A student, yes, but not just any student—one who had chosen The Ring and the path of art, a decision that was, by all accounts, the most sagacious of his life. This student, once an apprentice with only a single coil of a ring to his name, now bore the title that was as intricate as it was justified.

There were tasks that required his attention. The Maestro's assignments, for one, and the civilians' drab attempts at 'artwork' that demanded evaluation. And so, with his heart now lightened by his revelations, he ventured to the evaluation site, where the civilians awaited.

What he found there was… revolting. A collection of so-called 'artworks,' each one more confusing and meaningless than the last. The civilians, gathered around their creations, stood uneasily, their faces full of emotions—fear, hope, desperation—each one pleading silently for his approval. But to his ears, their pleas were nothing more than bothersome noise, one of failure that deserved nothing but a failing grade.

The lack of meaning did not signify the lack of answers. No, there was something to be salvaged here, something to be reshaped and molded into true art. Gathering the civilians, he informed them of his intentions. He would provide them with a holistic critique of their efforts, some of them looked at him in bewilderment, their faces contorting. It was this very shock, that made the moment so ideal.

Becoming nothing more than ingredients in his masterpiece. They fell, now lifeless, blood painting the floor of crimson, his heart swell with pride. This… this was art. A collaborative effort that had transcended the individual, becoming something greater, something sublime.

Standing amidst the carnage, covered in the ink of his ingredients, he surveyed the scene with satisfaction. This was the review he had promised, the critique that would elevate their meaningless lives into something of worth.

"Will you kindle the inspiration within me anew? If not… then I can't say that I am terribly interested."