Ran scrutinized Sonoko, her voice trembling with a cocktail of skepticism and awe. "Sonoko, are you truly asserting that Leon-kun rendered this masterpiece?"
Sonoko pivoted her gaze toward her friend, noting the flickering doubt etched into Ran's features. She responded with a resolute, definitive nod, extending her index finger to indicate the space directly beneath the mural.
Conan and Ran followed the trajectory of her gesture. Their vision descended toward the area situated just below the snowy tablecloth depicted in the scene. There, they detected a series of emblems—each approximately an inch in height—consisting of four distinct icons: a spade ♤, a diamond ◇, a clover ♧, and a heart ♡.
Each sigil possessed its own specific palette. The spade was saturated in an impenetrable black. The diamond was tinted in a muted, somber gray. The clover manifested in a stark, bone white. Finally, the heart was drenched in a profound, arterial crimson.
They stared at the cryptic markings and instinctively drifted closer, lured by a burgeoning strangeness within the pigments. As they bridged the distance, the optical anomaly intensified—particularly within the color fields. From a distance, the spade appeared to be a monolithic block of onyx, yet as they neared, the dark saturation seemed to shift and undulate, as though a secondary image lay dormant within the ink. The same phenomenon plagued the other symbols; the hues themselves appeared warped, almost like a localized distortion masking a hidden narrative.
It was not a peculiarity limited to the spade; every emblem shared this transformative quality.
Sonoko then broke the silence, her voice hushed. "That sequence is Little Leon's signature… Now, try narrowing your eyes."
Ran and Conan obeyed the directive, squinting their lids until their vision blurred at the edges. Gradually, the distorted, kaleidoscopic forms began to coalesce, shedding their abstract guises to reveal their true architecture.
From the spade, which had previously seemed a solid void of black, a spectral image materialized—the sharp side profile of a gentleman clenching a smoking pipe between his teeth. They recognized the silhouette instantaneously; it was the iconic, unmistakable visage of Sherlock Holmes.
They then redirected their focus to the adjacent symbol, maintaining their concentrated squint. From the heart of the diamond, where the gray pigment had once seemed nebulous and fragmented, another form crystallized. It unveiled the silhouette of a woman. Judging by the graceful contours and the world-renowned curvature of the posture, the deduction was effortless—it was, without question, the Mona Lisa, Leonardo da Vinci's immortal portrait.
Their strained eyes then migrated to the clover. As the chaotic white coloration stabilized, a third silhouette became legible—a powerful steed rearing upon its hind legs, with a rider perched precariously atop it, his right arm thrust skyward while clutching a saber. Given the distinct theatricality of the pose, the identity was undeniable—it represented Napoleon Bonaparte.
Finally, their scrutiny landed on the heart. The distorted red hue, reminiscent of fresh blood, slowly settled into a sharp image. What emerged was not a mere symbolic outline, but a hyper-realistically rendered human organ—an anatomical heart, pulsing with detail within the confines of the heart symbol. No verbal clarification was required; the visceral nature of the depiction explained itself.
Ran found it mentally grueling to reconcile the fact that these complexities were the handiwork of such a fledgling child. It defied the laws of probability—much like the enigma of Conan himself. While she was already intimately acquainted with Conan's preternatural intellect, she now found herself questioning if the youth of this era truly possessed such staggering, incomprehensible genius.
Conan shared her internal turbulence. The symbols, coupled with the anamorphic imagery hidden within them, clearly functioned as a sophisticated cipher or a clandestine nom de plume. Every piece of evidence pointed unswervingly toward Leon-kun as the architect of this monumental work, yet the reality remained a jagged pill to swallow.
Now, Ran and Conan surrendered to full conviction. They believed Sonoko's earlier claim—that Leon-kun possessed the sheer audacity and skill to recreate the Mona Lisa. This transcended the boundaries of a "gifted child" as they had conceptualized it; this was an entirely different echelon of mastery, far more advanced and perhaps even dangerous.
They both offered a silent nod in tribute to the boy's terrifying talent.
Ran eventually abandoned her analytical spiral and simply accepted the impossible truth before her. She turned toward Sonoko, her voice soft with genuine respect. "Your brother is undeniably a paragon of talent."
Sonoko drank in Ran's expression, finding the validation she had been craving. She tilted her chin upward with a haughty air, crossing her arms over her chest as a smug, triumphant grin spread across her face. "Huhuhu—That is only to be expected," she countered, her tone sliding into a cheeky, playful arrogance.
Ran, however, dismissed Sonoko's posturing, letting out a melodic chuckle at her companion's predictable antics. Her gaze wandered back to the mural on the wall, once again ensnared by its suffocating presence.
Meanwhile, Conan continued to dissect the artwork with clinical intensity. He muttered a series of observations to himself, attempting to decode the structural genius behind the illusion. It wasn't merely the painter's brushwork that achieved such hyper-realism; the chamber itself was a deliberate accomplice. The central orientation, the aggressive perspective, and the isolation fostered by the vastness of the walls all fed into the psychological effect.
Combined with the flawlessly executed imagery, it birthed a hypnotic trance. The longer one remained under its spell, the more the canvas seemed to respire, as though the art were transcending its two-dimensional prison to become something tangible, something physical.
"A truly formidable piece of work…" Conan whispered under his breath.
But their drifting contemplations were severed by Sonoko's voice, urging them to proceed. Conan and Ran signaled their agreement. As they cast one final, lingering glance at the painting, they began their slow retreat from the art room.
As they crossed the threshold, their eyes remained locked with the cerulean gaze of the central figure, and they could not purge the sensation that those painted eyes were tracking their every movement until the very end.
Once they had cleared the doorway, Sonoko cast her own final look at the masterpiece, gave a solemn nod, and then extinguished the lights, drawing the heavy door shut with a gentle, final click.
Turning to the pair, Sonoko announced, "Onward. There is a vast gallery of further works awaiting us."
"What? There's more?" Ran echoed, blinking at Sonoko in astonishment.
Sonoko bobbed her head and clarified, "Little Leon's personal collection resides in his private chambers."
"I see… that explains the scarcity in the atelier," Conan mused internally. "Judging by the state of those paint cans, they've seen exhaustive use, yet the art room contained only a single blank canvas and the mural. The bulk of his portfolio must be sequestered in his room."
They resumed their march through the corridors.
As they pressed deeper into the mansion, they noted a sharp dip in the ambient temperature—the air grew significantly more frigid.
"It's becoming quite chilly…" Ran noted, cinching her brown coat tighter around her frame.
"Likely a climate-control measure to safeguard the paintings," Conan observed, gesturing toward an industrial-grade air conditioning unit integrated into the ceiling.
"Spot on!" Sonoko affirmed. "This quadrant of the estate operates on an independent ventilation system, specifically calibrated to preserve Little Leon's creations."
After a brief trek, they arrived before another pristine white door. Affixed to the upper panel was a shimmering silver plaque, engraved with a single,
potent name: "LEON."
AM N. NOT.(っ－＿－)っ♤♤DRAFT♤♤