who is this guy?" someone whispered from the back of the crowd.

"This is insane," another murmured. "He did all that in five minutes?"

Even William, who had stood stiff and skeptical throughout, took an unconscious step forward. His arms fell to his sides, his mouth slightly agape as he stared at the painting. The earlier smugness in his expression was gone, replaced by something closer to disbelief.

"This… this was done in minutes," William finally stammered, his voice quieter now. "How is that even possible?"