《Dream Sketcher》


 Prologue

    Him.


    Through the glass, Marco watched his newborn son, Arwyn, swaddled in wires no thicker than threads. The infant''s chest rose, as if each breath was a miracle.


    Behind him, the doctor''s voice fractured the silence. "There''s¡­ something you need to know."


    Arlene''s heart monitor beeped, steady. Marco turned slowly. The doctor stood framed in the doorway, her gaze avoiding his.


    "The hemorrhage caused irreversible damage," she said. "Her organs are failing. She has less than an hour."


    Victor, Arlene''s father, collapsed into a chair, his face crumpling. Silent tears carved paths through his stubble. Beside him, Cedric¡ªArlene''s brother¡ªstiffened. A single tear slid down his cheek, too precise, too rehearsed. Performer, Marco thought bitterly.


    Ria, Arlene''s childhood friend, choked back a sob. "There must be a mistake¡ª"


    The doctor shook her head.


    Marco didn''t move. Couldn''t. The world narrowed to Arlene''s hand, pale against the hospital sheets, and the faint smile she wore even now.


    Less than 24 hours.


    That single phrase echoed in his skull over, and over.


    "Marco¡­" She called him. He glanced back at her, and with a hopeless grin, he walked back, beside her.


    Arlene squeezed his hand weakly, pulling him back from the void of his thoughts. Her voice was barely audible, fragile as glass. "C-can you¡­ sit beside me for a while?"


    His eyes widened, not from shock, but from her smile. It was faint, almost ethereal. She didn''t care, even if the ground beneath her was crumbling.


    "Yeah¡­ I''m right beside you." He whispered back, but his voice quivered as he spoke. He turned his head back to Ria with a nod.


    Ria silently signaled Victor and Cedric out. They were all hesitant at first, but they slowly considered what Arlene wanted just for that time. So they left, along with the doctor.


    They were alone. The orange lamp flickered, and it cast her hair in gold. Her fingers brushed his cheek. "Don''t cry. Not yet."


    He swallowed. "What do you want to talk about?"


    "Everything."


    So, he asked her favorite color.


    "Brown," she whispered. "Like your eyes."


    He laughed, raw and broken. "You always lied about that."


    Her weak chuckle turned into a cough. "Maybe I just wanted you to look closer."


    When her journal slipped from his pocket, she stared at it, recognition flickering. "You found it."


    He cradled the worn leather. "You wrote¡­ you hoped I''d forgive you."


    "There''s nothing to forgive." Her grip tightened. "Just¡­ stay."


    She rolled her hazel eyes and didn''t answer, but her gaze was fixed on him, and his eyes looked at both her and their baby. The silence between them was loud, but not awkward.


    "So, you got a name?" Marco smirked, smoothly brushing the strands of her hair with his hand.


    "How about¡­ Arwyn?"


    ''Arwyn. Arwyn Delacroix. That¡­ sounds great.''


    "Yeah. Arwyn fits." His gaze flicked to Arwyn, just lying down peacefully in the incubator.


    But when her eyes blinked, almost closing, she gripped his hand with all her strength.


    "Marco¡­"


    Her grip around his arm tightened, like she did when they were last alone together.


    "I don''t¡­ I don''t want to¡­"


    "No, no no¡­ It''s okay, Arlene." He bit his lower lip, trying to hide the tears he was about to release. He forced another unsteady smile.


    Hours bled away like nothing. He let her rest, though Arwyn''s faint cries echoed from the incubator just there.


    Arlene''s voice grew thinner and thinner.


    She closed her eyes briefly, breathing shallow. When she opened them again, there was determination. She began.


    "Hey¡­ Promise me something, Marco."


    "Don''t¡­ stop drawing." Her voice was firm despite its fragility. "Draw for Arwyn¡­ Draw for us. Don''t let this¡­ Don''t let me fade¡­ Even just one minute."


    "I promise," he choked out. Another tear spilled, no matter how he tried to hold it in. "I''ll never stop."


    Arlene chuckled for one last time. "You always¡­ knew how to paint the world kinder."


    And the lamp flickered more and more.


    Beep! Beep! Beep!


    The monitor quickened, but Marco didn''t call for help. He climbed onto the bed, lying beside her, and her head nestled in his shoulder.


    The weight of her body went slack in his arms. The clock''s relentless tick, and the stars shone bright beyond the hospital window barely broke the silence.


    Meanwhile, Marco''s lips trembled into a frown. He wanted her to remember these words that he''d say.


    "I''m here," he repeated, his tears soaking into her hair. "I''m here."


    But her breath hitched. She smiled wide.


    "You always were."


    His heartbeat matched the rhythm of the monitor. Fast, then faster.


    "Arlene¡­ Don''t leave¡­" Marco''s whisper barely left his lips.


    And then¡ª


    Beeeeeeep!


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    Endless tone.


    His knees buckled. The world twisted.


    The way his eyes flicked downward, the way his shoulders sagged. The way he¡­


    It was over.


    The three of them went back inside, hearing the endless, constant tone of the monitor.


    And Marco hesitated, as if deciding who or where to look. Victor, her father, standing. Ria, her friend, pressing both hands over her mouth. Cedric, her brother, for once, too stunned to move.


    "I¨CI''m sorry."


    Silence. Crushing, suffocating silence.


    And just like that, the weight of the world crashed down.


    Ria''s choked sob echoed, sharp and fractured. Victor slumped to a chair, burying his face in his hands like he didn''t want to breathe anymore. And Cedric?


    He stood apart, and his dry eyes darted between them all. He rehearsed the grief like a poorly written script.


    Marco didn''t cry. He could still hear the endless, constant, steady beep of the monitor, as if the sound was circling around him.


    ''It should''ve been me. It should''ve been...''


    Even his thoughts were shaking.


    Without another word, Marco turned away. He didn''t look at Victor or Ria.


    He couldn''t bear their grief. His own felt so raw, so selfish.


    Ria watched him walk away. His footsteps had little to no sound. "Marco¡­"


    As he walked out of the hospital, he didn''t look back. He clutched the journal tighter than ever, he made a promise to himself.


    I won''t see her again.


    ¡ª


    Three days passed.


    A crowd of black suits and teared¨Cup faces. The sky was gray, as if mother nature knew when to rain and when to shine. The cemetery was quiet. It was just the occasional sniffle and pattering of raindrops swaying in the wind.


    Victor stood by her grave, and his shoulders were hunched like it was carrying the weight of the world.


    Ria clung beside him. She held a bouquet of the same flowers Marco had once bought for Arlene, from the same bouquet shop, but it never felt as vibrant as before. She glanced around the crowd, her eyes searching for someone who wasn''t there. Because something was off.


    Meanwhile, Cedric leaned against a tree. His expression was unreadable, like always. His polished shoes still gleamed despite the seemingly undying rain.


    He watched the proceedings with detached interest, as if he were looking at a scene from a play he''d written himself.


    "Where is he?" Ria muttered under her breath. Her voice was barely audible over the pleasant yet irritating patter of raindrops.


    She hadn''t seen Marco since that night at the hospital.


    No calls, no messages, no contact. Just pure emptiness where he used to be, where he started.


    "He''s not coming," Cedric interjected, his tone casual yet it was enough to cut through the silence. "Figures, don''t it? Always running away when things get hard."


    Ria shot him a glare, but deep down, she wondered if he was right.


    Why hadn''t Marco come? Didn''t he care? Or was it something else, entirely?


    He stayed in his apartment, staring at the journal in his hands. Its pages were so worn from countless flipping. Night and day.


    Every entry she wrote, he read.


    But he''d gaze at the last line she wrote in her journal.


    I just hope he can forgive me.


    "She forgave me," he thought bitterly. "But I can''t forgive myself."


    Attending her funeral felt so wrong, like intruding on something forbidden.


    How could he face her family, knowing he''d failed her? Knowing he hadn''t been there when she needed him most? Knowing that he''d been such a failure, a burden to all of them?


    As the first shovel of dirt covered a part of Arlene''s casket, Ria closed her eyes and whispered.


    "I hope you''re happy now, wherever you are."


    Miles away, Marco dropped his pencil. His sketchbook lay open, the portrait of Arlene staring back at him.


    For the first time in almost forever, tears streamed down his face.


    Outside, the rain stopped. A single ray of sunlight broke through the clouds, illuminating the city skyline. But Marco didn''t notice. All he saw was her smile.


    One last reminder of the girl who had taught him how to live.


    And so, the days that followed were a blur.


    Marco moved through the days like a ghost. He spent hours in the NICU, watching Arwyn sleep. His tiny fingers curled and uncurled like he was searching for something, or someone to hold onto.


    At night, he sat in the dim light of his apartment, her last words reverberated back at him, accusing and comforting.


    "Don''t¡­ stop drawing. Draw for Arwyn¡­ Draw for us."


    He picked up his sketchbook for the first time in weeks, though his pencil trembled as it flew over the blank page.


    But the lines wouldn''t come. Every stroke felt hollow, every shape lifeless. His passion was¡­ shrinking as the days went on.


    He slammed the sketchbook shut, his chest heaving.


    One night, as Marco visited the hospital, Arwyn slept inside his glass cradle. Marco pressed a palm to the warm surface, tracing the shadow of his son''s face.


    Coincidentally, Victor would come as well, visiting Arwyn as often as Marco did.


    But Cedric never came with Victor. Not even once.


    Victor stumbled upon Marco, who sat beside Arwyn''s small bed. He walked closer, to the point where Marco would notice.


    So, Marco expected Victor''s anger, his breath heaving when he saw him.


    "He has your eyes."


    Victor murmured behind him. The old man''s voice was softer now, frayed at the edges. He didn''t express anything like it, but he showed something else, the opposite.


    Acceptance.


    Marco didn''t turn. "Hazel. Like hers."


    Victor''s hand hovered, then settled on Marco''s shoulder. A truce, unspoken.


    ---


    It''d been two months after her passing. Victor''s truce led him to have contact with Ria. His drawings finally recovered, though his passion wasn''t as big as it was before.


    The hospital bills arrived in white envelopes. Marco paid them without hesitation.


    His signature slashed across all the checks funded by gallery sales of his portraits.


    Crimson in Morning Light, Hazel at Dusk.


    Collectors called them "raw," "haunting." But they didn''t know the woman in the frames laughed at such bad puns and hated raisins.


    At the day when Arwyn was finally getting discharged, the hospital slept. Marco sketched just beside Arwyn''s incubator. Charcoal smudged the pages.


    Arwyn''s tiny little hand, the curve of his squishable cheek, and the way his brow furrowed in sleep, so much like Arlene''s.


    "See?" Marco whispered, pressing the sketch to the glass. "I''m still drawing."


    The doctors soon went inside and unhooked Arwyn''s wires and tubes and swaddled him in a soft, white blanket. Marco cradled him, and Arwyn''s weight was extremely light, but impossibly precious.


    Ria stood outside the room, wearing a casual t-shirt and unusually large pants. Her smile was soft, shining as Marco walked outside the room. It was him. Arwyn.


    They strolled down the hospital in the middle of the night. Ria parked her car right in front of the entrance door. It was particularly a new car she bought. It was a result of her share of Marco''s income.


    "Ready?" Ria then asked as she held the car door open.


    Marco glanced back at the hospital, its windows glowing like distant stars. "No," he said. "But let''s go."


    The drive was quieter than he thought. He''d expected Arwyn''s cries, but Arwyn was fast asleep, partly because of the nice air-conditioning of her car. But he never minded.


    The city was always the same. Neon lights, skyscrapers, night markets, Ria took the long way to Marco''s apartment. They arrived, and Marco got out of her car.


    "Wait!"


    He glanced back at Ria, confused yet his face was too tired to express it. "What?"


    She chuckled, still unsure if Marco could take care of Arwyn. But, she had faith. "You''ll do great."


    Marco looked down. He was smiling. Arwyn''s smile made him smile, even if it wasn''t that deep. "I don''t know."


    "You will. Trust me."


    And after that, she closed down the car window and revved up her car, speeding through the street like a highway. The engine of her car slowly faded away, but it still echoed.


    And so, he opened his apartment once again, with a new housemate by his arms.


    The apartment was too quiet. Marco placed Arwyn in a bassinet he bought in advance, back when Marco and Arlene planned for the future one day. Arwyn slept there peacefully, just beside Marco''s bed. His breaths were soft like the occasional gust of wind you''d get on a sunny day.


    Marco stared at the ceiling, and Arlene''s journal was open on his chest. He flipped her journal to the last of her pages. She left a small, final note.


    Final Entry: Name him Arwyn. After the stars we used to watch. I love you, Marco Delacroix.


    Outside, the oak tree rustled. Somewhere, a star flickered.


    Marco closed his eyes.


    Hope. Revelation.

 Chapter 1: 18 Years Later

    The light outside cast rays around the middle of his room. A new, sunny day.


    "I did it." Arwyn let go of his pencil. A smirk tugged at his face as he stared at his drawing. A sword, with a light aura that surrounded it.


    Arwyn slumped n his chair, twirling a pencil between his fingers. The Zenith, his latest "masterpiece," glared up at him from the desk.


    Its hilt crooked and the aura spoke more of "flickering candle" than "divine light."


    "Eh. Good enough for today.¡±


    His room was full of posters¨Chis posters. Swords, guns, weapons, he loved it. Along with that were small figures of gun models that rested on his shelf.


    His brown hair was so ruffled. The first thing he did when he woke up was to draw a model of a sword that just popped up in his mind. Same as his hair, his room was extremely cluttered. Pencils on the floor, some broken. His bed was unmade, and his table was filled with crumpled paper.


    As he closed his sketchbook, someone knocked on his door.


    Arwyn stood and called, not even getting close. "Dad?"


    "The new housekeeper''s here. Do me a favor and get out of there," the voice was mature, around mid-thirties. Before he lost his patience, Arwyn opened the door, expressionless.


    He scratched his head, making his hair even more scrambled. "Since when did we need a housekeeper?"


    "Auction''s in a week. I''m behind." Marco didn''t look back. His voice carried that familiar edge. Half patience, half exhaustion. "Nathaniel. Don''t¡­ just don''t burn the place down."


    Before Arwyn could even protest, the door slammed shut.


    Arwyn could barely hear the engine of his car as he revved it up.


    He had no choice anyway. He grabbed a box of cereal from the cabinet and some milk. Arwyn didn''t bother putting the cereal into a bowl. Rather, he held on to the cereal box and the carton of milk as he walked to the living area.


    In the living area was the housekeeper. He moved like a ghost. Quiet, methodical, and his blue hair tied back in a messy bun.


    He knelt by the bookshelf, dusting titles Arwyn hadn''t touched since middle school, a part of his chore.


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    The Tale of the Succubus, Advanced Calculus (unopened), and a suspiciously sticky jar labeled Emergency Ramen Fund.


    "Hey," Arwyn said around a mouthful of cereal. "You''re blocking the TV."


    Nathaniel glanced up, green eyes sharp behind glasses. "Apologies." He shifted slightly, still scrubbing a stain that had probably been there since the Cold War.


