As Elysia waited in the quiet sanctuary of her apartment, the anticipation of the judgment on her painting lingered in the air. The weight of the original owner's dreams rested on her shoulders, and she couldn't help but feel a sense of responsibility to honor the sacrifices that had been made.
Her system, always analytical, remarked, "Host, your confidence in the quality of your painting is well-founded. The meticulous strokes and the emotional depth captured within the canvas set it apart from the commonplace works found in this world."
Elysia, her gaze fixed on the painting, replied, "I may have lacked the Qi to infuse divine energy into it, but the emotions embedded in each brushstroke should resonate with anyone who truly understands art."
The system acknowledged her sentiment, "True art transcends the limitations of cultivation realms. It speaks to the soul, and yours, host, has undoubtedly spoken through this painting."
As the hours trickled by, Elysia's patience was rewarded with the familiar chime of an incoming message. With a quickened pulse, she accessed the contents, revealing the judgment of the sub judges.
The first message read, "Submission #4570: Extraordinary artistry detected. Advanced to main competition."
A triumphant smile played on Elysia's lips. The system couldn't help but marvel at the efficiency of the sub judges, "They didn't waste any time recognizing the exceptional nature of your work. It seems your reputation is destined to soar."
Elysia chuckled, "Reputation or not, I'm here to make a statement—one that transcends the conventional boundaries of talent."
As word spread among the sub judges, a buzz of curiosity surrounded Elysia's entry. The next message confirmed her advancement, "Submission #4570: Granted a special mention for profound emotion. Main competition awaits."
Elysia's eyes gleamed with satisfaction. The system, echoing the sentiments of the judging panel, remarked, "Profound emotion indeed. Your ability to convey the essence of solitude and longing within the painting has left an indelible mark."
As the judges convened to discuss the standout entries, snippets of their conversations circulated within Elysia's consciousness. The air was thick with the scent of possibility, and the judges marveled at the enigma that was Elysia Netherthorn.
One judge voiced, "Where has this artist been hiding? Such mastery over the brush is a rarity."
Another, captivated by the emotional depth, added, "It's as if the painting holds a silent dialogue with the viewer. A narrative that transcends the visible strokes."
Elysia, with a blend of humility and pride, murmured, "The original owner deserved this recognition. I'll carry her dreams forward."
The system, sensing Elysia's determination, replied, "Indeed, host. The journey has just begun. The Celestial Accord awaits, and your art shall echo through the realms."
As the sub judges concluded their assessments, Elysia awaited the next phase of the competition with a quiet confidence. The real competition loomed ahead, a stage where her artistry would be unveiled to a wider audience, and the echoes of a celestial accord would resound through the annals of artistic history.
Flashback 30 minutes ago.
In the quiet halls of the Celestial Accord's preliminary judging room, Judge Victor, a seasoned artist with graying hair and an air of authority, sighed as he scrutinized the first submission—a chaotic canvas of colors devoid of cohesion.
Beside him, Judge Amelia, a middle-aged woman known for her critical eye, chuckled, "Another novice attempting to wield a palette without understanding the essence of art."
The room resonated with the occasional crinkle of rejected submissions, each a testament to the countless amateurs vying for a coveted spot in the renowned competition.
Judge Ethan, the youngest member of the panel, examined a painting featuring disproportionate figures and disjointed perspectives. "Is this avant-garde or mere incompetence?" he questioned, his frustration apparent.
The judges traversed through a gallery of disappointments, encountering paintings that seemed to mock the artistry they sought. "Where's the storytelling?" Victor lamented. "These pieces lack narrative, like peering into a chaotic dream."
Amelia picked up a canvas displaying abstract shapes, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "Ah, the elusive 'I call it art because you won't understand it' technique. Abstract expressionism taken to an unfortunate extreme."
Ethan, frowning, scrutinized a stick-figure family portrayed on another canvas. "A submission like this is an affront to the nuance of form and structure. It's as if the artist didn't bother to comprehend the basics."
The judges traversed the gallery of mediocrity, occasionally encountering a painting that surpassed the rest—but only marginally. Victor, with a touch of sarcasm, remarked, "Ah, progress. This one managed to color within the lines."
Amelia added sardonically, "Perhaps we should commend them for not delving into the realm of abstract chaos."
Ethan, resigned, noted, "Let's hope the next batch has at least a semblance of skill. These submissions are a mockery of the art world."
