Naruto: Cthulhu: Ch. 237

A torrential downpour engulfed the night, with dense clouds obscuring the full moon. Lightning crackled across the sky, illuminating the darkened earth intermittently.

Raindrops relentlessly pelted the window of a semi-basement, producing a rhythmic patter. However, the thick layer of dust that had accumulated over the years rendered the narrow glass window too murky to fully reveal what lay inside.

Within the basement, a passionate figure wielded a paintbrush with wild abandon. The paints on the palette swirled and twisted in eerie patterns, creating colors that defied conventional recognition—an intentional fusion of the familiar into the strange.

"Yes! That's it! Perfect!"

The voice, filled with fervor, echoed throughout the confined underground space. The exuberant exclamations made it seem as though the speaker was boasting to someone about a grand creation. Yet, in reality, the room held no one else. Only the fervent figure could be seen, his exaggerated movements punctuating his ecstatic declarations.

Even from a partial profile, the glint of crimson in his eyes was unmistakable, though the rest of his face remained shadowed and indistinct. His throat emitted a raspy, guttural sound when he wasn't speaking, as though sticky saliva clung to the walls of his windpipe. The thumb of his right hand, gripping the paintbrush tightly, had turned almost ghostly pale from the pressure.

Finally, with a snap, the cheap paintbrush broke in two.

Crack! Snap, snap.

The broken halves fell to the floor, but the man paid no mind to the ruined brush. Instead, his attention was elsewhere.

"Quick! It's time for the final step! The last step for a masterpiece! Come on, my model!"

Moments later, the basement light flickered brightly once before plunging the room into darkness. Outside, the rain continued to pour, and the basement sank back into silence.

"Sai, I swear I'm not a coward, nor am I neurotic. But I promise you, those things are real! Alright, maybe I am a little neurotic—maybe even worse than when you first met me. But hey, we artists all get a bit unhinged when we push the limits of creativity, don't we? And you're no different, are you? You barely interact with anyone besides me."

"Having a conversation like this, face-to-face? From what I hear, you don't have anyone else in the village you'd do this with, right? But spare me your clichéd psychoanalysis—I know why this is happening. I know what I saw!"

"No! You wouldn't want to know. Those things aren't just 'bizarre'—that word doesn't even begin to describe them! In fact, they're even stranger than that inappropriate fake smile of yours—more absurd, more unreal!"

"Yeah, that absurd! What? You're insisting on knowing? Fine, I can give you some vague details. But forgive me, I can't put into words exactly what I saw. It was beyond comprehension. Maybe… demons from hell?"

Inside a dimly lit, shabby tavern, two figures sat at a battered round table, deep in discussion.

This type of run-down tavern catered specifically to the unfortunate souls crushed by life's hardships.

It was daytime, and even the usual crowd of lost souls seeking solace in alcohol was sparse. Apart from a few empty tables, the only patrons were the two figures seated at one of the rickety round tables.

One of them fit the profile of a life-weary drunk perfectly.

Dressed in a dusty, tattered brown coat, the person's upper body was slumped over the table, obscured beneath the heavy fabric. He looked every bit the image of a hopeless drunkard.

Yet, occasionally, he would straighten up abruptly, clutching a bottle and shouting at the person across from him. Whether he was truly drunk or only pretending was impossible to tell.

The person sitting opposite him, however, was something else entirely.

Everything about him—his attire, demeanor, and even his spotless appearance—seemed completely out of place in the chaotic atmosphere of the tavern.

His upper body was clad in a sleek black cropped top, revealing an enviable set of toned abs, a display of self-discipline so striking that even women might feel a pang of jealousy at the sight. This sculpted physique made it nearly impossible to associate him with someone drowning their sorrows in alcohol.

On his lower half, he wore tight, form-fitting cropped pants that emphasized his athletic figure. Attached to the outside of his thigh was a ninja tool pouch, which complemented the short sword strapped to his back.