    "So. Nathaniel, huh?" Arwyn flopped onto the couch. "Is the whole ''clean freak'' thing just a vibe?"


    "Your father said you''re an artist." Nathaniel didn''t look up.


    "Uh-huh. What''s your deal?"


    "I tidy messes."


    "Wow. Fascinating." Arwyn cranked the TV volume. Titanic blared. Rose sobbed over Jack''s icy corpse. "Ah. A classic."


    A pendant dangled around his neck. Emerald eyes, and a golden paintbrush symbol that wrapped around it. It looked familiar to Arwyn, even if he''d never seen anything like it before.


    "Hm." Nathaniel plucked a crumpled page from the floor near the bin. It was probably a missed throw.


    It was the Zenith, mid-motion. Nathaniel nodded approvingly. "Interesting style. Chaotic."


    "It''s called modern art."


    He crumpled it back and threw it back in the bin, ringless, then continued cleaning the shelves. Full of dust, it was obvious that no one really read these books.


    Until he saw the Delacroix Diary.


    Nathaniel''s fingers lingered on the spine of the Delacroix Diary, and its leather was cracked and brittle. Arwyn slouched against the doorframe, crunching another pour of cereal.


    "Seriously, it''s just Dad''s conspiracy blog in book form," Arwyn said. "Chapter 4''s a real page-turner. How to Summon a Demon with Finger Paint. Riveting stuff."


    Nathaniel didn''t smile. He opened the diary to a page titled:


    Generation 1: Shinichi Delacroix.


    A sketch of a man stared back. Sharp jawline, blue hair tied in a warrior''s knot, a serpent coiled around his wrist.


    "Your ancestor," Nathaniel said, tracing the serpent. "First Dream Sketcher. He drew storms that sank fleets, beasts that devoured armies."


    "Cool. Bet his therapist was rich." Arwyn rolled his eyes. He walked closer and took a look at the diary. "Look, unless there''s a coupon for free Wi-Fi in there¡ª"


    Nathaniel flipped to another page.


    Generation 4: Nathaniel.


    The sketch was identical. Same blue hair, same piercing green eyes, and the same serpent pendant.


    "¡­Huh." Arwyn leaned closer. "You do cosplay?"


    "I am Nathaniel."


    "Right. And I''m the Pope." Arwyn could never get tired of being sarcastic.


    Nathaniel unbuttoned his sleeve, rolling it up to reveal a tattoo¡ªthe serpent, its scales shimmering like liquid ink.


    "Shinichi drew this on me in 509 BC. Said it''d keep me humble."


    Arwyn''s demeanor turned serious. "Okay man, either you''re a vampire, or Dad spiked my cereal."


    "Sketches like me age a long time," Nathaniel said, flipping to the diary''s final page.


    Generation 120: Arwyn Delacroix. The rest was blank.


    "Your parents skipped their turn. Now it''s yours."


    "My turn?"


    "To learn. To create. To survive." Nathaniel tapped the empty page every time he repeated. "Every sketch you make feeds it. Every lie you tell strengthens it."


    "You''re insane." Arwyn backed toward the door. "This is some Netflix show bullshit¡ª"


    Nathaniel traced a single symbol in the air. A serpent devouring its tail. The pendant around his neck glowed, and the diary shuddered. His trace glittered.


    Arwyn''s breath hitched. The cereal in his stomach churned. "¡­What are you?"


    "Your tutor." Nathaniel closed the diary, dust swirling in the sunlight. "You''re a Dream Sketcher after all."

 Chapter 2: The System

    Arwyn froze for a moment, processing the information that Nathaniel gave to him.


    And after, he chuckled.


    ¡°The hell is a Dream Sketcher?¡±


    Nathaniel pointed to Arwyn¡¯s hand with a smirk.


    ¡°Draw almost anything, then after you finish your drawing, you slam it with your same hand.¡± He put his hands back in the pockets of his pants. ¡°Imagine transferring your energy to your same hand as you slam it, and it¡¯ll come to reality.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, slamming after drawing and then¨C¡± He realized, just a second after the words came in his mind.


    ¡°You can draw almost everthing?!¡±


    He quickly rushed back to is room and grabbed his sketchbook, filled with drawings of models of his made-up swords and guns.


    Arwyn ran back to the living area, pencil in hand. He dropped his sketchbook and put on an arrogant smile, glancing at Nathaniel for the last time. ¡°Alright then. Let¡¯s put that to the test, shall we?"


    Arwyn¡¯s pencil flew across the page. His lines were sharp as he sketched. Spiky hair, the cocky grin, the infamous gi he¡¯d seen a thousand times in manga panels.


    Nathaniel leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, one eyebrow creeping upward.


    ¡°Kid, what¡¯re you¡ª?¡±


    ¡°Shut up, I¡¯m cooking,¡± Arwyn snapped, shading the Kamehameha wave blazing in Goku¡¯s palms. ¡°You said anything, right? Watch this.¡±


    He slammed his hand on the sketch, Passion Energy surging through his fingertips. The paper glowed¨C


    ¡ªand the drawing twitched.


    For half a second, Goku¡¯s eyes flickered to life, ink bleeding into color.


    ¡°What the¨C! It¡¯s moving! It¡¯s moving! Oh my goodness! It¡¯s moving¨C¡±


    Then the edges curled, and the figure collapsed into ash and static.


    Silence.


    ¡°Wh¨C huh?¡±


    Nathaniel burst out laughing.


    ¡°The hell?!¡± Arwyn kicked the sketchbook. ¡°You said anything!¡±


    ¡°I said ALMOST anything,¡± Nathaniel wheezed, wiping tears from his eyes.


    ¡°You really thought you¡¯d just¡­ manifest a copyrighted anime character? That¡¯s your big play?¡±


    Arwyn flushed. ¡°You didn¡¯t say there were rules!¡±


    ¡°Rule one: Draw only from your type of sketching.¡± Nathaniel flicked the ashes of Goku¡¯s remains off the table. ¡°You¡¯re a Manifestor Sketcher. You draw objects, not people. Dream Sketching¡¯s about your imagination, not Akira Toriyama¡¯s. Try again, genius.¡±


    Arwyn glared at the smudged page. ¡°So¡­ what, I gotta make my own overpowered thing as a¡­ ¡®Manifestor whatever¡¯?¡±


    Nathaniel smirked. ¡°Bingo. Objects only. Unless you wanna get sued by a dead guy¡¯s lawyer.¡±


    He groaned, scribbling out Goku¡¯s smoldering corpse. ¡°This power¡¯s trash.¡±


    ¡°Nah, you¡¯re just basic. You don¡¯t know how to use it.¡± Nathaniel tossed him a fresh pencil. ¡°Now draw something that¡¯s yours. And PLEASE. For the love of God, don¡¯t make it a sword. Everyone starts with swords.¡±


    Arwyn hesitated, then grinned. ¡°Fine. If this doesn¡¯t work, you¡¯re buying me ramen.¡±


    Nathaniel snorted. ¡°Deal. But I pick the toppings.¡±


    So, he scribbled once again. He didn¡¯t draw a sword, but rather he drew a gun. A Glock to be exact.


    ¡°You¡¯re drawing¡­ a gun now?¡±


    Arwyn smirked, not sparing him a glance. ¡°You got a problem?¡±


    Nathaniel shook his head. ¡°If your dad sees you holding a gun, don¡¯t blame me for that.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, whatever.¡± He continued scribbling, almost done.


    He didn¡¯t miss out on anything. He knew how the gun worked, nailing every piece the gun needed.


    As he finished the drawing, he sighed.


    Nathaniel leaned more against the wall. ¡°...Okay, so first you try to commit copyright infringement, and now you¡¯re making a¡­ Glock? I swear...¡±


    Arwyn ignored him. He was too focused on the bet. "Here goes.¡± Arwyn slammed the table, pushing his energy to his fist.


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    The page glowed once more in a yellow light. Arwyn stood up and backed up. He wanted to witness this supernatural beauty.


    ¡°Oh my god, it¡¯s¡­ It¡¯s working.¡±


    Nathaniel chuckled in silence, watching the process like he¡¯d seen it for the millionth time.


    The tip of the gun rose, and so did the trigger, then the handle. Everything was coming out of the book, just like how Arwyn imagined and drew it to be.


    And as his eyes widened, the sketchbook glowed brighter and brighter.


    ¡°I can see it! I can see it!¡± Arwyn¡¯s voice was in amazement, his shaking hands pointing to the glow like a little toddler that saw neon lights for the first time.


    And¨C


    The glow faded gently. The room still was exactly the same as before.


    ¡°What happened?¡± Arwyn¡¯s smile turned to a slight frown as he looked at Nathaniel with disappointment.


    But Nathaniel didn¡¯t look back. He pointed at the table, gripping the diary tightly with an approving smile. ¡°Can¡¯t you look?¡±


    ¡°Huh¨C¡±


    There it was. The exact same pistol he drew. His jaw dropped.


    ¡°Is that¡­ Is that a Glock?!¡±


    He rushed over to the table, inspecting it from every angle before concluding. ¡°Holy shit, man. What the hell.¡±


    Arwyn slowly reached out his hand. He tapped it at first to confirm if it was actually rock solid.


    Tack! Tack!


    It was. Pure solid, pure material, pure matter.


    So he grabbed the gun with a gentle motion. It was heavier than he expected, and the handle felt harder, but Arwyn didn¡¯t give in to the weight. Since he was an avid fan of gun weapons, before even wielding an actual gun, he understood the ways on how to aim and how to handle these types of weapons. He wasn''t exactly perfect, arms not properly positioned, slouch posture, but he knew the idea of it.


    And the first thing he did...


    ¡°Put your hands up!¡± Arwyn playfully said, aiming the gun at the cleanest wall of the living area. ¡°I just¨CI just manifested a literal Glock. I can do whatever the hell I want. Anything I wa¨C¡±


    Pak!


    Nathaniel spanked the confidence out of him.


    ¡°Ouch! The hell did you do that for?¡±


    "Not bad for your first try," Nathaniel said, nodding at the gun. "But that little party trick cost you, kid. Feel that headache yet? The¡­ hollowness behind your eyes?"


    Arwyn frowned, rubbing his temple. Now that he mentioned it, his skull did ache faintly, like he¡¯d pulled an all-nighter just binge-drawing.


    "That¡¯s your Passion Energy tank hitting E," Nathaniel continued, tapping Arwyn¡¯s sketchbook. "Every sketch drains you. Bigger the creation, the bigger the drain. That Glock? Psh, basic. Try sketching a tank right now, and you¡¯ll pass out before the treads form. Damn, maybe even die trying."


    Arwyn squinted, blinking to at least ease some of the ache. "So¡­ it¡¯s like¡­ a mana bar?"


    "Yeah, sure, if your mana bar¡¯s fueled by caffeine and existential crises." Nathaniel snatched the Glock, dissolving it into ink with a flick of his wrist.


    "You wanna make more than pop guns? Train your focus. Channel your passion¡ªnot just your panic."


    Arwyn bristled. "I wasn¡¯t panicking¡ª"


    "Kid, you were sweating like a sinner in church." Nathaniel tossed him a chocolate bar from his pocket. "Eat. Sugar helps. And next time? Start smaller. Sketch a bullet before you try the whole damn gun. You forgot to make some ammo."


    Arwyn unwrapped the chocolate, grudgingly impressed. "How do I get more¡­ energy?"


    "Practice. Sleep. Don¡¯t be an idiot." Nathaniel paused, his tone softening. "And care about what you draw. This isn¡¯t a photocopier. It¡¯s your soul on paper. The more you pour into it, the more it¡¯ll take¡­ and the more it¡¯ll give back."


    Nathaniel finally pushed himself off the wall, walking out the door like nothing just happened. But before he did, he froze, mid-step. He gave Arwyn the diary.


    ¡°Oh yeah, Arwyn. You owe some ramen later.¡±


    As Arwyn got the diary, he cleaned up the mess, as if the two of them swapped roles in the household. ¡°Yeah whatever.¡±


    As he brought his cereal bowl to the kitchen, he asked. ¡°By the way, what¡¯s that about when you asked me about a serpentine ring or something?¡±


    He should¡¯ve gone over to the next room to mop, but his question made him turn his shoe. ¡°Those are the Dreamer Rings. I need four of them. I already got three.¡±


    ¡°For what though?¡±


    Nathaniel sighed. ¡°I need to go back home.¡±


    Arwyn stopped. He turned his head. ¡°Home? Where?¡±


    ¡°Terra Incognita.¡±


    Arwyn¡¯s eyes narrowed, his grip tightening on the diary. ¡°What¡¯s Terra Incognita?¡±


    Nathaniel froze mid-step, his back still turned. The pendant around his neck pulsed faintly, its emerald eyes glowing like a warning. ¡°You¡¯re not ready for that yet, kid.¡±


    ¡°Bullshit. You¡¯re in my house, talking about my family¡¯s diary, and I¡¯m supposed to just¡­ trust you?¡± Arwyn snapped, flipping through the journal¡¯s brittle pages. ¡°There¡¯s more here, isn¡¯t there?¡±


    Nathaniel sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. ¡°Fine. But don¡¯t say I didn¡¯t warn you.¡± He gestured to the diary. ¡°Read the entry under Generation 4: Fauna Delacroix. Go on.¡±


    Arwyn¡¯s fingers trembled as he found the page. The ink shifted slightly under his touch, swirling into a new passage:


    Delacroix Diary ¨C Generation 4: Fauna


    Terra Incognita isn¡¯t a place. It¡¯s a bridge.


    Where dreams and reality collide, where every sketch ever abandoned or erased lingers. We call them Erasures. Twisted, half-alive creations that hunger for what they were denied. They¡¯re why we need the Dreamer Rings.


    Four rings, forged from the first Dream Sketcher¡¯s tears. Each holds a fragment of Terra Incognita¡¯s laws:


    The Ring of Chronos : Binds time. Without it, Erasures bleed into the past.


    The Ring of Gaia : Anchors space. Without it, cities crumble into sketchbook pages.


    The Ring of Eos : Guards life. Without it¡­ well, you¡¯ve seen what happens to those who cross the Satsumas.


    The Ring of Nyx : Commands death. Without it, the dead don¡¯t stay buried.


    We lost them centuries ago. Now the Erasures are spilling into your world. For what, I don¡¯t know. The four of those rings unlock the pathway between Earth and Terra Incognita. Without this, the barrier will¨C


    The entry cut off abruptly, the rest of the page blackened by ash.


    ¡°Satsumas..? My mother¡¯s family?¡± His lips trembled a bit, scared as if the walls were closing in on him. His hands were sweating, shaking as he held the big diary.


    Nathaniel¡¯s head turned rapidly. ¡°Your mother¡¯s family are the Satsumas?!¡±


    ¡°Yeah? What¡¯s wrong?¡±


    With a chuckle, Nathaniel smirked mischievously. ¡°Could your uncle possibly be a man named¡­ Cedric Satsuma?¡±


    Arwyn¡¯s breath hitched. ¡°Cedric? My uncle? What does he have to do with this?¡±


    Nathaniel turned, his expression grim. ¡°He¡¯s not your uncle. He¡¯s an Erasurer. Someone who destroys sketches to steal their power. Does your uncle wear a ring?¡±


    Now that Arwyn thought of it, Cedric did wear a ring.


