Three weeks had passed since Zara had minted “Nebula Dreams.” In that time, the piece had quietly accumulated admirers. It had been featured in The Canvas’s “Emerging Artists” spotlight, shared across several art appreciation forums, and had garnered a respectable number of likes and comments. Zara’s portfolio had grown, too—she’d minted two more pieces, both of which had sold within days of their release.
But “Nebula Dreams” had become something more than just another piece in her collection. It had developed a reputation. Art critics on the decentralized review platforms had praised its emotional depth, its technical sophistication, its seamless blend of traditional composition and cutting-edge animation. One reviewer had called it “a window into the soul of the digital age.”
And now, the piece was worth twice what Marcus had paid for it.
Marcus K. sat in his home office, surrounded by the trappings of a serious collector. Three large displays dominated the wall before him, each one showcasing a rotating gallery of his digital art holdings. Ambient lighting cast soft blue and purple hues across the room, creating an atmosphere that was part museum, part command center.
He was sixteen years old, but he’d been collecting digital art for over a year now—ever since he’d received his first substantial inheritance from a grandmother he barely remembered. The money had been a surprise, a windfall that had allowed him to explore interests he’d never had the resources to pursue before.
Art collecting had started as a hobby, a way to decorate his digital spaces with something more meaningful than stock imagery. But it had quickly become something more. Marcus had discovered that he had an eye for talent, a knack for identifying artists whose work was undervalued and whose reputations were on the rise. He’d bought pieces for 50 Credits that had sold for 500 a few months later.
It was a game. A profitable game.
Today, Marcus was reviewing his portfolio, assessing which pieces to hold and which to sell. His gaze kept returning to “Nebula Dreams.” The piece had performed exceptionally well—its value had doubled in just three weeks. That kind of appreciation was rare. It meant the market was responding to something special.
He opened the piece’s full display, watching the cosmic animation play across his central screen. The swirling colors, the emergent figure, the subtle pulsing light—it was genuinely beautiful. Marcus could appreciate the artistry even if he didn’t fully understand the emotional resonance that other viewers seemed to feel.
He checked the current market conditions. There were three offers on the piece already, ranging from 150 to 180 Credits. None had reached his asking price of 200 yet, but the interest was there. The demand was building.
Marcus calculated his potential profit. Buy at 100, sell at 200. A 100-Credit gain. Not a bad return for three weeks of holding.
But there was something else to consider. The royalty.
He pulled up the token’s details and confirmed what he already knew: Zara Voss had set a 10% royalty on all secondary sales. That meant if he sold the piece for 200 Credits, 20 Credits would automatically be deducted and sent to her. His net profit would be 80 Credits.
Eighty Credits was still a decent gain. But it wasn’t 100.
Marcus frowned, a flicker of annoyance passing through him. Why should a percentage of his profit go to the artist? He’d bought the piece fair and square. He’d taken the risk of holding it. He’d found the buyer. The artist had already been paid—100 Credits for a piece that had probably taken her a few days to create.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard, the sell order partially entered. He could list it for 200 Credits. The marketplace would take care of the rest. The royalty would be deducted automatically, and he’d receive his 180 Credits. It was simple. It was clean.
But the principle of it bothered him.
Marcus had never been someone who enjoyed paying for things he didn’t have to pay for. It wasn’t about the money—20 Credits was barely a rounding error in his portfolio. It was about the control. About being forced to do something he didn’t want to do.
He remembered a conversation he’d had with another collector at a virtual art gathering. The collector had mentioned offhandedly that some artists were starting to experiment with royalty rates as high as 15%. “Can you imagine?” the collector had scoffed. “Fifteen percent on every sale, forever? It’s like they want a permanent cut of everything we do with their art.”
Marcus had agreed at the time, though he’d kept his opinion private. The economics of it seemed backward. If you bought a physical painting, the artist didn’t get a cut every time you sold it. The art world had operated for centuries without ongoing royalties. Why should digital art be different?
But the system was what it was. And for now, he was bound by its rules.
Marcus exhaled slowly, then finalized the sell order. 200 Credits. He posted it to The Canvas marketplace, setting the listing to public.
Now he waited.
The notification came less than an hour later. Marcus’s communicator chimed with the familiar tone of a successful transaction.
“Your token ‘Nebula Dreams’ has been sold for 200 Credits!”
He opened the details, his eyes scanning the transaction summary.
