The Artist Who Paints Dungeon

Everyone called Giovanni special.

“......”

And perhaps, that was an undeniable truth.

Giovanni had been born bathed in sunlight, even in a dark room with no windows. On cold winter days, he slept in a bed where no sun could reach, yet still grew under its warmth. Even ★ 𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 ★ as an infant, with no clarity of mind, he performed countless small and great miracles — as if it were only natural.

A son touched by the sun. A healing force imbued with sunlight. Words and glances that brought warmth even in winter. People saw these things and made Giovanni a god, a saint, a hero.

“...Gi-Gio.”

“Shouldn’t someone go say something?”

“If we leave him like that...”

So Giovanni had always been special.

“Gio.”

“......”

“Hunter Sergio.”