    Emerald eyes, serpentine.


    ¡°He¡­ did.¡±


    Nathaniel nodded, his smile widening. ¡°That¡¯s¡­ That¡¯s it. The Ring of Nyx.¡±


    Arwyn¡¯s mind raced. Cedric¡¯s smirk, the way he¡¯d lingered outside Arlene¡¯s room¡­ That¡¯s why.


    Nathaniel pulled a small velvet box from his pocket, revealing three rings: one shimmering with gold (Chronos), another with vines coiled around it (Gaia), and a third glowing faintly blue (Eos). ¡°He¡¯s been manipulating generations of Delacroixs. Your mother¡¯s death? That wasn¡¯t an accident. It was on purpose.¡±


    Arwyn¡¯s blood ran cold. ¡°You know what, let¡¯s just talk about this at a more appropriate time. Maybe when we eat some ramen?¡±


    Nathaniel¡¯s posture softened. With a wave and a laugh, he nodded. ¡°Sounds good.¡±


    But at that moment, Arwyn questioned everything.

 Chapter 3: Ink and Instinct

    Later that night, they went out to eat some ramen at a nearby Japanese restaurant. Arwyn brought the diary along, as well as his sketchbook. There weren¡¯t many people around there, but the neon lights illuminated the area with distinct colors.


    They both sat outside, with their ramen just steaming in front. Nathaniel just dug straight to it, as if he never ate for days.


    Arwyn began, waiting for the ramen to get warm. ¡°So, as a Dream Sketcher, I can only draw objects. Just that.¡±


    He slurped the noodles loudly as if he didn¡¯t care if the people around them were watching. ¡°Objects kid. Only objects.¡±


    ¡°Yeah¡­ So how¡¯d you get created then? You¡¯re not an object.¡±


    Nathaniel laughed, not looking at him. ¡°You¡¯re a Manifestor. I was created by an Animist Sketcher.¡±


    Arwyn closed his eyes for a moment.


    Motherfucker. There¡¯s more to this shitty system than I¡¯d expected.


    He opened his eyes, and with a smile that covered the irritation in his mind, he talked back. ¡°Now what¡­ is an Animist Sketcher?¡±


    Nathaniel pointed to himself. ¡°What do you think? I''m a sketch, right?¡±


    Arwyn slurped his noodles, his mind racing. ¡°So¡­ I''m guessing... Animist Sketchers can draw people..?¡±


    Nathaniel nodded, wiping the broth from his lips. ¡°Yeah. But they¡¯re reckless. Their creations can go rogue if they¡¯re not 100% focused. That¡¯s how Erasures get born. Abandoned sketches that turn into monsters.¡±


    ¡°Monsters¡­ like you?¡± Arwyn smirked, tapping the diary.


    Nathaniel¡¯s eyes darkened. ¡°I¡¯m a success, kid. Most Animist Sketches end up in Terra Incognita, half-alive and just hungry. That¡¯s why I need the rings, to get home before I unravel.¡±


    ¡°How¡¯d you get here anyway? Like on Earth?¡±


    Nathaniel chuckled quietly. ¡°Got tossed through the barrier. Bastards hit hard.¡±


    Arwyn¡¯s grin only lingered. He looked down at his sketchbook, brushing the dust off. A bit of a shudder came to him as he thought about it.


    ¡°So¡­ My uncle has the fourth ring.¡±


    ¡°Bingo.¡± Nathaniel tossed his chopsticks onto the empty bowl. ¡°But let¡¯s worry about that later. Finish your ramen.¡±


    ¡°What the¨C How did you¨C¡±


    Just seconds earlier, Nathaniel¡¯s bowl was full of broth, smoking hot. He didn¡¯t even see him sip a single spoonful of it, but his bowl was empty anyway.


    ¡°Nevermind.¡± Arwyn¡¯s bowl was halfway done, but he drank it all in a matter of seconds before standing up.


    And so, they left the restaurant. The city shone bright. Unlike before, the roads were now filled with traffic. Arwyn¡¯s sketchbook bulged in his pocket, still buzzing with energy from the Glock he made earlier.


    ¡°Hey, faggots!¡± A voice slurred in front of them. Three figures stumbled out, grinning like stray hyenas. One brandished a knife. ¡°Nice book! hand it over, pretty boy.¡±


    Arwyn rolled his eyes. ¡°Seriously? Drunk assholes?¡±


    Nathaniel stepped back, arms crossed. ¡°Your move, kid. But remember¡ªno people. Just objects.¡±


    Arwyn''s pulse rose suddenly. His fingers twitched over his sketchbook, grip tightening.


    This wasn¡¯t a test. This wasn¡¯t Nathaniel roasting him over a failed drawing. This was real.


    Arwyn glanced back at Nathaniel. ¡°Wh¨C But why¨C¡±


    ¡°Pay attention dumbass! He¡¯s running at you!¡± Nathaniel pointed back.


    The thug was rushing at him. ¡°You¡¯re dead!¡±


    ''SHIT.''


    Arwyn¡¯s pencil flew, hands trembling as he panicked. He sketched a badly drawn net.


    And then, he slammed his sweaty palm onto the page.


    Whoosh!


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    The net erupted from the sketchbook, tangling the two attackers in carbon-fiber strands. They crashed into a dumpster, cursing.


    The third thug lunged at Arwyn, knife glinting.


    ¡°Fuck, I need something bigger,¡± Arwyn hissed, flipping another page of his sketchbook so shakily the pages were crumpling as he harshly grabbed it.


    ''Draw, draw, DRAW!''


    ¡­


    ¡­


    ''I CAN¡¯T THINK OF ANYTHING!''


    But right as the thug were inches close to Arwyn, he quickly thought of something.


    A shield. That¡¯s it.


    He drew quickly. It wasn¡¯t that good. But¨C


    CLANG!


    It materialized just in time to block the blade.


    Nathaniel flipped through the diary, reading aloud.


    ¡°Manifestors excel at terrain control. Think traps, barriers, weapons. But don¡¯t overdo it. Your energy¡¯s a finite resource.¡±


    Arwyn ignored him, adrenaline pumping. He sketched a flamethrower nozzle onto the shield.


    Boom!


    Fire roared.


    ¡°Arwyn! ¡± Nathaniel snapped. ¡°You¡¯re eating your Passion Energy like it¡¯s fucking unlimited rice!¡±


    As soon as Nathaniel reminded him, his knees buckled. He felt like he pulled out 5 days of drawing without any sleep all at once.


    Arwyn¡¯s hands trembled. The shield dissolved into ash as his vision blurred. ¡°Shit¡­ headache.¡±


    Nathaniel caught him before he stumbled. ¡°Told you. Now focus. Smaller. Use the environment.¡±


    The third thug staggered back from the sudden flames. Arwyn¡¯s shield dissolved, but the man¡¯s drunken rage burned much hotter. He lunged again, knife slashing.


    "Think smaller, kid!" Nathaniel barked, leaning against a graffiti-stained wall like this was a street performance.


    "Use the garbage!"


    Arwyn¡¯s vision swam like a fish, and his sketchbook almost slipped in his sweaty grip.


    Smaller. Environment.


    The words rattled in his throbbing skull. His pencil flew around the blank page.


    ''What¡¯s fast? What¡¯s simple?''


    The thug¡¯s knife gleamed under a flickering streetlight.


    Idea.


    Arwyn scribbled three jagged lines. A makeshift spring.


    Once again, he slammed his palm onto the page.


    CLICK.


    The dumpster lid beside the thug burst open. A coiled mattress spring shot out. It hooked the man¡¯s ankle, yanking him off-balance.


    He face-planted into a puddle of sludge, the knife skittering into the gutter.


    Bang!


    "Gross," Arwyn muttered, swaying as his knees threatened to buckle. The spring dissolved into ink, its energy spent.


    But behind him.


    The two tangled thugs ripped through the net.


    "You¡¯re dead, you little¡ª"


    Think. Faster.


    Arwyn¡¯s pencil. This time, a wobbly slope beneath the dumpster¡¯s wheels.


    He slapped the page.


    CREAK.


    The dumpster tipped, spewing rotten trash onto the freed thugs. They vanished under a tidal wave of banana peels and moldy cardboard. Gosh, even a pit of feces.


    "Eat shit," Arwyn spat, though his victory expression faded as his vision darkened at the edges.


    My goodness, I¡¯m killing them.


    He gripped a lamppost to stay upright, his sketchbook dangling from his limp hand. He¡¯s seeing two things at once.


    Nathaniel pushed off the wall, plucking the sketchbook from Arwyn¡¯s grasp. "Cute. But you burned through a month¡¯s worth of energy on a Tuesday night." He flicked a chocolate bar at Arwyn¡¯s chest. "Eat. Before you pass out, I¡¯m gonna have to drag your dumbass home."


    Arwyn tore into the chocolate, the sugar a lifeline. "They¡­ they were just drunks. Why¡¯d they want the diary?"


    Nathaniel¡¯s fingers tightened around the diary. The usual smirk? Poof! For the first time, he actually looked¡­ concerned.


    ¡°What¡¯d you just say?¡±


    "The guy said, ¡®Hand over the book.¡¯" Arwyn nodded at the diary in Nathaniel¡¯s hand. "Not my sketchbook. That book."


    Nathaniel looked down at the diary. ¡°Cedric¡¯s probably after us if that¡¯s the case.¡±


    ¡°Huh. That¡¯s it? Psh¨C¡±


    Pain. His body felt numb. Arwyn collapsed against a wall, clutching his sketchbook and clenching his teeth. ¡°Why¡­ does it hurt so much?¡±


    ¡°Because you¡¯re sloppy,¡± Nathaniel said, pressing the diary into Arwyn¡¯s hands. ¡°Read this entry.¡±


    Arwyn squinted at the blurred text.


    Generation 34: The Resurrection Artifact


    The Phoenix Quill. Forged from an Animist¡¯s tears. Can resurrect one soul. Once.


    As of today¡¯s results: No one has taken it yet.


    His heart raced. A quill, capable of ressurecting one''s life.


    ¡°Could¡­ Could it really bring her back?¡± Arwyn¡¯s voice cracked. ¡°Or is this just another fairy tale?¡±


    Nathaniel¡¯s expression softened. ¡°If we get the fourth ring. Cedric¡¯s hoarding it for power. But if you help me reclaim it¨C¡±


    ¡°¨CI get the Quill.¡± Arwyn finished, his voice steady despite the exhaustion.


    And somehow, there was a flicker.


    A flicker of hope.

 Chapter 4: The Quills Covenant

    The Phoenix Quill.


    Arwyn couldn¡¯t stop thinking about it for the rest of the day. Ever since, he couldn¡¯t let go of the diary.


    He read a short passage, from a blurred out page of the first generation.


    The objects you make consume your Passion Energy. How much it consumes depends on three things. Size, Strength, and Value.


    The next day, Arwyn tried to draw something, while Nathaniel had done chores on the whole house in the middle of the night.


    Including sweeping, mopping, washing, wiping, everything you would expect from a housekeeper. But, he let out a god-awful sigh when he saw Arwyn¡¯s progress.


    ''¡°You drew¡­ a stick.¡±


    A stick. A small stick on the table. That was all Arwyn could create from the amount of energy he had that day.


    Arwyn kept up with deep breaths. ¡°I can¡¯t man¡­ Damn Passion Energy¡­¡±


    He gritted his teeth, staring at that¡­ pathetic little twig on the table. His fingers felt pain from gripping the pencil too hard, but no matter how much he tried, nothing else would come.


    Nothing stronger. Nothing better. Weak.


    ¡°This is bullshit,¡± he muttered.


    But Nathaniel laughed. ¡°A stick¡¯s¡­ good enough. I¡¯ve seen worse.¡± He snatched the diary out of his hands, flipping the book to a specific page. It was practically a grimoire. ¡°Here. I¡¯ll recite this one for you.¡±


    ¡°When the First Sketcher¡¯s hands grew heavy with despair,


    their creations dulled to ash, their passion choked by airless nights,


    they carved a quill from the heartwood of an oak that witnessed stars.


    But it was not the wood that gave it power. It was the fire.


    They held it to the pyre of their greatest failure,


    watched the flames lick its feathers to cinders,


    and from the smoke rose a truth:


    ¡®To create anew, you must first let the old burn.¡¯


    The quill, reborn in embers, scorched their palm as they sketched.


    Its ink was not ink, it was light. Its lines not lines, they were veins.


    And so the Phoenix Quill was born:


    not a tool, but a covenant.


    It does not grant strength.


    It demands you earn your rebirth.¡±


    Nathaniel snapped the diary shut. The echo of his voice and the passage spread like smoke. ¡°Your stick?¡± He nodded at Arwyn¡¯s crude sketch. ¡°That¡¯s your pyre. Burn it.¡±


    Arwyn frowned. ¡°It¡¯s¡­ a stick.¡±


    ¡°And a phoenix is just a bird,¡± Nathaniel said, tossing him a match. ¡°Till it¡¯s not.¡±


    He gazed at the match.


    Fire.


    Something about it made his chest tighten.


    Burn it.


    Was he even ready for that?


    With a deep sigh, of either fear or acceptance, he lit it up with the matchbox. The fire let out a path of smoke that flew upwards. He picked up the stick, and without another word¨C


    ¨CIt burned. Slowly, steadily.


    Seconds of burning, like it intentionally wanted suspense. Arwyn stared at the remains or ash.


    And he waited, for revelation, for a spark. For anything.


    ¡­


    ¡­


    "Well?" Nathaniel leaned against the table, arms crossed. "Feel enlightened yet?"


    "No," Arwyn muttered. "Just¡­ tired."


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    But as the last ember disappeared, a searing heat flared in his palm, sizzling like something¡¯s cooking on it. He hissed, jerking back.


    And there, now embedded, etched into his skin, glowed a single feather-shaped mark. It pulsed like a heartbeat, matching his own. A golden light threaded his veins.


    "What the hell¡ª?!"


    Nathaniel¡¯s smirk faded. "Huh. Didn¡¯t think you¡¯d actually ignite it."


    He grabbed Arwyn¡¯s wrist, studying the mark. "First Sketchers branded their apprentices like cattle. Consider it a¡­ hm¡­ a receipt. Proof you¡¯re willing to burn."


    "You didn¡¯t mention branding!" Arwyn exclaimed.


    "Would you have done it if I had?"


    The mark throbbed. The heat sank deeper, pulling, like a steel hook lodged in his ribs. He doubled over, gasping in genuine pain.


    ¡°AHHH!! IT FUCKING BURNS!¡±


    "Breathe, kid," Nathaniel said, no longer joking. "The Quill¡¯s covenant isn¡¯t free. It takes before it gives."


    And visions flickered¡­ It flickered behind Arwyn¡¯s eyes.


    A towering oak, its branches reaching at a starless, black sky. It was Marco and Arlene¡¯s tree. His parents¡¯.


    And a phoenix. Wings ablaze, diving into ink-black waters.


