Ultimate Choice System: I Became The Richest!

The days in London had been a whirlwind of laughter, sightseeing, and delicious meals. From the towering Big Ben to the glittering lights of the London Eye, the Thompson family soaked in the city's vibrant energy. Noah had spent every moment with them, keeping a low profile as he quietly enjoyed their joy and excitement.

But now, with their trip nearing its end—just one day left before they returned home—Noah knew it was time to handle something he'd been putting off. The gallery.

Sitting in the quiet of his hotel room, he leaned back against the plush chair, his sharp mind already mapping out the visit. As if cued by his thoughts, the familiar shimmer of a notification appeared before him, clean and crisp, visible only to him.

[Ding! Ultimate Choice system has been activated!]

[Option 1: Visit your gallery, and enjoy the artistic meaning behind popular paintings.] Enjoy new tales from My Virtual Library Empire

[Reward: Advanced Art Skills.]

[Option 2: Visit your gallery, but do not look at the paintings.]

[Reward: Basic Art Skills, $1,000,000.]

[Option 3: Do not visit the gallery.]

[Reward: $2,000,000.]

Noah's expression didn't change as he scanned the options, his mind already weighing the reward for Option 1.

Advanced Art Skills.

He didn't hesitate. With a mental flick, he selected the first option.

The other choices—$1,000,000 or even $2,000,000—didn't tempt him in the slightest. Money was a tool, and he already had enough to build whatever he wanted. Skills, however? Skills could reshape the world.

And an advanced skill granted by the system wasn't just ordinary mastery—it was something far beyond what even the most gifted artists in history could achieve. With these skills, he wouldn't just understand art; he would redefine it, setting new standards no one could match.

As the notification vanished, a faint hum of awareness buzzed in the back of his mind, as if his brain had unlocked an entirely new way of perceiving the world. Shapes, colors, and textures felt sharper, richer, as if they carried hidden depths he could now instinctively grasp.

Noah stood, slipping on his jacket, his movements fluid. He stepped into the suite's living area, where Caroline and David were sitting on the sofa, poring over a guidebook, and Emily was sprawled out on the carpet, doodling on a notepad.

"Heading out for a bit," Noah said casually.

Caroline glanced up, slightly surprised. "Oh? Where are you off to?"

"Just going out for some fresh air," Noah replied smoothly. "I won't be long."

"Don't forget we're having dinner together later!" Emily called without looking up, her pencil furiously scribbling.

"Wouldn't miss it," Noah said, ruffling her hair as he walked past.

The Regent Street Gallery was a stunning piece of architecture, its grand façade blending classical elegance with modern flair. Intricate stone carvings framed the massive arched windows, and the name of the gallery was displayed in polished gold letters above the entrance. The revolving doors gleamed, reflecting the overcast London sky.

Noah stepped inside, the subtle scent of aged wood and fresh paint greeting him. The interior was expansive yet inviting, with high ceilings that allowed the natural light to spill in, illuminating the pristine walls adorned with masterful paintings.

The gallery's staff, dressed in crisp uniforms, greeted every visitor with polite, professional smiles, their practiced warmth matching the elegance of the space. Noah didn't pause to acknowledge them; he simply walked through the tall, glass-paneled doors as if he belonged—which he did. There was no need to announce himself or explain that he was the owner. Entry to the gallery was free, open to anyone seeking a moment of quiet beauty or inspiration.

Inside, the air felt different. Still, almost reverent, carrying the faintest hint of polished wood and aged paint. The soft shuffle of footsteps on marble floors and the quiet murmur of voices drifted through the wide halls, blending into an almost meditative hum. Noah let it wash over him as he stepped deeper into the space, his sharp eyes scanning the rows of paintings displayed with careful precision.

The first piece he stopped at was a landscape—vast, untamed, alive. The canvas stretched wide, capturing a dense forest on the verge of a storm. Rays of sunlight pierced through thick clouds, their golden warmth battling against the steel-gray sky.

Noah stood still, his hands in his pockets, studying the scene. To the casual observer, it was a snapshot of nature's grandeur, but to Noah, it pulsed with something deeper. He could see the intent behind every stroke, the way the artist's brush had moved with purpose. The heavy, layered greens of the trees weren't just paint—they carried the weight of time, resilience, survival. The storm in the sky wasn't just a natural phenomenon; it was a metaphor for conflict, internal and external.