Token: Nebula Dreams (ND-2026-0817)
Sale Price: 200 Credits
Buyer: ArtCollector92
Marketplace Fee: 5 Credits (2.5%)
Creator Royalty: 20 Credits (10%)
Net Proceeds: 175 Credits
Wait. 175? He’d expected 180.
Marcus checked the breakdown again. The marketplace fee was 2.5% on all sales—that was standard. He’d forgotten to factor that in. So he’d paid 5 Credits to the marketplace and 20 Credits to Zara. His total net profit was 175 Credits.
He stared at the number, feeling a familiar irritation building.
So he’d made a profit of 75 Credits on the sale. Not 80. Not 100. Seventy-five. And 25 Credits had gone to other parties—the marketplace and the artist—for doing essentially nothing.
Marcus’s jaw tightened. He understood that the marketplace provided a service: connecting buyers and sellers, facilitating transactions, enforcing smart contracts. That was worth something. But 5 Credits for a transaction that had taken seconds? It felt excessive.
And the royalty? That was even worse. Zara had done nothing since creating the art. She hadn’t found the buyer. She hadn’t negotiated the price. She hadn’t stored the piece or maintained its condition. She’d simply… created it. And now she was getting 20 Credits of his profit.
Marcus leaned back in his chair, his irritation slowly crystallizing into something more focused. This wasn’t the first time he’d felt this way. Every sale he’d made had included a royalty payment to the artist. Every sale had felt like a small theft from his pocket.
He opened his transaction history and scrolled through his previous sales. The numbers were stark. Over the past year, he’d paid over 300 Credits in royalties to various artists. Three hundred Credits that could have been his profit, his reinvestment capital, his to use as he saw fit.
The total amount wasn’t huge in the grand scheme of things. But it was the principle. These artists were already benefiting from the initial sale. Why should they continue to benefit from every subsequent transaction?
Marcus closed the transaction history and pulled up his portfolio. He still held several pieces. Each one represented potential future sales. Each one had a royalty attached to it.
He’d have to sell them eventually. That was the game—buy low, sell high, repeat. But every time he sold, a percentage of his profit would be siphoned away. It was like a tax. An unavoidable cost of doing business.
Or was it?
Marcus’s mind started working, analyzing the problem from a different angle. The royalty was enforced by the marketplace. The marketplace was just a platform—a set of rules that governed how tokens could be traded. But what if there was another way? What if the token could change hands outside of the marketplace’s rules?
He’d heard rumors. Vague mentions in collector forums about off-platform trades. Deals that happened directly between wallets, bypassing the marketplace entirely. If that was possible, then the royalty wouldn’t be enforced. The artist wouldn’t get their cut.
Marcus felt a surge of interest. This was worth investigating. If there was a way to sell his art without paying royalties, he could increase his profits significantly. He could reinvest that money in more art, build his portfolio faster, play the game more effectively.
He made a mental note to research off-platform trades later. For now, he had other matters to attend to—other pieces to review, other sales to plan.
But the idea had taken root. The possibility of bypassing royalties was too appealing to ignore.
Across the city, in her small apartment, Zara received a notification of her own.
“Royalty payment received: 20 Credits from the secondary sale of ‘Nebula Dreams’!”
Her face broke into a wide smile. The sale had happened. The royalty had been paid. Everything had worked exactly as it was supposed to.
She opened her account balance and watched the numbers update. 287 Credits. She’d sold two other pieces since “Nebula Dreams,” each bringing in modest but welcome income. Combined with this royalty payment, she was finally starting to feel more secure.
The rent was covered. The software subscription was paid. She could even afford to upgrade her rendering tools, which would save her hours of work on future pieces.
Zara opened the transaction details, curious about who had bought her art this time.
Token: Nebula Dreams (ND-2026-0817)
Sale Price: 200 Credits
Buyer: ArtCollector92
Sale Type: Secondary
Your Royalty: 20 Credits (10%)
The piece had doubled in value. Doubled. In just three weeks. Someone had seen the potential in her work and had been willing to pay a premium for it. And Zara had benefited from that appreciation.
The feeling was indescribable. It wasn’t just the money—though the money mattered. It was the validation. The confirmation that her work had value beyond the initial transaction. The knowledge that her art was growing in reputation and worth.
Zara opened the piece’s public page and scrolled through the comments. The art was getting attention. People were discussing its meaning, its technical achievements, its emotional resonance. One comment caught her eye: “This feels like looking into a mirror of the soul. Incredible work.”