As they continued their disheartening journey, each canvas a reflection of aspiring artists who had yet to grasp the essence of true craftsmanship, the room echoed with the rustle of rejected works. The excitement of discovering hidden gems had dwindled into a tedious routine.
Amelia glanced at Victor, sharing a look that conveyed their shared dismay. "The Celestial Accord used to be a celebration of artistic brilliance," she mused, her voice tinged with nostalgia. "Now, it feels like we're sifting through a labyrinth of dashed hopes."
Ethan, eager for a spark of creativity, sought refuge in the hope that the next batch might bring forth an artist who truly understood the craft.
As the panel of judges progressed through the seemingly endless parade of uninspired canvases, the room resonated with the collective sighs and muted conversations of artists seeking validation. Among them, Judge Victor remained stoic, though the monotony of lackluster submissions had etched a hint of weariness onto his countenance.
Amelia, always armed with acerbic commentary, examined a painting featuring haphazardly drawn animals. "Ah, the jungle of artistic incompetence. This artist must have mistaken their brush for a machete, slashing through any semblance of skill."
Ethan, the youngest on the panel, shook his head at a surreal depiction of floating geometrical shapes. "Do they think randomness equates to brilliance? It's like witnessing an intellectual void."
Victor, pausing before an attempt at abstract expressionism gone awry, remarked with a touch of dry humor, "This masterpiece could be titled 'Chaos Unleashed' or, more fittingly, 'My Art Teacher Weeps in Despair.'"
As they traversed the landscape of mediocrity, Judge Fiona, a veteran of the art world known for her discerning taste, couldn't conceal her exasperation. "These paintings lack soul. It's as if each artist painted with a blindfold, hoping for a miracle."
Amelia, feigning sympathy, gestured towards a particularly amateurish portrayal of a sunset. "Ah, another sun that seems more eager to set than grace us with its radiance. Truly a tragedy."
The judges, now accustomed to the disheartening process, stumbled upon a series of poorly executed portraits. Ethan, attempting to find a silver lining, mused, "Perhaps these artists are avant-garde pioneers, challenging the conventional standards of facial anatomy."
Victor, raising an eyebrow, responded dryly, "Or maybe they've unlocked the secret to rendering people unrecognizable."
The gallery of artistic misfortune seemed unending, prompting Fiona to express her concern. "Are we destined to wade through this sea of disappointment indefinitely? I fear our standards are being dragged into the abyss."
Amelia, with a hint of irony, quipped, "Perhaps we should institute an 'abstract-only' category for those who haven't yet grasped the concept of form and structure."
The judges soldiered on, evaluating canvases that seemed to defy the very essence of artistic expression. In a room filled with the residual energy of dashed dreams, the occasional sardonic remark provided a fleeting respite.
Amid the uninspiring task of scrutinizing lackluster paintings, the sub judges found solace in shared grievances about their employment conditions. Huddled together during a short break, their discontent materialized in murmurs of dissatisfaction.
Jon, a seasoned sub judge with an air of despondency, voiced the collective sentiment, "This is hardly the glamorous art critique career I envisioned. We're drowning in a sea of amateurism for a pittance."
A chorus of agreement emanated from his colleagues, their faces mirroring a shared frustration. Sarah, a sub judge notorious for her cutting remarks, added with a wry smile, "Who would've thought that evaluating these 'masterpieces' would be our daily grind?"
As the discussion evolved into a collective lament, Alex, a more optimistic member of the group, attempted to inject a note of camaraderie. "At least we're in this together. Misery loves company, right?"
Jon, not easily swayed, retorted, "If only the paycheck loved us back. I'm convinced they pay us in sympathy, not currency."
Amelia, who overheard the grumbling, chimed in with her characteristic sarcasm, "Ah, the unsung heroes of the art world, unappreciated and underpaid. A tragedy befitting a Shakespearean play."
Sarah, unimpressed, muttered, "More like a farce. We're stuck in an endless loop of terrible art, and I'm not sure if it's getting funnier or more tragic."
As the tedious spectacle continued, the hope for an exceptional piece—a beacon amidst the chaos—remained a distant aspiration.
Little did they anticipate that, amid the sea of mediocrity, a gem named Elysia Netherthorn awaited its turn to defy prevailing norms and infuse the celestial stage with unparalleled artistry.