This isn't just a forest, he thought, his eyes narrowing slightly as he traced the path of a lightning bolt streaking in the distance. It's a battleground.

He moved on, the echo of his steps barely audible.

The next painting was smaller, quieter—a portrait. It depicted an elderly woman seated by a window, her profile turned slightly toward the light streaming in from the glass. The details were extraordinary: every crease on her face was etched with precision, her lined hands folded neatly in her lap. The faded gray of her hair seemed to shimmer faintly under the window's glow, but it was her eyes that held Noah's attention.

They were sharp and piercing, brimming with a quiet defiance that seemed at odds with the weariness in her posture. There was pride in those eyes, a refusal to be diminished, even as the years had taken their toll.

Noah tilted his head, stepping closer. He could see the subtle smudges in the shadows beneath her eyes, the faint traces of blue along her jawline that hinted at veins beneath paper-thin skin. The artist hadn't just captured her image—they'd captured her soul. The room she sat in, barely visible through the painting's muted colors, told a story of simplicity. A single vase on a shelf. A half-drawn curtain. It wasn't wealth or grandeur; it was a life lived.

He let out a soft breath, moving on, feeling the pull of the next piece like a thread tugging at his chest.

This one was abstract—a swirl of bold reds, blacks, and whites, layered in chaotic, almost violent motion. To some, it might have looked like randomness, but to Noah, it screamed of rage, desperation, and raw emotion. The lines didn't just converge; they clashed, fought for dominance, creating a visual cacophony that refused to be ignored.

...

As Noah stood in front of a portrait, quietly taking in the intricate brushstrokes and the layers of emotion woven into the canvas, he sensed movement to his right. A few figures had arrived beside him, their presence subtle but unmistakable.

He didn't glance at them. There was no need.

For several moments, none of them spoke, the silence stretching out as if they were all equally captivated by the piece before them.

Finally, a soft sigh broke the stillness.

"This piece…" a feminine voice said, its tone refined yet gentle. "It can't ever be replicated. It's truly a masterpiece, not just of its era but in all of history."

The voice carried an air of quiet authority, and though Noah didn't turn his head, he could tell the speaker was young and of some status.

Another voice followed, this one older, measured, and laced with deference. "That's true, your hi—" The man caught himself mid-word, clearing his throat awkwardly. "My lady. I couldn't agree more. This piece is… extraordinary. Look at the balance of light and shadow, the way the artist captures the duality of the subject. It's haunting yet undeniably beautiful. The precision alone… well, it speaks to unparalleled genius."

The older man continued, his voice rising slightly as he delved into the nuances of the portrait—the technique, the subtle play of contrast, the meticulous attention to detail that elevated the piece beyond mere artistry.

When he finally paused, seemingly out of breath, Noah's voice cut through the air, calm and unhurried.

"It's a good piece," he said, still not looking at them. "But calling it the best in history? That's overexaggerating don't you think?"

The air shifted slightly. He could feel their attention turn fully to him, the silence thick with surprise at his interruption.

"And," Noah continued, his tone steady but firm, "the true essence behind the portrait isn't what you said. What you described misses the mark."

The woman's voice was curious now, a mix of intrigue and challenge. "Oh? And what, may I ask, is the true essence?"

Noah finally turned his head slightly, not enough to meet their gazes but just enough to show he wasn't dismissing them entirely. He gestured subtly toward the portrait.

"The brilliance of this piece isn't in its balance of light and shadow or even in its precision," he began. "It's in its imperfections. Look at the uneven texture of the paint here"—he pointed to a faint smudge near the subject's collar—"or the way the lines of the background subtly blur as they move toward the edges. The artist didn't create this to be flawless. They created it to feel human."

He took a step closer, his eyes scanning the canvas. "The subject's eyes—most people would say they're soulful, maybe even melancholic. But if you really look, you'll see something deeper. Regret. Not the kind that weighs you down, but the kind that sharpens you, pushes you forward."

Noah's voice softened slightly, almost as if he were speaking to himself. "This portrait isn't about duality. It's about acceptance. The acceptance of who we are, flaws and all, and the strength that comes with that understanding."