The golden-haired girl in the crowd asked gently:
"Were we disturbing your work?"
Cyril shook his head slightly. "No, I just suddenly felt like there were a lot of eyes on me, so I turned around to look."
With that, he turned back and paid no more attention to the crowd behind him. He focused on painting several seagulls circling in the air and their reflections on the sea.
About two or three minutes later, just as he put down the final stroke, he felt faint signs that the Scribe Potion inside him had begun to digest.
The effect wasn't strong, but he had indeed digested part of the Potion.
That meant he was acting in the right direction. All that remained was to visit more places and use his paintings to record more seascapes and local customs.
He stood up, tidied away his tools, then turned to face the crowd behind him. Before he could speak, someone asked him,
"Sir, are you selling this painting?"
"I don't know which master you are, but this painting is without a doubt one of the finest works of art I've ever seen.
"Just looking at it makes me feel as if I'm right there on the sea."
Cyril looked at the middle-aged gentleman, who had already pulled out his wallet and was waiting for him to name a price, and reminded him with a smile,
"We're on the sea right now, enjoying the gentle afternoon sunlight and the sea breeze."
The middle-aged gentleman shook his head repeatedly. "No, no, it's not the same."
"On the ship, all we feel is sunlight that's a little too bright and a salty, damp breeze. But your painting makes me feel as though seawater is soaking and enveloping my body, as if I'm merging with the