    And a hand¨Chis hand, sketching a quill that shone light instead of shadow.


    When the pain slightly faded, he was on his trembling knees, and sweat dripped onto the diary¡¯s open pages. The feather mark had dulled to a scar.


    "What¡­ was that?" Arwyn rasped.


    "A down payment," Nathaniel said, throwing him a bandage. "The Quill doesn¡¯t care about your mommy issues or your daddy¡¯s sad paintings. It wants proof you¡¯ll rise from your own ashes. Today? You paid interest."


    Arwyn held his own hand. The scar still ached, but his sketchbook resounded. There was a low, resonant frequency he hadn¡¯t felt before.


    "So¡­ it¡¯s done? I ¡®earned¡¯ it?"


    Nathaniel barked a laugh. "Kid, you just lit a match in a forest. Now the whole damn world knows you¡¯re flammable."


    ¡°What world¨C¡±


    Nathaniel interrupted. ¡°Shh.¡±


    Outside, the wind howled. Somewhere in the distance, a street lamp flickered¡ªthen died.


    Silence.


    ¡­


    ¡­


    "Erasure," Nathaniel muttered. "They¡¯re drawn to fresh burns. Congratulations, Arwyn. Homework¡¯s early."


    Arwyn stared at the scar, then at his sketchbook. The pages felt lighter, hungry, as if it craved more sketches. "How do I fight it?"


    "Same way you fight everything," Nathaniel said, tossing him a pencil. "Start small. But this time¡­" He tapped the feather scar.


    "Mean it."


    The light inside flickered. It made a path, signaling them to fight outside. And so, Arwyn followed.


    Outside, it was completely silent. The only source of light being the lamppost, though it went off. The Erasure lunged from the shadows, like a humanoid smear of static and ink. And its limbs elongated like stretched film strips. His mind went back to what he read.


    Size, Strength, Value.


    ''Think.''


    Arwyn backpedaled into the street, sketchbook already open.


    Small. Fast. Mean it.


    "Make a move, kid!" Nathaniel barked from the porch, sipping coffee like this was a morning stroll. ¡°Don¡¯t just back off! You committed!¡±


    ''Fine then.''


    He drew. Line, one more. And with a slam¨C


    ¨Ca stick. But a long one. A makeshift bo staff.


    Nathaniel¡¯s eyes widened, and his lips tugged on a smirk.


    The Erasure¡¯s arm snapped forward, a whip of glitching ink. Arwyn swung the staff blindly¨C


    Crack!


    The wood shuddered as it collided with the creature¡¯s jaw. The recoil numbed his hands, but the Erasure staggered, missing a hand as its form flickered.


    "Not bad!" Nathaniel yelled. "Now stop treating it like a fucking pi?ata!"


    The creature lunged again, limbs contorting to blades. Arwyn ducked, rolling behind a parked car. His pencil flew across a fresh page.


    A crude spring coiled beneath the asphalt.


    "Eat shit," he hissed, slamming the sketch.


    Crrrang!


    The ground erupted, launching the Erasure into a streetlamp. The metal pole bent on impact, sparks raining down.


    "Pffff. This showoff," Nathaniel muttered, though his smirk widened.


    But the Erasure writhed, its form destabilized. Arwyn charged, broken staff raised. Though the creature melted. A black puddle that surged toward his feet. The color spoke of risk and danger.


    "Shit¡ª!"


    He leapt onto a dumpster, sketching frantically.


    A funnel, a matchstick, a gas can. Anything.


    "Too slow, kid!" Nathaniel barked. "Use what you¡¯ve got!"


    Arwyn glanced at the staff in his hand.


    The stick. The phoenix¡¯s pyre.


    "¡­Burn it," he muttered.


    He snapped the staff over his knee and lit the splintered end with Nathaniel¡¯s match. Fire. Blue-gold and hungry. The staff never burned, but held the flame.


    ¡°Hey,¡± Arwyn sarcastically whispered. He lobbed the flaming stick into the ink-puddle. ¡°Catch!¡±


    Ngaaaaahhh!!!


    The Erasure¡¯s scream split the air as flames devoured its form. Its remains were just ash.


    But Arwyn dropped to the pavement, chest heaving, the feather scar on his palm throbbing like a second heartbeat.


    ¡°D-Damn¡­¡± Pain shot through his whole body.


    Nathaniel strolled over, crunching the Erasure¡¯s charred remains under his leather boot. "Dramatic. Reckless. Stupid."


    He tossed Arwyn a half-melted chocolate bar, and with an amusing chuckle, he said. "You¡¯re learning. Fire as a form of light to counter that idiot? Unique."


    Arwyn glared, but his hands shook. From adrenaline, not fear. "Did I¡­ earn it this time?"


    "Nah." Nathaniel nodded at the scorched street. "You just pissed off its bigger brothers."


    ¡°But. I could tell you this.¡± Nathaniel offered a hand to Arwyn¡¯s tired form. ¡°You¡¯ve powered up.¡±


    As he helped Arwyn up, Nathaniel patted his hand on his shoulder. He closed his eyes, processing the levels of Arwyn¡¯s power. It was one of Nathaniel¡¯s abilities as a strong sketch made by the first Delacroix Ancestor.


    Passion Energy¡­ Measured by Poules¡­ 1539 Poules.


    Nathaniel nodded approvingly, slightly surprised by his improvement. The last time he checked his levels secretly was when he first met him.


    He only had around five hundred poules of Passion Energy. A day later, it tripled.


    Most of the Delacroix¡¯s generation could only reach around a thousand poules in terms of learning about the ability that they inherited, but when you add another half-thousand, one becomes more exceptional.


    One reason for his undeniably high Passion Energy was probably due to Arwyn¡¯s undying passion for drawing his made-up models of weapons and such.


    It was like his imagination was working out as he sketched more and more, leading to a smoother path in gaining Passion Energy. Sort of a head start.


    ¡°1500 poules huh? Not bad.¡±


    Arwyn was on the verge of passing out. He turned his lips to a smirk before he did. ¡°That¡¯s¡­ pretty nice.¡±


    Then¡­


    He fainted, and Nathaniel laughed. ¡°So I do have to drag your ass back huh? Fucking hell.¡±


    The moon was at its peak. The atmosphere never changed, except for the crickets¡¯ chirping that barely broke the silence and the lampposts turning back on. Arwyn, despite not having any wounds or bruises whatsoever, stayed fainted.


    And¡­ Nathaniel did indeed drag him back to his room.

 Chapter 5: Crane

    ¡°Poules. Your goal will be 5000 poules by the end of the week, before the auction.¡±


    Nathaniel spoke to Arwyn the next day. The first words Arwyn spoke to him that morning was:


    ¡°Can you teach me?¡±


    How harsh it may be, Arwyn was determined, motivated by the Quill¡¯s brand.


    And so, for the start, he grabbed his sketchbook, waiting for his instructions. Nathaniel wasn¡¯t just a housekeeper now. He was now a mentor. A teacher.


    But his way of teaching was never traditional.


    He stuck a poster of a crane at the wall in front of his view. It was intricate, detailed.


    ¡°First task. A hundred identical sketches of this crane.¡±


    The light cast shadows on the living room, same as Arwyn¡¯s shadowed look, kind of confused and shocked. ¡°A hundred..?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. A hundred, kid. 1-0-0. Flawless, perfect to the picture. Each crane must be perfectly replicated. If I see just one single mistake, whether it be a single, small line, I will burn the whole batch.¡±


    And Arwyn sweated, gulping in both fear and perseverance.


    A hundred¡­ perfectly identical¡­ sketches..?


    ¡°Now, a perfect crane uses 50 poules, while a smudged one uses 5.¡± Nathaniel paced around the room, hands in his pockets. ¡°When you use all of your Passion Energy, it will instead consume your actual energy. Your stamina, your blood, anything.¡±


    Arwyn sat frozen.


    ¡°So, if you keep on failing, you¡¯ll pass out or potentially die from this. Until you finish this first task, we¡¯re not going anywhere, kid. You still want to do it?¡±


    The risk of drawing till you use all of your energy. Even if he drew a hundred perfectly replicated cranes in his first batch, he¡¯d have to use all of his Passion Energy as well as some of his own.


    But the quill. The covenant.


    Arwyn¡¯s pencil hovered over the first page. The crane on the poster glared back, its wings a whole labyrinth of delicate strokes.


    Fuck.


    He inhaled. Steady. And began.


    The first line¡­


    Wobbly.


    He didn¡¯t even give it to Nathaniel. With pure frustration, he ripped the page to shreds and lit it up with his own match. Without a stare, he continued drawing.


    And Nathaniel smiled. He expected this.


    ¡°It¡¯s gonna be a long night for you, kid. I can sense it already.¡±


    ¡°Shut up.¡± Genuine annoyance, too focused on the drawing. But his hands betrayed him. It was trembling too much, to the point where he couldn¡¯t even hold his pencil properly. Nathaniel once again interfered.


    ¡°The first sketch,¡± Nathaniel intoned, ¡°is always the hardest.¡±


    He slid the diary toward Arwyn. The entry glowed faintly.


    ¡°Repetition is a must.¡± The words of the entry pulsed like a heartbeat. Nathaniel continued. ¡°Not because your hands are weak. Because your mind¡¯s still screaming ¡®this is pointless.¡¯¡±


    Arwyn scoffed. ¡°Drawing the same stupid crane a hundred times is pointless.¡±


    Nathaniel paced the room, hands in his pockets, the diary glowing faintly on the table. ¡°That ¡®stupid crane¡¯ was sketched by your great-great-whatever-grandfather while his city burned. He drew 1,000 of ¡®em¡ªblindfolded, in a hurricane, while bleeding out. Then I saved his ass. Now shut up and draw.¡±


    ¡°Cool story,¡± Arwyn muttered. ¡°Did it save his city?¡±


    ¡°No.¡± Nathaniel grinned. ¡°But it saved him. Focus.¡±


    ''Bitch.'' Arwyn thought bitterly. He then drew again.


    First line. Smooth.


    Second line. Smooth.


    Third line.


    Burned. Again.


    Come on man, just a crane. Just a crane. Follow the picture. That¡¯s it.


    The lines started flowing¨Cslow, snail-slow, but steadier. Wingtip: curved, not jagged. Beak: sharp, not blunt. It had been thirty minutes, and his progress?


    Five lines.


    The diary¡¯s glow intensified as Nathaniel read aloud.


    ¡°To master repetition is to converse with eternity. Each stroke is a prayer. Each failure, a confession.¡±


    The first, second, till the sixth. Arwyn¡¯s cranes were starting to look more identical.


    But the sixth crane dissolved into ash before the wings could form.


    ¡°This is literally eternal torture.¡±


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    ¡°Eternity¡¯s kinder than what¡¯s coming,¡± Nathaniel said, flipping to another entry.


    ¡°He sketched underwater, lungs bursting, until the sea itself bowed to his lines.¡±


    ¡°Why are you like this?¡± Arwyn snarled, swiping the sweat from his eyes.


    ¡°Because your mom¡¯s murderer didn¡¯t care if her death was poetic.¡± Nathaniel¡¯s tone sharpened. ¡°Draw. Breathe. Repeat.¡±


    From the start. Again.


    This attempt took more than 3 hours. 3 hours of pure silence, 3 hours of the pencil¡¯s scratching. The pencil¡¯s scratching embedded itself in his mind, echoing even when he stopped.


    By the tenth crane, a personal record, Arwyn¡¯s hands steadied, barely. The lines wavered but held.


    Wingtip: Curved, not jagged.


    Beak: Sharp, not blunt.


    The paper hummed, the crane¡¯s ink shimmering gold for a heartbeat¡­


    Before Nathaniel dropped a match.


    ¡°WHAT THE HELL?!¡± Arwyn lunged for the sketch, but it crumbled to embers.


    ¡°Sentimentality kills,¡± Nathaniel said, grinding the ashes underfoot. ¡°That one was perfect.¡±


    ¡°THEN WHY¡ª?!¡±


    ¡°Perfect isn¡¯t enough. Impossible is.¡± He tossed Arwyn a dagger. ¡°Next crane bleeds. Your blood.¡±


    Arwyn froze, staring at the blade. ¡°My¡­ blood?¡±


    ¡°Your blood, kid.¡± Nathaniel¡¯s tone hardened.


    He stared at the brand, imprinted on his hand, never fading. Then at the dagger, edges sharp and glinting. He hesitated, hands trembling once again from the pressure.


    Arwyn slowly sliced his palm. It stung, but not as much as he expected. But the crimson pooled on the new, empty page. Nathaniel proceeded to a new entry for the third time.


    ¡°Her cranes flew on scarlet wings, but her veins ran dry before dawn.¡±


    Arwyn drew as blood dripped on the page, ignoring the metallic smell and the stains of his. As he finished this crane, a blood-mixed sketch trembled. A crane, delicate, beautiful, with too many eyes¡­


    Before Nathaniel incinerated it.


    ¡°Closer,¡± he admitted. ¡°Now do it again. Faster.¡±


    The room dimmed, shadows twitching at the edges¡ªtoo sharp, too alive. A faint hum buzzed in the air, like static from a broken radio. Arwyn¡¯s scar prickled. ¡°What¡¯s that?¡±


    Nathaniel¡¯s smirk faded, eyes flicking to the window. ¡°Faster, kid¡ªthey¡¯re sniffing.¡± He didn¡¯t explain, didn¡¯t need to. Arwyn¡¯s gut twisted. Erasures.


    He sliced his palm, wincing as crimson pooled on the page. The metallic tang stung his nose, mixing with sweat as he drew. Crane ten¡ªdelicate, too many eyes, trembling with his blood. Nathaniel burned it. ¡°Closer. Again.¡±


    Arwyn didn¡¯t answer, just slashed deeper, drew faster. Ten became twenty, after six hours of silence, the pencil¡¯s scratch echoing in his skull. The hum outside grew louder, a street lamp flickering off beyond the glass. Nathaniel didn¡¯t comment, just watched, diary open.


    Then¨C


    Scratch!


    The pencil scratched a part of the crane¡¯s beak. His stomach twisted not even a second after. With a blink, almost pitiful, Nathaniel lit it all up. All those 20 flawless, impossible sketches, those six hours,


    Gone.


    "Do it again."


    "I SWEAR TO GOD¡ª" Arwyn nearly threw his pencil at Nathaniel¡¯s head.


    Nathaniel didn''t react. Just handed him another page.


    "Again."


    But as Arwyn blinked for a moment, he started seeing cranes floating around his vision. The diary¡¯s words whispered in his mind, over and over.


    ¡®Repetition is a must.¡¯


    Nathaniel, the mentor that he was, stayed up with him. The sun was at its peak, but it still felt like a depressing evening for Arwyn. This time, it only took him around 4 hours to reach this milestone.


    50 cranes. No failure, no hesitation. Halfway there.


    His Passion Energy flickered. His vision swam through the empty, worn edges of the paper. Just like those worn edges, Arwyn was at the edge of sanity. His eyes were betraying him. Arwyn couldn¡¯t even sweat anymore.


    But Nathaniel didn¡¯t let him stop.