Finally, his Konoha forehead protector left no doubt about his identity.

"Sai, I know you're not exactly a natural when it comes to managing your expressions, but could you stop giving me that fake smile right now?"

"Really? If my smile has offended you, then I sincerely apologize."

"Ah, no need to be so formal about it!"

The man named Sai stood up, bowed deeply to the person across from him, and then sat back down to offer an explanation. "A senior of mine once told me that if I always wore a smile, the people around me would be influenced by it and would be more likely to approach me."

"Uh… maybe your senior wasn't wrong, but you also need to consider timing and context."

"Timing? Context?"

"Yes. For example, when I'm currently being seriously troubled by… those things."

What followed was the conversation at the beginning of the scene, though parts of the dialogue were omitted. Sai's lack of empathy in his conversations often left others feeling uncomfortable, as he tended to miss social cues entirely.

Of course, it wasn't entirely his fault. Growing up under the influence of Danzō, who instilled the ideology that "Root ninjas have no emotions," Sai had long lost the ability to communicate normally with others.

However, after Danzō's death, a glimmer of sunlight began to shine into the dark and oppressive world of Root.

Not long after ascending to the position of Sixth Hokage, Tsunade announced that Root and the ANBU would be unified under the direct management of the Hokage's office. This shift gave Sai more opportunities to interact with others.

Yet despite this newfound exposure, Sai's teammates during joint missions often gave negative evaluations of him, describing him as a cold, unfeeling oddball who was impossible to communicate with.

In response, Tsunade assigned Yamato, another former Root member who had become quite popular within the ANBU, to teach Sai the basics of interpersonal relationships.

After learning about Sai's childhood, Yamato decided that Sai needed to go beyond befriending fellow ninjas and instead try forming connections with ordinary people outside the shinobi world. He believed that such relationships would help Sai move past the idea that "a ninja must be emotionless."

As for how to find these ordinary friends, Yamato's advice was to start with shared interests and look for reliable people with similar hobbies.

During one of his outdoor sketching sessions, Sai met a wandering artist named Ike.

Ike was a traveling painter—essentially a drifter—who wasn't originally from Konoha. However, he frequently visited the village to draw, claiming that its murals and landscapes always inspired him.

Over time, the two became familiar with each other. Sai even shared his treasured sketchbook with Ike, the one that illustrated his memories and stories with his late brother, Shin.

Ike greatly admired Sai's dark, monochrome art style, which he felt symbolized an inner melancholy. As a result, every time Ike came to Konoha to paint, he would seek Sai out to share tales from his travels and show him his latest works.

But this time, Ike wasn't just here to share stories or sketches—he had come with a significant problem to confide in Sai.

The issue stemmed from Ike's travels, during which he had encountered another artist named Pickman.

"You know, Sai, when I first met him, it was purely because I wanted to explore different kinds of art."

"Although you approached art to refine your ninja techniques, your abstract animals, drawn with incredible speed, and those strange, gloomy hand-drawn sketchbooks left a deep impression on me."

"But when it comes to exploring bizarre art, forgive me for saying this, you're far behind Pickman."

"Even though your ninjutsu can bring things on canvas to life, vividly manifesting them in the real world and presenting artistic imagery in a three-dimensional way, you're still no match for him. His paintings are simply mind-blowing!"

"In this regard, Pickman can only be described as a genius—one-of-a-kind in this world!"

"When I first visited him, it was with a 'let's see what happens' attitude, trying to approach this controversial figure in the art world."

"But gradually, somehow, I became addicted to visiting him."

"Every time I visited him, he would show me another side of the world that was unknown to me. While many traditional artists might label his work as morbid or heretical, I don't know why, but I found his paintings had a magical allure that made me fall head over heels for them."

"The precision in his lines and proportions is terrifying. His works could easily serve as reference material for anatomy lessons or biology classes."