She felt a swell of pride. This was why she created. Not just for the money, but for the connection. The way her art could touch someone, make them feel something, make them think.
The royalty system made that connection sustainable. It meant she could continue creating without constantly worrying about her next meal. It meant her work could keep generating value for her, even as it circulated through the economy.
Zara remembered the conversation she’d had with her mentor Kai about this very topic. Kai had been a successful artist for over a decade, and he’d lived through the transition from traditional galleries to digital marketplaces. He’d seen the good and the bad.
“The royalty is more than just money,” Kai had said, his voice carrying the weight of experience. “It’s a statement. A statement that art has enduring value. A statement that creators deserve ongoing compensation for their work. The initial sale is just the beginning. The secondary market is where true value is realized.”
Zara hadn’t fully understood at the time. She’d been too focused on the immediate need to pay rent, to buy supplies, to survive. But now, watching her royalty payment arrive, she understood.
The 20 Credits she’d earned from this sale was more than just money. It was a small victory. A sign that the system could work. A sign that her art mattered.
She leaned back in her chair, a warm glow spreading through her chest. The future felt bright. Her career was gaining momentum. Her reputation was growing. And the royalty system was helping to make it all sustainable.
She had no idea that across the city, Marcus was fuming about that same 20 Credits. She had no idea that he was already planning to find a way around the system.
All she knew was that for now, everything was working.
For now, she was thriving.
That evening, Zara treated herself to something special. She ordered a real meal—not nutrient broth, not instant porridge, but actual food. A vegetable curry with rice, a small salad, and a sparkling citrus drink. It was a luxury she rarely allowed herself, but tonight felt like a celebration.
She ate at her workstation, watching the animated gallery of her artworks cycle across the screen. “Nebula Dreams” was still in the rotation, its cosmic swirls reminding her of the journey her art had taken. From conception to creation to sale. From 100 Credits to 200. From a single buyer to a growing audience.
The system was working. The marketplace was functioning. The royalties were being paid.
But in the back of her mind, a small voice whispered a warning. The off-platform sale she’d experienced months ago—the one where 30 Credits had vanished into thin air—that memory still lingered. Not every seller was like Marcus. Some would try to game the system. Some would find ways to avoid paying what was owed.
Zara pushed the thought aside. Tonight was for celebration. She’d worry about the system’s flaws another day.
She finished her meal, cleaned up her workspace, and prepared for her next project. The ideas were already flowing—new colors, new forms, new visions waiting to be born. She opened her sketching software and started blocking out the rough composition of her next piece.
The art never stopped calling.
And neither, it seemed, did the challenges of the Credits economy.
In his sleek home office, Marcus had finished his research. He’d spent the evening browsing collector forums, reading obscure technical documents, and messaging with other collectors who had an interest in maximizing their profits.
What he’d discovered was intriguing. There were ways to trade tokens outside the official marketplace channels. Direct wallet transfers that bypassed the royalty enforcement mechanism entirely. It wasn’t illegal—the system just wasn’t set up to prevent it. The marketplace’s rules were just rules. They weren’t laws. They weren’t encoded into the fundamental structure of the tokens themselves.
Marcus smiled. He’d found the loophole he was looking for.
His next sale wouldn’t include a royalty payment. His next profit would be larger. And if this worked, he’d do it again. And again. And again.
He closed his research notes and sat back, feeling a sense of satisfaction. He’d identified a way to optimize his investments, to maximize his returns. It wasn’t cheating. It was just… smart. Finding efficiencies. Taking advantage of opportunities that others hadn’t noticed.
The artists would still get paid on their initial sales. They’d already been compensated for their work. What happened after that was none of their business.
Marcus closed his communicator and turned off the displays. Tomorrow, he’d find a buyer. Tomorrow, he’d execute his plan.
For now, he slept the sleep of someone who had found an edge.
And the system slumbered on, unaware that one of its flaws was about to be exploited.
Table of contents:
Introduction
Chapter 1: The Digital Artist
Chapter 2: A Secondary Sale
Chapter 3: The Royalty Smart Contract <<<<<< NEXT
Chapter 4: The Fee Evasion
Chapter 5: The Marketplace Loophole
Chapter 6: The Off-Chain Sale
Chapter 7: The Registry of Creations
Chapter 8: The Transfer Tax
Chapter 9: The Creator Fund
Chapter 10: Art, Not Just Assets