    ¡°If you collapse, at least make it to 80 first.¡±


    Arwyn gripped his pencil hard, but not to the point where he was careless about it. His voice was hoarse, as his sweat dried up while he was sketching.


    ¡°Fuck. You.¡±


    Nathaniel laughed, leaning against the wall ever since he started this attempt. ¡°Love you too, kid. Keep drawing.¡±


    The diary pulsed brighter, gold light spilling across the page. A new passage glowed:


    ¡°At 50 cranes, the First Sketcher saw truth.¡±


    Arwyn¡¯s vision swam. There was a gaunt man amidst flames, brown eyes like his, sketching cranes with skeletal fingers. ¡°Surrender,¡± the ancestor rasped, ¡°or the art eats you alive.¡±


    The vision snapped. Arwyn¡¯s hand steadied, a faint surge buzzing in his veins. Nathaniel nodded, almost impressed. ¡°3,000 poules, kid. Keep it tight.¡±


    ¡°Fuck¡­ yeah,¡± Arwyn rasped, voice hoarse. Halfway felt like a lifeline.


    The next batch flew¡ª51, 52¡­ 65. Four hours, no fails, no hesitation.


    He didn¡¯t need the poster anymore. He memorized the shade, the lines, the proportion. Damn, he didn¡¯t even know who was drawing at that point. Was it him or was it his hand?


    But he never thought that. He didn¡¯t think as he drew. He couldn¡¯t feel his fingers anymore, as though his touch stuck to the pencil, and not his actual hand.


    Nathaniel¡¯s voice came suddenly. He recited another passage of the diary.


    ¡°He sketched until his hands forgot their bones, until his eyes forgot their tears. When the birds flew, they carried his soul, but his body remained, like a vessel of ash. Repetition is not mastery. It is surrender. To the art. To the abyss.¡±


    Arwyn¡¯s pencil moved on its own now.


    67, 68, 69¡­ Each crane sharper, colder, like it was drawn by the diary¡¯s ghostly hand. His skin had gone pallid, and the Quill-brand on his palm throbbed to black.


    Sweatless. Breathless. A machine.


    ¡°Your 10th great-grandfather went mad after 1,000 cranes. Started seeing them in his soup. His dreams. His veins, even if he didn¡¯t see ¡®em.¡± Nathaniel paused. ¡°But he killed an archdemon with one.¡±


    ¡­


    ¡­


    ¡­


    Arwyn didn¡¯t hear it. Didn¡¯t think.


    Crane 80. His vision fractured, shadows outside clawing closer, the hum now a growl. His skin went pallid, sweat gone, breath shallow. He basically was a machine.


    Nathaniel stepped to the window, peering out. ¡°They¡¯re circling. Eighty ain¡¯t enough.¡±


    ¡°Then stop burning ¡®em!¡± Arwyn snarled, voice cracking, pencil shaking as he hit 90.


    Then¨C


    Crane 100.


    It sat pristine, too perfect, wings curved unnaturally, eyes gleaming. Arwyn collapsed forward, chest heaving, blood dripping onto the page. ¡°It¡¯s¡­ alive,¡± he croaked.


    ¡°No,¡± Nathaniel said, burning it anyway. ¡°You¡¯re not.¡±


    Arwyn didn¡¯t notice. Darkness took him, Nathaniel¡¯s hand finally rested on his shoulder as the last anchor.


    4,995¡­ 4,999¡­


    5,000! 5,000 poules. The room hummed as Nathaniel grinned, diary flaring gold.


    ¡°Feel that buzz, kid? That¡¯s power.¡±

 Chapter 6: Cost of 5000

    Later¡­


    His eyes slowly blinked open, and it caught the intense sunlight on the open window. With shock, he jolted awake.


    ¡®Was this¡­ a dream?¡¯


    His eyes flicked to his wrist. The Quill-brand on his palm faded into a scar.


    Suddenly¨C


    Whoosh!


    A soft breeze slipped through the small gap of the window, yet the voices of the wind were louder than usual, like a strong gust that pierced directly into both of his very ears.


    Then came the sounds. The metallic scrape of plates in the sink, the rush of water gushing too loudly and too close. Arwyn pressed his palms to his temples, trying to block it out, but the noise burrowed deeper, relentless.


    ¡°What the hell¡­¡± His voice was hoarse, but his face crunched in a struggling expression.


    And slowly, the disharmony faded, and there was an ominous silence. It was his room he rested at, taking in the same figurines and models that displayed at his mounted shelves. Without a word, he stood up and checked on himself in the mirror.


    He was wearing the same pair of clothes he had. Arwyn sniffed it, and quickly turned his face back. It reeked of stale sweat and damp fabric.


    ¡°Goodness. I have to change.¡± He told himself, immediately feeling the oiliness of the sweat as he took his shirt off. He grabbed a clean shirt, only to notice dust particles swirling in the light.


    His gaze darted across the room, catching the shine of dust motes suspended mid-air. It was a detail he¡¯d never noticed before.


    ¡®My room has never been this dusty.¡¯ He thought, thinking that perhaps it hadn¡¯t been cleaned for days now. In reality, Nathaniel had just cleaned it hours ago, and it was evident from how the light glinted from one of Arwyn¡¯s sword models.


    He ignored it anyway, changing to his shirt, and he then opened the door.


    At the other side of his view was Nathaniel, who just finished washing the plates as Arwyn went outside his room. He quickly noticed, and with a side-eying glare, he smirked.


    ¡°You look like shit,¡± Nathaniel said, tossing Arwyn a protein bar with such speed.


    It travelled through the room like a dart, but¨C


    Pak!


    Arwyn caught it, the sound of plastic banging against his hand. His lips parted slightly. ¡°WHAT THE¨C¡±


    ¡°5,000 poules rewired your nervous system. Congrats.¡± Nathaniel smirked of success,  hanging the knife onto the dish rack. The sounds of metal clanging the glass vibrated.


    Arwyn¡¯s gaze rapidly turned back to Nathaniel. ¡°Damn. Quick reflexes now?¡± With a disbelieving chuckle, he sat at the dining table as Nathaniel tidied up.


    ¡°Among other things.¡± Nathaniel wiped his hands on a dishcloth, his grin widening. ¡°Also, you¡¯ve been snoring loud enough to scare off pigeons.¡±


    ¡°Oh really?¡± Arwyn took a bite of the chocolate bar. ¡°Means I got good sleep. Finally¡­¡±


    He nodded exaggeratingly. ¡°You¡¯ve got good sleep indeed.¡±


    Arwyn smiled, taking another bite. ¡°You counted?¡±


    He leaned back against the wall with a mischievous look. ¡°Yeah. I did count.¡±


    ¡°How many hours?¡±


    ¡°68 hours.¡±


    Arwyn laughed. ¡°Very funny Nate. How many hours?¡±


    ¡°68 hours.¡± Nathaniel pointed to the calendar, 3 days more were marked. ¡°I¡¯m not lying.¡±


    Arwyn¡¯s laugh faded to a dark expression. He abruptly stood up and checked his phone.


    12:40 pm


    Friday, March 1.


    ¡®Three days¡­ That¡¯s why my clothes smelled like dried sweat¡­¡¯ Arwyn was a guy with frequent delayed reactions.


    ¡­


    His eyes widened.


    ¡­


    His hands shook, and his heart skipped a beat.


    ¡°Three days..?¡±


    Nathaniel just wiped his hands with the hanging wipe cloth with such casualty. ¡°What¡¯s wrong with 3 days worth of¨C¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t you shut up just a bit?¡± His voice cut the air like a katana. ¡°My project¡¯s past due!¡± Arwyn¡¯s voice cracked, his hands trembling as he scrolled through his school app. ¡°It¡¯s 50% of my fucking grade!¡±


    Nathaniel leaned against the counter, unfazed. ¡°Priorities, kid. You¡¯ve got bigger problems than homework.¡±


    ¡°Bigger problems?!¡± Arwyn¡¯s laugh was brittle. ¡°Like what?!¡±


    Nathaniel¡¯s gaze flicked to the Quill-scar on Arwyn¡¯s palm. ¡°Like staying alive.¡±


    Now that he realized it, that his Passion Energy had increased significantly, it¡¯d only make sense if more Erasures would be attracted by his presence.


    5000 poules is around three times his initial, meaning¡­


    Three times the Erasures.


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    Arwyn dropped the phone from stress, rattling to the floor, and he then closed his eyes for a moment.


    ¡°Did I at least¡­ get stronger?¡±


    Nathaniel smirked with excitement. ¡°Check it for yourself.¡±


    The sound of keys jangling at the front door made them both freeze. Nathaniel immediately resumed his housekeeping act, while Arwyn grabbed his sketchbook and slid it under a pile of mail on the counter.


    ¡°Act normal.¡± Nathaniel whispered.


    Marco Delacroix trudged in, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion, dark circles framing bloodshot eyes. Along with him was a girl with blonde hair, and looked around the same age as Marco.


    "Dad," Arwyn straightened, surprised. "You''re back early. And with Aunt Ria?"


    Marco grunted, dropping his coat on a chair. "Auction preparations. Need to finalize my piece." He glanced at Nathaniel. "House looks decent. Thanks."


    Nathaniel bowed slightly. "Just doing my job, sir."


    Ria slid onto a stool at the counter, kicking her boots up like she owned the place. She eyed Arwyn, then snorted. ¡°You smell like a zoo. What¡¯d you do, hibernate?¡±


    Arwyn scowled, but a grin tugged at his lips. He ignored her question. ¡°Nice to see you too, Ria. What¡¯s with the clipboard? Auction turning you into a secretary now?¡±


    ¡°Assistant curator, thank you very much,¡± she shot back, tapping the clipboard with a pen. ¡°Your father¡¯s just¡­ hopeless without me. Without me, he¡¯d sell a masterpiece for a bag of chips.¡±


    She smirked, sipping her thermos. ¡°Besides, someone¡¯s got to keep those spoiled brats from pecking at his soul tomorrow night.¡±


    Marco''s gaze drifted to Arwyn, narrowing slightly. "You look... different."


    Arwyn swallowed, acutely aware of his father''s scrutiny. Could Marco sense the change in him? Did he somehow know about the Dream Sketching?


    "Just... got more sleep," he lied.


    Marco seemed unconvinced but too tired to press further. "The auction''s tomorrow night."


    The auction. They needed to come, it was their chance to get the ring back from Cedric.


    "Can I come?" Arwyn asked, trying to keep his voice even.


    Marco''s eyebrows shot up. "You? At an art auction? Since when do you care about ''pretentious price-gouging of mediocre paintings''?" He quoted Arwyn''s past complaints perfectly.


    Arwyn scrambled for an excuse. "Well¡­ I¡¯ve been thinking about my future. Maybe I should know more about the art world if I want to do something with my sketches."


    He studied him for a long moment, then shrugged. "Fine. Wear something decent. And try not to insult any of the buyers."


    Ria laughed, twirling her pen. ¡°Oh please, let him insult them. I¡¯d pay a good amount of money to see those rich bastards choke on their champagne when you call their avant-garde a piece of shit.¡±


    ¡°Oh, and can Nate come as well?¡± Arwyn jerked a thumb at Nathaniel.


    Marco blinked at Arwyn, then at Nathaniel, who was still scrubbing that spoon like it owed him money. ¡°The housekeeper? Why?¡±


    Arwyn shrugged, playing it cool despite the sweat prickling his neck. ¡°He¡¯s¡­ uh, got an eye for art. Might spot a deal.¡± Total bullshit, but he¡¯d sell it.


    Ria snorted, pen hovering over her clipboard. ¡°Oh, splendid. The dust ninja¡¯s now a connoisseur. Shall we fetch him a monocle and a pipe too?¡± She smirked, dry as hell, then jotted something down. ¡°Fine, bring him. Just don¡¯t let him bid on a mop and call it avant-garde.¡±


    Nathaniel¡¯s lips twitched, but he kept his head down, all ¡°yes, sir¡± vibes. Marco just grunted, too tired to argue. ¡°Whatever. Ria, let¡¯s sort the catalog. I can¡¯t find the damn frame list.¡±


    ¡°Probably because you left it under your sad excuse for a sandwich yesterday,¡± Ria quipped, hopping off the stool. She waved her thermos like a scepter. ¡°To the studio, then. Chop chop, Marco, those paintings won¡¯t price themselves.¡±


    They shuffled off. Marco muttered about ¡°overpriced smudges¡± while Ria¡¯s clipboard clacked against her hip. The door to Marco¡¯s studio clicked shut, muffled voices leaking through. The auction prep was in full swing.


    Arwyn exhaled, hard. The air buzzed his skin, his scar, everything. He glanced at Nathaniel, who¡¯d ditched the spoon and was now leaning against the counter, arms crossed, smirking like he knew shit was about to pop off.


    ¡°What?¡± Arwyn snapped, snatching his sketchbook from under the mail pile.


    Nathaniel¡¯s grin widened. ¡°You¡¯re itching, kid. 5,000 poules humming in your veins. Gonna test it, or just sit there twitching?¡±


    Arwyn¡¯s eyes narrowed, but Nathaniel was right, he was itching. That bar catch, the wind screaming in his ears. Something was different.


    Stronger.


    He flipped the sketchbook open, pencil already in hand. ¡°Watch me.¡±


    He didn¡¯t wait for a nod. The pencil hit the page¡ªsharp, steady. A katana. Long blade, curved just right, hilt wrapped in crisscross leather. He¡¯d drawn a million of these, but this time? This time it felt¡­ alive before it even was.


    No sloppy lines, no ¡°good enough.¡± Every stroke snapped into place, like the paper was begging for it.


    Nathaniel slid closer, silent for once, green eyes tracking every move. No quips, no roast. Just watching, arms still crossed, like a sensei.


    Arwyn¡¯s chest tightened, not from strain, just¡­ focus. He shaded the blade, glinting steel in his head, then slammed his palm down.


    Hard.


    A flash. Yellow, hot.


    It burst from the page. The sketchbook jolted, and there it was: The katana, ripping out of the paper like it¡¯d been waiting. Steel gleamed, solid as hell, thunking onto the table with a weight that rattled the mail stack.


    ¡°Holy shit,¡± Arwyn breathed, staring. His hand hovered over it, then grabbed the hilt. Cold, heavy, real.


    He swung it¡ªlight, smooth, cutting the air with a whoosh that made his pulse kick.


    Nathaniel clapped, slow and loud, breaking the quiet. ¡°Well, damn, kid. That¡¯s a blade. Clean, sharp. No ash, no flop. 5,000 poules well spent.¡±


    Arwyn grinned, spinning the katana once, feeling the balance. ¡°Yeah? Not bad for a Tuesday, huh?¡± He braced for the crash¡ªvertigo, that skull-crushing ache from the Glock days.


    But¡­ nothing. No spin, no blackout. His legs held. His head stayed clear. He blinked, lowering the blade.


    ¡°Wait. I¡¯m¡­ fine?¡±


    Nathaniel chuckled, leaning back. ¡°Told you. You¡¯re not some rookie puking Passion Energy anymore. 5,000 poules stretched your tank. Katana¡¯s small potatoes now. Bet you could sketch a cannon and still walk straight.¡±


    Arwyn¡¯s jaw dropped, then snapped shut. ¡°Seriously? No headache, no¡­ nothing?¡± He swung the katana again, testing.