"The use of color contrasts and light-dark effects in his paintings always makes my hair stand on end. Viewing his work feels like taking a thrilling and terrifying journey."

"In short, Pickman is truly a once-in-a-lifetime artist, and hopefully, there will never be another like him."

Ike had a lot to say, as if he'd opened Pandora's box after drinking, but his words were clear and deliberate, not the ramblings of a drunken imagination.

Sai, sitting upright, didn't show the disinterest that most people might at this moment. After listening to Ike's description, he still didn't have much of an impression, but he quietly noted down the name "Pickman" under the list of people worth getting to know.

This wasn't just any notebook; it was one Sai had prepared under Yamato's suggestion—a "friendship notebook" for recording reliable strategies for making friends, people's preferences, and the names of people worth befriending.

Ike downed two more large gulps of alcohol, moistening his parched throat, and then continued talking about the artist he both admired and feared deeply.

"You know, Sai, artists like us always believe that only by confronting nature's landscapes and live models can we create vibrant and lifelike works. This is something those mediocre commercial artists who paint in their barren studios can never achieve."

"Even artists who work in the realm of bizarre art can often rely on visions from their minds as models, drawing inspiration from their own lived experiences to conjure something close to reality. Even a single flower or blade of grass has a reference point in the real world."

"But Pickman's paintings are nothing like those fraudulent, poorly made works. I'm not exaggerating. If I had seen the terrifying subjects in his paintings in real life…"

"Forget it, I need another drink before I can continue."

"If I had seen those things in person and if they were even remotely human, just seeing them would have driven me mad! I wouldn't have survived it!"

"I would have gone insane, babbling nonsense in the streets, only to be locked away in an asylum and left to die alone in the endless abyss of despair."

"Maybe it's his exquisite skills that make those things look so terrifying, but he is a realist painter to his core!"

"His greatest strength lies in depicting faces. He can capture even the subtlest facial features and expressions twisted like something from hell. But that doesn't come from imagination!"

"The painting he was most proud of—he only revealed it to me after I promised to keep it secret and assured him I had the courage to look at it. That was when he finally uncovered the canvas I had been so curious about."

"I can't describe the content of the painting. I won't even try. But I still remember the name of the painting, word for word."

"Ghoul Feeding"

"That was the title of the painting!"

"After showing me the painting, he invited me to visit his basement studio, where he was working on new pieces."

"Pickman said his current series of paintings revolved around the same theme as Ghoul Feeding. He had already found reliable models, but due to the angles and perspectives needed for some of the works, he would require an assistant for the final painting in the series."

"Given his reputation as an eccentric in the art world, and my own fascination with his work, he hoped that assistant would be me."

"He wanted me to help his models complete the final piece in that series!"

"I'll never forget the look in his eyes when he asked. His gaze was burning with a fervent intensity, desperately pleading for my help."

"But… I didn't need a mirror to know what my expression looked like then. My eyes must have been filled with pure terror, because his models... I couldn't bear to see them even once."

"So I bolted. I ran out of there immediately."

"That's the whole story of how I befriended him and then broke off contact. For the next three days, I didn't dare visit him again. I even fled all the way to Konoha."

"Yes, one of the reasons I came her is that I wanted to stay far away from him. I hoped the ninjas of Konoha could give me a sense of safety."

"So now you understand, Sai. It's not that I want to be this paranoid. That place just frightened me to my core."

Hoo… Hoo…

After a long while, the sound of steady breathing rose from the table. It was Ike, slumped over the table, unmoving.

Sai stood up, reached into Ike's threadbare pocket, and pulled out a Konoha travel pass.

A Konoha travel pass was issued to outsiders by the village and included basic information like the bearer's name, origin, and planned duration of stay in Konoha. It was also a means to weed out potential spy ninja, so ordinary people wouldn't dare falsify the information on it.

On Ike's travel pass, it clearly stated his place of origin: "Land of Rivers."