    Air sliced clean, no wobble in his grip. ¡°This is¡­ weird. Like, the good weird.¡±


    ¡°Get used to it,¡± Nathaniel said, nodding at the blade. ¡°You¡¯re not just drawing toys now. You¡¯re forging. That crane hell rewired you, kid. Less waste, more kick.¡± He tapped his temple. ¡°Focus is sharper too. No panic, just power.¡±


    Arwyn stared at the katana, then at his hand¡ªthe Quill-scar pulsed faint, warm, not searing. ¡°So¡­ I¡¯m stronger and I don¡¯t feel like ass after? That¡¯s the deal?¡±


    ¡°Pretty much.¡± Nathaniel smirked, snatching a rag to wipe a nonexistent spot on the counter. ¡°But don¡¯t get cocky. Big shit? Tanks, greatswords, those still might drop you. Small wins like this? It¡¯s yours all day.¡±


    From the studio, Ria¡¯s voice cut through. Sharp, annoyed.


    ¡°Marco, if you misplace that bid sheet one more time, I¡¯m framing you and selling it as ¡®Tortured Artist, Slightly Used¡¯!¡±


    Arwyn snorted, setting the katana down. ¡°They¡¯re gonna be at it for a while.¡±


    Nathaniel nodded, tossing the rag. ¡°Good. Gives you time to flex. What¡¯s next, kid? Dagger? Shuriken? Don¡¯t bore me.¡±


    Arwyn¡¯s grin turned sly. ¡°Throw me an apple.¡±


    ¡°An apple?¡± Nathaniel¡¯s brow raised, then he realized, clocking the fruit basket beside him. ¡°Oh. An apple.¡±


    In a split second, Nathaniel chucked it, zipping through the table, fastball-style.


    Arwyn snatched the katana, reflexes screaming¨C


    Shing!


    The apple hit the floor, halved perfectly down the middle. They both smirked, eyeing the blade¡¯s edge.


    ¡°I see. I see it now.¡±

 Chapter 7: Going Once

    The next day, 6:30 in the evening.


    ¡°Hey, Nate! Where¡¯re the crates!?¡± Marco yelled from the outdoor garage. It was auction night, with thirty minutes left.


    ¡°Coming, sir!¡± Without another word, Nathaniel ran down the stairs and out the door, carrying a wooden crate as heavy as four full buckets of water, and dropped it into the car¡¯s trunk.


    With a courteous bow to Marco, he said, ¡°I apologize, sir.¡± The grass crunched awkwardly under his footsteps as he returned to grab the remaining items needed for the auction.


    Meanwhile, Arwyn was busy dressing in his best fit for the event.


    In his room, he wrestled with a tie borrowed from Marco, which choked him like a noose. ¡°Fuck this,¡± he muttered, yanking it loose, then tightening it again.


    ¡°Best fit for the auction, my ass.¡± His sketchbook lay on the bed, buzzing under his jacket. 5,000 poules itching to flex.


    Downstairs, Ria¡¯s voice cut through. ¡°Marco, quit yelling. The neighbors¡¯ll bid on your lungs next!¡± She strutted out, clipboard clacking, thermos swinging. ¡°Crates in? Good. Let¡¯s roll. Traffic¡¯s gonna screw us.¡±


    Marco slammed the trunk, knuckles white. ¡°It already is. We¡¯re late.¡± He looked wrecked¡ªdark circles, jittery hands, suit rumpled.


    Arwyn thumped down the stairs, tie crooked, jacket half-on. ¡°Chill, Dad. Rich pricks love a dramatic entrance.¡±


    Nathaniel grinned, tossing the last crate in. ¡°Kid¡¯s right, boss. Gives ¡®em time to drink more.¡±


    Ria snorted, hopping into the driver¡¯s seat of his sleek new ride, gallery cash well spent. ¡°Well, that¡¯s splendid. Late and sassy. Get in; the auction won¡¯t wait.¡±


    They piled in: Marco and Ria in front, Arwyn and Nathaniel in back. The engine purred, air conditioner blasting, but sweat still beaded around Arwyn¡¯s neck. Ria peeled out, tires biting pavement.


    Marco gripped the dash. ¡°Traffic¡¯s a bitch tonight. We¡¯re cutting it close.¡±


    Ria flipped her clipboard, pen tapping. ¡°Oh, perfect. Late to your own show. Maybe they¡¯ll bid on your excuse: ¡®Tortured Artist, Traffic Edition.¡¯¡± She smirked, dry as hell, sipping her thermos.


    Nathaniel leaned close to Arwyn, voice low. ¡°Eyes sharp, kid. Cedric¡¯ll flaunt that ring¡ªemerald eyes, serpentine. Don¡¯t blink.¡±


    Arwyn¡¯s gut twisted. ¡°Yeah, no shit.¡± His scar itched, sketchbook heavy under his arm. ¡°He better show.¡±


    Marco glanced back, frowning. ¡°Who¡¯re you talking about?¡±


    ¡°Uh¡­ nobody,¡± Arwyn stammered. ¡°Just¡­ pretty hyped for the art.¡±


    Ria laughed sharply. ¡°Since when? Last week it was ¡®pretentious crap.¡¯ Now you¡¯re hyped? What¡¯s next, ballet?¡± She twirled her pen, eyes narrowing.


    ¡°Lay off,¡± Arwyn snapped, a grin slipping out. ¡°Maybe I¡¯m cultured now.¡±


    ¡°Cultured like roadkill,¡± she quipped. Marco grunted¡ªhalf laugh, half groan¡ªas Ria swerved past a honking cab.


    Nathaniel¡¯s whisper cut through. ¡°Ring¡¯s our shot, kid. Terra Incognita¡¯s waiting.¡±


    Arwyn nodded, pulse kicking. This was real.


    Ria¡¯s car screeched into the gallery lot, gravel spitting. The place glowed¡ªswanky, all glass and gleam, chandeliers spilling light. Suits and dresses milled outside, wine glasses flashing.


    ¡°Move it,¡± Marco barked, hopping out. He hauled a crate, muttering, ¡°These better sell.¡±


    Ria strutted ahead, clipboard in hand. ¡°They will, unless you drop them first.¡± She waved her thermos like a queen. ¡°Inside, people. Showtime.¡±


    Arwyn stepped out, the air buzzing against his skin. Nathaniel flanked him, smirking. ¡°Game on.¡±


    The gallery smelled of money. The wine, the perfume, and the egos of the visitors hung thick as smoke. Arwyn tugged at his tie, feeling like a fish in a tux. Marco¡¯s paintings lined the walls.


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    Crimson in Morning Light and Hazel at Dusk were up for grabs. Marco had finally hung them on the wall onstage. Chandeliers glittered, floors shone, and the crowd murmured.


    ¡°Scope it,¡± Nathaniel muttered, snagging a champagne flute off a tray. He looked too damn comfy. ¡°Cedric¡¯s here somewhere.¡±


    Arwyn scanned the room¡ªsuits, dresses, rich assholes chattering. ¡°Where¡¯s the bastard?¡±


    Marco fussed over his painting of 18 years. ¡°Frame¡¯s off. Shit.¡± He looked like death. Jittery, drained.


    ¡°Relax, Marco. They¡¯re buying your soul, not your carpentry,¡± Ria said, her smile dry as dust. Then she exclaimed at a waiter, ¡°Oi, more wine for Monopoly Man over there. He¡¯s parched.¡±


    Then Arwyn saw him.


    Cedric. Polished suit, smug as hell, strolling in. The ring. Emerald eyes, serpentine. It glinted. Arwyn¡¯s fists clenched. Cedric mixed with the other rich men, chatting.


    Nathaniel¡¯s grin went cold. They glanced at each other. ¡°Showtime.¡±


    Ria took the stage and grabbed the mic. ¡°Crimson in Morning Light, Hazel at Dusk! A painting beautifully crafted by Marco Delacroix, preserved for 18 years! Bidding starts at ten thousand dollars!¡±


    The crowd fell silent, all eyes on her and the painting.


    ¡°Forty-five thousand!¡± a man up front called, his tone dripping with wealth.


    ¡°Seventy-five thousand!¡± another voice shouted from the side, matching the same rich cadence. The crowd gasped¡ªthey clearly knew a bit about value and weren¡¯t backing down.


    ¡°Three hundred thousand!¡± someone yelled from the back, emphasizing every syllable.


    Cedric¡¯s voice slid in, smooth and sharp. ¡°Five hundred thousand.¡± He leaned against a pillar, ring flashing.


    Arwyn¡¯s jaw tightened. Nathaniel leaned close. ¡°He¡¯s playing us. That painting¡¯s tied to the ring. Feel it?¡±


    The air thickened, and Arwyn¡¯s scar pulsed, a low hum vibrating his bones. The crowd didn¡¯t notice, too busy whispering about Cedric¡¯s bid. Ria¡¯s eyes flicked to Arwyn, narrowing, but she pressed on.


    ¡°Five hundred going once,¡± she called, tapping her pen. ¡°Anyone wanna top Mr. Smug over there?¡±


    ¡°Six hundred!¡± a woman in pearls snapped, glaring at Cedric.


    But Cedric chuckled, low and dark. ¡°One million.¡±


    Gasps rippled through the room, and heads turned. Marco froze, staring at Cedric like he¡¯d seen a ghost. ¡°What the¡­¡±


    ¡°Something¡¯s off,¡± Arwyn muttered, hand twitching toward his sketchbook.


    Nathaniel nodded. ¡°He¡¯s not here for art. He¡¯s dangling bait.¡±


    Ria¡¯s voice cut through. ¡°One million, going once! Going twice!¡± Her smirk faltered, eyes darting to Marco.


    ¡°And¡­ so¡ª¡±


    Before she could finish, a phone buzzed at the back. Faces turned to a man in a velvet blazer, who flinched as if he¡¯d stolen a painting. ¡°Ah, sorry, sorry¡­ meetings.¡±


    Cedric¡¯s voice rang across the massive hall. ¡°May I interrupt the auction for a minute, Ms. Ria Lemuria?¡±


    Ria¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°What is it, Cedric?¡±


    ¡°One million is big money for a single painting, don¡¯t you think?¡± Cedric strolled through the hall, the crowd parting like the Red Sea. He flicked his gaze to Marco, who stood up front. ¡°It¡¯s a generous offer. In fact, it¡¯s life-changing.¡±


    His smile was unsettling. The Ring of Nyx gleamed under the chandelier¡¯s light. Marco swallowed but didn¡¯t respond.


    ¡°He¡¯s pushing, kid. Testing the waters,¡± Nathaniel whispered.


    Arwyn felt a surge of anger. He wanted to wipe that smug look off his uncle¡¯s face. He glanced at Marco, noting his shaken eyes¡ªwas it all fear, or a tinge of knowing acceptance? He gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to sketch.


    Not yet. Observe.


    ¡°The Delacroix heritage has been passed down¡ªdescendant by descendant¡ªfor centuries!¡± Cedric continued, his voice booming louder than Ria¡¯s with a microphone.


    The crowd murmured in confusion. What was Cedric talking about? Suddenly¡ª


    ¡°Five million!¡± Cedric shouted.


    Everyone fell silent. But Cedric didn¡¯t stop. ¡°The Delacroix Curse will never end!¡±


    Nathaniel remained stoic. ¡°The Delacroix Curse. Cedric¡¯s manipulating them all.¡± He turned his gaze to Arwyn, frozen in shock.


    The man in the velvet blazer returned, eyes wide. ¡°THERE¡¯S A¡ªTHERE¡¯S AN INVASION!¡±


    The news spread like wildfire, rippling through the crowd. For a moment, the hall was quiet despite the number of people. Then¡ª


    A scream, then another. Next thing they knew, everyone was fleeing the stage, including Marco and Ria. The hall erupted in panic, but Cedric stayed.


    Nathaniel patted Arwyn¡¯s shoulder with an arrogant smirk. ¡°Let them be. We¡¯ll stay, kid.¡±


    Arwyn¡¯s mind raced. He wanted to run, a shiver creeping up his spine. Yet at the same time, he chuckled, excitement bubbling up.


    Nah, he didn¡¯t want to run anymore. This was his chance to show the results of a week¡¯s training. Cedric looked at them, eyes narrowing. ¡°Oh? You aren¡¯t going, nephew? Go, before they arrive.¡±


    They didn¡¯t reply. Instead, they sat down in the chairs beside them.


    ¡°Nice evening, ain¡¯t it, kid?¡± Nathaniel nudged him, as if nothing was about to happen.


    ¡°Yeah. The hall¡¯s elegant now that I see it,¡± Arwyn answered in the same casual tone.

 Chapter 8: Going Twice

    Arwyn, with an irritating smile, flipped open his sketchbook to a blank, fresh page. The sounds of the paper echoed throughout the hall.


    Cedric¡¯s smirk faded dark. ¡°Now, now, Wynnie. There¡¯s no need to rush.¡± His gaze flicked to the man beside Arwyn, legs crossed. ¡°So, it¡¯s you, I assume? ¡®Fortissimum¡¯ of all sketches.¡±


    Nathaniel snickered, sighing as he stood up. ¡°Pleasure to meet you,¡± he said, eyeing the Ring of Nyx around Cedric¡¯s ring finger. It emanated a faint aura, grim and shadowy. ¡°Nice ring you¡¯ve got there.¡±


    ¡°Thanks. It¡¯s one of a kind, really.¡± Cedric walked up on stage, and brushed his fingers against Marco¡¯s painting. ¡°You know, Arlene had potential to be an Erasurer, till a Delacroix threw it off to nowhere.¡± Tiny bits of solid red paint powder stuck on Cedric¡¯s fingers as he touched it. The powder dissolved to nothing.


    Arwyn brought his new-drawn katana from yesterday, successfully hiding it from Marco and Ria. He gripped the handle, clenching his teeth to hold his anger in. Still, he maintained his smirk, and spoke boldly. ¡°Don¡¯t talk about her like that. Family¡¯s family, right, Unc?¡±


    Cedric tilted his head, a slow, predatory grin creeping back onto his face. ¡°Family, huh? Funny how you cling to that word, Wynnie.¡± He flexed his hand, the Ring of Nyx catching the chandelier¡¯s light, its emerald eyes glinting like a snake poised to strike.


    Nathaniel shifted, his casual air tightening into something sharper. ¡°Cute history lesson, Cedric. But let¡¯s skip to the part where you tell us what you¡¯re really after.¡± He stepped closer, hands loose at his sides, but his eyes locked on the ring.


    Arwyn¡¯s grip on the katana tightened, the sketchbook trembling slightly under his arm. He¡¯d drawn the blade with every ounce of focus he could muster. A sleek, deadly curve inked into reality. ¡°Yeah, Unc. Spit it out. What¡¯s the game? You¡¯re not here for Marco¡¯s art, that¡¯s for damn sure.¡±


    Cedric chuckled, low and guttural, wiping the last traces of paint dust from his fingers. ¡°Perceptive, nephew. I¡¯ll give you that much.¡± He turned, pacing the stage like a king surveying his court, the empty hall amplifying each step. ¡°This painting is¡­ a monument for the Delacroix bloodline, you know? These two families, the Satsumas and the Delacroixs are well-known to be THE battle.¡±


    Nathaniel breathed a bit heavier than before, but remained steady. With a chuckle, he said with a confident tone. ¡°The Satsumas never had a chance against the Delacroixs. Genuinely.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll see. We¡¯ll see.¡± Cedric sat at the edge of the stage, head rested on his arm. ¡°Chaos is a fine distraction. While the rabble flee, I¡¯ll take what¡¯s mine. This painting is a revolution. A revolution to all the people from the other side.¡±


    Arwyn¡¯s heart pounded, the sketchbook¡¯s weight pulling at him. ¡°Not if I stop you first.¡± His smirk returned, shaky but defiant. ¡°You¡¯re not the only one who can draw a fight.¡±


    Nathaniel glanced back, nodding slightly, nonchalant-style. ¡°Kid¡¯s got a point.¡±


    Cedric laughed. A cold, jagged sound. He raised his hand, the Ring of Nyx glowing brighter. ¡°Then draw, nephew. Show me what Marco¡¯s blood taught you.¡±


    The air thickened, heavy with intent. Arwyn¡¯s pencil scratched the page, lines forming fast and fierce. Cedric¡¯s shadow loomed larger, the ring¡¯s aura coiling like smoke. Nathaniel cracked his knuckles, ready.


    Outside, the screams grew louder. The hall trembled.


    ¡°Ready, kid?¡± Nathaniel¡¯s voice echoed, hollow and paper-thin. ¡°Don¡¯t let him monologue. Monologues are for losers.¡±


    Arwyn¡¯s pencil hovered over his sketchbook. ¡°Noted.¡±


    Cedric flicked his wrist. The Ring of Nyx shrieked, tendrils of shadow erupting from the floor. They coiled into serpentine Erasures, ink-black, glitching, jaws unhinged.


    ¡°Erasures, Wynnie!¡± Cedric crooned. ¡°Your grandfather¡¯s favorite party trick!¡±


    Arwyn¡¯s scar flared. Focus.


    He slashed the katana, its edge slicing through the first Erasure like smoke. The creature dissolved into static, but two more lunged. Arwyn pivoted, sketching mid-dodge¨C


    ¡®Draw.¡¯


    A shuriken, jagged and crude. He slapped the page.


    WHOOSH!


    Three shurikens materialized, embedding themselves in the Erasures¡¯ cores. They screeched, collapsing into puddles of ink.


    ¡°Cute,¡± Cedric sneered. ¡°But let¡¯s raise the stakes.¡±


    The Ring of Nyx pulsed. The hall¡¯s paintings twisted, frames cracking as their subjects peeled free. A cavalry of sketched knights, their armor dripping liquid shadow.


    ¡°Arwyn! The chandelier!¡± Nathaniel¡¯s voice crackled, his form flickering like a bad signal.


    Arwyn glanced up. The chandelier swayed, crystals refracting Cedric¡¯s corrupted light.


    ¡®Got it.¡¯


    He sketched a hook, hurling it at the fixture. The chain snapped, and the chandelier plummeted. Cedric leapt back as it exploded, glass shards impaling his knight sketches.


    ¡°Distract him!¡± Nathaniel barked.


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    ¡°You¡¯re a sketch,¡± Cedric spat. ¡°A joke!¡±


    ¡°Jokes can still punch,¡± Nathaniel grinned, his edges fraying. ¡°I mean, you are one.¡±


    Arwyn charged, katana raised. Cedric disappeared in a falsh, shadows coalescing into a jagged broadsword. Steel clashed, sparks flying.


    ¡°You¡¯re weak, Wynnie,¡± Cedric hissed. ¡°Just like your idiot father.¡±


    Arwyn¡¯s scar burned.


    5,000 poules.


    ¡®Use them.¡¯


    He feinted left, then sketched a flash grenade mid-swing.


    Whoosh!


    The explosion blinded Cedric, his shadows recoiling. Arwyn¡¯s katana pierced his shoulder¨C


    ¡°ENOUGH!¡±


    The Ring of Nyx detonated, a shockwave of purple darkness hurling them across the hall. He slammed into a pillar, sketchbook skidding away.


    ¡°Fuck¡­ The ring¡­¡±


    But Nathaniel stood up, wiping the dust off his shoulders, though he winced. ¡°I¡¯ve seen worse, kid. Get up.¡±


    ¡°All I need anyway, is that ring.¡±


    Cedric chuckled. He stood in the middle of the debris, gently pulling out his ring. ¡°The Ring of Nyx. The ring of death, they said.¡±


    He walked, passing Arwyn, then stopped at Nathaniel.


    ¡°Then it¡¯s yours.¡±


    He pressed the ring into Nathaniel¡¯s hand, then turned to the stage. ¡°But that painting¡¯s mine.¡±


    Nathaniel clutched the ring, his form stabilizing as its aura pulsed through him. ¡°Wait¡­ what?¡±


    Cedric smirked, yanking Crimson in Morning Light from the wall. ¡°You wanted the ring, sketch. I wanted the key.¡± He raised the painting, and the Ring of Nyx, still faintly connected to him, flared one last time. A rift tore open in the air, a swirling void of pitch-black ink and shadow, whispering with distant screams.


    ¡°Terra Incognita awaits. We meet there, where our fight awaits. The Satsumas, and the Delacroix.¡±


    Arwyn lunged, katana slashing. ¡°You¡¯re¡­ not getting away!¡±


    But Cedric stepped through the rift, painting in hand. The void snapped shut, leaving silence and wreckage.


    ¡°Shit!¡± Arwyn dropped to his knees, panting, scar throbbing. ¡°He¡¯s gone¡­¡±


    Nathaniel twirled the Ring of Nyx between his fingers, edges sharp again. ¡°Not for long, kid. We¡¯ve got this now.¡± He smirked, holding it up. ¡°And you¡¯re still breathing. That¡¯s round one to us.¡±


    Steps came clacking down the hallway.


    Nathaniel whispered. ¡°It¡¯s them. Hide your sword.¡±


    Without a word, he slid the katana under a seat. Reachable, but barely anyone could see it. Then¨C


    Bang!


    The door burst open. It was Ria. She breathed deep, clothes damp with sweat, though her hair remained smooth as it was before.


    ¡°Arwyn!¡±


    She ran past Nathaniel, stopping in front of Arwyn. He was covered in bruises, but not enough to think he was fighting an all-powerful Erasurer. ¡°My goodness¡­ We need to go. Now.¡±


    Her eyes darted around the wrecked hall. Shattered chandelier, splintered stage, ink smears staining the floor. ¡°Did the invasion hit this place too?¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± Arwyn muttered, rubbing his neck, forcing his smirk down. ¡°Got messy. I, uh, tripped when everyone started running.¡± He shot Nathaniel at a quick glance.


    ¡®Keep it cool.¡¯


    Nathaniel nodded subtly, pocketing the Ring of Nyx. ¡°Kid¡¯s clumsy. I tried dragging him out, but he¡¯s stubborn as a mule.¡± His tone was light, masking the truth with ease.


    Ria narrowed her eyes, scanning Arwyn¡¯s bruises. ¡°Tripped, huh? You look like you fell down ten flights of stairs.¡± She huffed, brushing dust off her sleeve. ¡°Whatever¡­ Just move it. Marco¡¯s outside, freaking out. We¡¯re leaving before the looters show up.¡±


    Arwyn grabbed his sketchbook from the floor, tucking it under his arm. The weight of it steadied him, even as his ribs ached. ¡°Fine. Let¡¯s go.¡±


    He limped toward the door, keeping the katana¡¯s hiding spot in his peripheral vision. Can¡¯t leave that behind.


    Nathaniel fell into step beside him, voice low. ¡°Nice cover. She¡¯s got no clue.¡± He smirked, twirling the ring in his pocket.


    Arwyn¡¯s scar tingled, a faint echo of the fight. ¡°Cedric¡¯s got the painting...¡±


    Ria glanced over her shoulder, impatient. ¡°Quit mumbling, you two! Marco¡¯s gonna have a heart attack if we don¡¯t hustle.¡± She shoved the door wider, revealing the chaos outside. Smoke curled in the air, distant shouts, glass crunching underfoot.


    Arwyn stepped out, the cool wind of the night biting his bruised skin. He kept his expression neutral, burying the adrenaline still pumping through him.


    Ria couldn¡¯t know. Not about the sketches, not about Cedric, not about Terra Incognita. Never.


    Nathaniel flanked him, playing the loyal housekeeper, but his eyes glinted with something sharper. ¡°We¡¯ll grab that sword later,¡± he muttered. ¡°For now, act normal.¡±


    ¡°Normal¡¯s overrated,¡± Arwyn shot back under his breath, limping after Ria. Marco¡¯s silhouette loomed ahead, pacing by the car, hands tearing at his already rumpled hair.


    ¡°What the hell, Arwyn?!¡± Marco¡¯s voice cracked as they approached. ¡°Tell me you didn¡¯t get caught up in that mess! God¡­ and you have those bruises all over.¡±


    Arwyn shrugged, wincing. ¡°Just bad timing, Dad. Got knocked around when the crowd bolted. Sorry about the painting...¡±


    ¡°Just fuck the painting. Are you alright?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I¡¯ll live,¡± Arwyn said, forcing a grin. ¡°Tough night, huh?¡±


    Ria laughed, despite her worries. ¡°Just get in.¡±


    They piled into the car. Arwyn slumped in the back beside Nathaniel. The engine revved up, tires crushing the gravel. Marco muttered curses about auctions and thieves, oblivious to the real stakes.


    Arwyn kept his tone low. ¡°So, you got all four rings now, huh?¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    He smiled weakly. ¡°So¡­ You¡¯re goin¡¯ home.¡±


    Nathaniel laughed quietly as Marco and Ria continued their banter. As he put the final ring in his velvet box, his face softened. He was going home.


    But, he also had plans. ¡°You¡¯re coming.¡±


    Arwyn¡¯s brows arched. ¡°Huh? What do you mean I¡¯m coming¨C¡±


    ¡°Erasures, Arwyn. They¡¯ll come after you, from the other world.¡± He reached in his pocket, bringing out a small piece of paper. It slowly ripped. ¡°The conditions of the barrier between this Earth and Terra Incognita, kid. It¡¯s breaking, piece by piece.¡±


    His breathing deepened, hands clenching. ¡°You mean¡­¡± and he realized. ¡°No man¡­ I can¡¯t leave Dad like this.¡±


    ¡°No choice kid. Either watch the world as the barrier breaks, or you win, stronger than ever.¡±

 Chapter 9: Time Moves Slow

    As they drove home, all of them were silent. Ria watched the light posts flickering in the pitch-black streets; Marco kept his eyes on the road, while Arwyn slouched down, hands clasped as sweat dripped despite the cold air-conditioning in the car. He¡¯d catch a cold if he didn¡¯t change soon.


    As soon as Marco parked in the garage, he cracked a tired smile, glad he was okay. ¡°Sweet home,¡± he murmured.


    With a fatherly tone, he said, ¡°I¡¯ll get the crates. Arwyn, help Nate with the rest.¡±


    The trunk popped open with a click. Nathaniel hauled the larger items while Arwyn carried the rest inside. They opened the door, and a wave of comfort washed over Arwyn. He¡¯d never tire of the faint dust tickling his nose, the wooden tiles clacking under his feet as he walked.


    After setting down the items, Arwyn didn¡¯t change his clothes. Still in that sweaty tux, he shuffled to the garden out back. A man-made waterfall trickled nearby, its steady sound soothing as he sank into a plastic chair. He flipped open his sketchbook.


    The pages were messy now, full of random lines and curves, not his usual swords and guns. Too much sketching lately.


    Nathaniel followed, catching the blank look on his face. He set a glass of water on the glass table, resting his elbows down. ¡°You¡¯re thinking about it?¡±


    Arwyn didn¡¯t answer. He drew a bowl of fries and slammed his hand on the paper.


    The bowl popped out of the sketchbook, a few fries spilling onto the ground from the impact. He wasn¡¯t fazed and just grabbed two. He chewed them in one bite.


    ¡°Listen, kid. I know you¡¯re down and all, but¡ª¡±


    ¡°Please,¡± Arwyn murmured. ¡°Just¡­ leave me alone.¡±


    Nathaniel hesitated, then sighed, standing. ¡°Fine. Just don¡¯t let the fries get cold.¡±


    He walked off, grass crunching under his steps. The faint smell of water drifted as Arwyn sat there, pencil in hand.


    He looked up. Stars gleamed from afar, brighter than he¡¯d ever seen, since air pollution usually dulled them out. But tonight, it was as if the world tilted just enough to cheer him up. His eyes caught the glow, wide and intrigued.


    The moon was as shiny as the stars. The craters were sharp in his enhanced sight, a perk of his Passion Energy. It lit the page in his lap, soft and cold.


    He glanced down at the fries he¡¯d sketched. He took another bite, and it was juicy, tender, but nothing special.


    It was just¡­ there.


    His hands were half-frozen, and the pencil tip brushed the thick paper. The auction kept replaying. Cedric¡¯s smirk, that ink, ¡°Tell your mother I said hello.¡± Sleep wasn¡¯t coming anytime soon.


    So he stood, grabbed a small frame from inside. A young woman, crimson-red hair, hazel eyes like his.


    Arlene.


    He sat back down, set it beside the fries, and drew. A subtle line took shape as he stole glances at the sky.


    Each stroke poured a piece of him onto the page. It wasn¡¯t just Passion Energy, but something deeper, something that meant something. If Nathaniel saw this, he¡¯d have a proud-ass grin.


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    He sketched her arm stretching out, reaching past the page, like she could grab him. Leaves rustled as he drew the final line.


    He hesitated.


    The sketch flickered. His Quill-scar blazed warm-yellow, throbbing like a pulse. The sketchbook hummed low, vibrating under his fingers.


    A burn seared his hand¡ªhe yanked it back, pencil clattering to the ground. ¡°What the hell?!¡±


    His vision blurred a beat, then snapped back. The wind flipped the sketchbook to a blank page.


    He didn¡¯t wanna look.


    Didn¡¯t wanna think what¡¯d happen if he flipped back. That scar flare, the hum¡ªit knew what he¡¯d drawn. It felt¡­ alive.


    Arwyn stared at the blank page, the sketchbook trembling in his hands. His scar still pulsed, warm and faint, like a heartbeat not his own. The pencil lay on the ground, glinting under the moonlight, but he didn¡¯t pick it up. Couldn¡¯t. Not after that.


    He leaned back in the plastic chair, the waterfall¡¯s trickle filling the quiet. His eyes drifted¡ªfirst to the clear water, catching flecks of moonlight, then to the house. Its windows were dark except for a faint glow from the living room. The garden stretched around him, shadows of leaves swaying soft as well as the grass. It smelled like damp earth and home, the kind of smell that stuck in your bones.


    And then, he thought about Marco. His dad, asleep on the couch probably, worn out from the auction from Cedric¡¯s interference from 18 years of carrying a ghost in a painting. Marco didn¡¯t know¡ªdidn¡¯t see the shield, the net, the katana he forgot to get from the auction, and the ink Arwyn fought off. But if he stayed¡­ what then? One slip, one sketch gone wrong, and Marco¡¯d be in the crossfire.


    No. He couldn¡¯t let that happen.


    It left Ria. Her door would be shut by then, thermos dented but still cracking dry jabs in her sleep, probably. She¡¯d sniffed too close tonight.


    ¡°What¡¯s with the notebook, Picasso?¡± That¡¯s what she¡¯d mutter if she saw him out here. If he stayed, she¡¯d dig. She¡¯d figure it out. And then what? Drag her into this mess? Rings, Terra Incognita, Cedric¡¯s games?


    No. She didn¡¯t deserve that.


    His chest tightened, maybe heavier like the crates he¡¯d hauled earlier. For the first time, he let the thought settle, let it sink deep. He couldn¡¯t stay. Not with the ring in his pocket, not with his scar pumping static on his arm, and definitely not with Cedric¡¯s ¡°Tell your mother I said hello.¡± clawing at his skull.


    Staying meant danger. It meant Marco waking up one day to a son he didn¡¯t recognize, or worse, a son he¡¯d bury next to Arlene. Or maybe the worst, Arwyn watching his father and all of his closest friends buried at the same cemetery as Arlene¡¯s.


    Arwyn¡¯s hands shook¨Cnot from cold, not from fatigue, but from the weight of it.


    Leaving.


    He¡¯d never said it out loud, never let it form fully in his head till now. But it was there, solid as the katana he¡¯d sliced that apple with. He couldn¡¯t ignore it anymore.


    So he stood slowly, and the chair creaked under him. The bowl of fries sat untouched, cold now. He grabbed the frame of Arlene¡¯s face, crimson hair blazing even in the dim¡ªand tucked it under his arm with the sketchbook.


    The living room was dark. It was just the faint flicker of a lamp. Marco sprawled on the couch, out cold, one arm dangling, snores soft. Exhausted. Arwyn paused, watching him a beat. His dad¡¯s face slack, lines deeper than they should be for a guy his age.


    ¡°Night, Dad,¡± he whispered, so quiet it barely stirred the air.


    Upstairs, Ria¡¯s door was closed, a faint glow under the crack¡ªprobably crashed with her clipboard still in hand. Arwyn¡¯s lips twitched, picturing her muttering about ¡°Houdini shit¡± in her sleep. He didn¡¯t knock. Didn¡¯t need to.


    But Nathaniel waited by the kitchen, leaning on the counter, arms crossed. No smirk this time, just a steady gaze, and his green eyes sharp in the dark. He didn¡¯t say a word. Didn¡¯t have to. The nod he gave was enough. He¡¯d known Arwyn enough that it would get here, one way or another.


    He just needed the kid to figure it out himself.


    Arwyn clutched his sketchbook tighter, the frame digging into his side. His hands were steady now¨Cno shake, no doubt. The scar still hummed, faint but warm, like it was waiting too.


    ¡°Let¡¯s go,¡± he said, voice low but solid.


    Nathaniel pushed off the counter, grabbing a jacket from the hook. No big speeches or dramatic exits. Just two shadows slipping out the door, leaving the house behind. The night swallowed them whole, stars still gleaming above, as Arwyn walked away from everything he¡¯d ever known.


    ¡°We¡¯re going back to the auction hall, kid,¡± Nathaniel instructed firmly. ¡°To where Cedric voided out. Get your katana as well. You ain¡¯t surviving Terra Incognita with Dream Sketching alone.¡±

 Chapter 10: Terra Incognita

    The night air bit at Arwyn¡¯s skin as he and Nathaniel walked through the empty streets, and the faint glow of streetlights flickered like they knew something was coming. His sketchbook was tucked under his arm. His scar still hummed from the garden flare, warm and restless, itching for a fight.


    Nathaniel walked a step ahead, hands in his pockets, the four Dreamer Rings glinting faintly on his fingers. Chronos, Gaia, Eos, Nyx.


    No words since they¡¯d left Marco¡¯s place. The silence between them was heavy, loaded with everything Arwyn wasn¡¯t saying. About leaving Marco snoring on the couch, Ria¡¯s door creaking open, and the ache in his chest as he¡¯d whispered ¡°Night, Dad.¡±


    ¡°You good, kid?¡± Nathaniel finally grunted, not looking back.


    Arwyn¡¯s grip tightened on the sketchbook. ¡°Yeah. Just¡­ ready to get this over with.¡±


    Nathaniel snorted. ¡°Over? This isn¡¯t the end, kid. It¡¯s the start.¡±


    ¡°Great. I cannot wait.¡± Sarcasm dripped, but his gut twisted. Terra Incognita. The name alone sounded like a death sentence.


    They turned a corner, the auction hall neared with a menacing aura. It had no more lights, the rubble around still wasn¡¯t cleaned, and the yellow police tape surrounded the hall. There also were cracks on the building¡¯s high-quality concrete that was said to ¡®last for a thousand years¡¯.


    As they strolled closer, Arwyn¡¯s scar prickled sharper now, a warning. The air felt thick, charged, like static before a storm.


    Nathaniel slowed, eyes narrowing. ¡°Feel that?¡±


    Arwyn nodded, throat dry. ¡°Erasures?¡±


    ¡°Probably.¡± Then a sound. Nathaniel stopped abruptly. ¡°Grab your katana, quick. We don¡¯t got time for a welcome party.¡±


    They stepped inside, the wrecked hall stretching out in shadows. The shattered chandelier glinted under moonlight, ink-stained floors slick underfoot.


    Arwyn slid under the seat from last night, fingers brushing the katana¡¯s sheath. It was still there, cold and solid. He strapped it tighter, standing just as a hiss split the silence. He hadn¡¯t figured out how to carry it without looking like a cosplayer.


    Shadows on the walls stretched, peeling free into glitching humanoid forms¡ªErasures, limbs jagged like torn paper, drawn by the rift¡¯s echo and his 5,000-poule spike.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be opening the void,¡± Nathaniel continued walking too casually, though he looked back, eyes glaring at Arwyn. ¡°Hold them.¡±


    Arwyn¡¯s pencil flew faster now compared to hours before. A flash grenade, crude but quick. He slammed his palm down, the page flaring yellow. The grenade burst into reality, and he lobbed it. Light exploded, Erasures screeching as they dissolved into static. His head spun. 5,500 poules weren¡¯t enough to shrug off a sketch that fast.


    The stage creaked under their weight, the spot where Cedric¡¯s rift had snapped shut still scorched black. Nathaniel knelt, placing the four Dreamer Rings in a circle. Chronos gold, Gaia green, Eos blue, Nyx purple. Each pulsed as he opened the diary, reciting in a low chant:


    ¡°The First Sketcher wept four tears, forging barriers to hold the dream.¡± Nathaniel spoke nonchalantly, but the rings flared, beams connecting in a star. Space tore open. It was a swirling void of ink and starlight, with voices that were whispering with distant screams.


    Arwyn¡¯s sketchbook jolted in his grip, humming violently. His scar burned, Passion Energy surging. Nathaniel would¡¯ve pegged it at 6,000 poules if he weren¡¯t so focused.


    ¡°Holy,¡± Arwyn breathed, the pull yanking at his core.


    Though there was one Erasure that remained, lunging towards him like it had nothing to lose. Arwyn¡¯s vision snapped back, unsheathing the katana out of muscle memory.


    With little to no skill or experience in holding or slashing the katana despite his enhanced senses, he gripped the handle with his two hands and rushed towards it.


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    ¡°You little shi¨C¡±


    But it readied a slam before he had the time to thrust the sword to it. Arwyn reacted quickly and barely dodged, part of his arm grazed its unusually long and sharp arm.


    Arwyn¡¯s scar blazed, Passion Energy surging.


    6,000 poules.


    He could feel it, a buzz in his veins like static. His sketchbook jolted again, pages fluttering open on their own. He didn¡¯t have time to think. The Erasure lunged once more, faster, its scream rattling the broken chandelier above.


    ¡°Kid!¡± Nathaniel barked, finally looking up, diary flaring gold in his hands. ¡°Finish it or we¡¯re dead!¡±


    Arwyn dropped the katana¡ªtoo slow, too heavy for his rookie ass¡ªand flipped to a blank page mid-step. Pencil flew: a spiked chain, jagged and crude. He slammed his palm down, the page flaring yellow, brighter than before. The chain burst into reality, whipping forward as he yanked it tight around the Erasure¡¯s neck. It thrashed, glitching harder, then dissolved into static with an ear-splitting wail.


    GAAAARGHHH!


    6,000 poules weren¡¯t enough to shrug off a sketch and a fight. Blood dripped from his grazed arm, mixing with sweat as he panted. ¡°Done,¡± he rasped, grabbing the katana off the floor, strapping it back on.


    The rift shuddered, unstable. Black tendrils spilled out¡ªErasures, dozens, their forms glitching faster than before. ¡°They¡¯re coming through!¡± Arwyn yelled, drawing a spiked net mid-step. He slammed the page, tossing it into the swarm. The net pinned half, but the rest lunged.


    Nathaniel slashed with his dagger, ink splattering. ¡°We jump! NOW!¡±


    Arwyn didn¡¯t think. They just jumped, Nathaniel at Arwyn¡¯s side, Erasures clawing at their heels. The void snapped shut behind them with a crack.


    It felt like dying as they travelled, his body torn apart, stitched back in a heartbeat, ink flooding his lungs, light searing his eyes. Flashes burned through the chaos:skies bleeding crimson, and abandoned sketches writhing in the distance that screamed for form.


    His sketchbook flared, pages flipping on their own. Arwyn¡¯s hand moved instinctively, pencil scribbling a crude shield mid-fall. He slammed his palm down, Passion Energy spiking, the shield bursting around them as they plummeted.


    He couldn¡¯t scream. Felt like drowning too.


    Then¨C


    They crashed through a door. Ancient wood, moss-covered, untouched for millennia.. They burst into reality with a splintering crack. Arwyn hit grass first, rolling across a soft expanse, the shield dissolving into ash. Nathaniel landed beside him, cursing as the door slammed shut behind them with a hollow boom, moss flaking off like dust.


    ¡°Ah shit!¡± Nathaniel said, tumbling down head¨Cfirst.


    Arwyn coughed, spitting ink, pushing up to his knees. Grass stretched out in all directions. The blades shimmered faintly like they¡¯d been sketched with too much care. The sky above swirled crimson and violet, streaks of gold pulsing like veins.


    ¡°Welcome to Terra Incognita,¡± Nathaniel said, voice low as he stood. ¡°Nice at first, but well¡­ Let¡¯s just say your world¡¯s better, kid.¡±


    Nathaniel scanned the horizon, the crimson-violet sky casting shadows across his face. ¡°We spawned in the safer regions. Didn¡¯t think we¡¯d land this close to civilization. That¡¯s¡­ lucky.¡±


    Arwyn followed his gaze. The grass parted slightly, revealing a half-formed bird. The bird¡¯s wings curled upward, glinting like it¡¯d been drawn mid-flight. It pulsed once, feathers trembling as if trying to lift off, then faded back into the earth, waiting for someone to finish it. ¡°What the hell¡­?¡±


    Even Nathaniel was confused, eyes narrowing to take a closer look. ¡°Now that¡¯s¡­ one species I haven¡¯t seen before.¡±


    Arwyn walked first, taking in the blissful smell of new nature that sprawled across that world. In the distance was a castle, surrounded by an uncountable amount of houses, which were also surrounded by a cobblestone barrier that closed off the rest of the landscape.


    ¡°This world¡¯s a canvas,¡± Nathaniel said, voice low. ¡°Dream Sketchers built it¨Cyour kind. Every stroke here can spark life¡­ or ruin it.¡± He pulled out the diary, flipping to a page. It glowed faintly, gold light spilling across the grass. ¡°The First Sketcher walked these fields. Left ¡®em for us to claim¡ªor destroy.¡±


    Arwyn crouched, running a hand over the grass. It felt too real¡ªsoft but with an edge, like it could cut if he pressed hard enough. He flipped open his sketchbook, pencil hovering over a blank page. ¡°So if I draw something here¡­¡±


    ¡°It¡¯ll breathe,¡± Nathaniel finished. ¡°But it¡¯ll cost more than poules. Terra Incognita¡¯s got a hunger. It¡¯ll take more than Passion Energy to feed it.¡±


    Arwyn hesitated, then drew a quick apple. Small, simple, just a test. He pressed his palm down, the page flaring yellow. The apple popped into reality, rolling onto the grass, but the air shifted around it, grass blades curling toward it like they were sniffing. His scar burned sharper.


    6,100 poules, perhaps, and a faint ache bloomed in his chest, deeper than before.


    ¡°Careful, kid,¡± Nathaniel warned, eyes on the grass. ¡°Every sketch here leaves a mark. Draws attention.¡±


    Arwyn picked up the apple, biting into it¡ªcrisp, real, but with a faint tang of ink that lingered on his tongue. He smirked despite himself. ¡°Worth it.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve got bigger bites to take. Let¡¯s move.¡±


    Arwyn tucked the sketchbook under his arm, adjusting the katana on his belt. The ache in his chest didn¡¯t fade, but neither did his smirk. Terra Incognita waited, and now it was already watching.

 Chapter 11: The Merchant

    The crimson glow pulsed on the horizon. Cedric was out there, somewhere, and the Phoenix Quill with him. Arlene¡¯s ghost rode every breath he took now. The ache in his chest hadn¡¯t faded since the apple, sharp and deep, but he grit his teeth and kept moving.


    Nathaniel trudged beside him, the four rings glinting faintly¡ªChronos, Gaia, Eos, Nyx. ¡°Your steps are louder,¡± he grunted, nodding at the grass. It curled tighter around Arwyn¡¯s boots than his, shimmering like it was tasting him. ¡°6,000 poules¡¯ll do that. You¡¯re waking this place up.¡±


    ¡°Screw that,¡± Arwyn muttered, scar humming warm. The sky was darkening fast. Stars flickered like bad sketches. ¡°We need light.¡± He flipped open his sketchbook, pencil scratching a small lantern. He slammed his palm down, the page flaring yellow. The lantern popped out, glowing bright¡ªtoo bright, a beacon in the dark.


    The grass lunged, blades curling around it like fingers, draining the light into ash in seconds. Pain spiked through Arwyn¡¯s chest, sharper than before. He dropped to his knees, gasping, poules dipping to 5,900. ¡°G-God¡­¡±


    ¡°Oi, what manner o¡¯ foolery be this?¡± a voice boomed, thick and rolling like it belonged in a tavern 500 years past. Arwyn¡¯s head snapped up. A figure emerged from the grass. It was a wiry man, bearded and weathered, draped in a patchwork cloak stitched with glinting trinkets. He hauled a rickety cart behind him, wheels creaking, piled high with oddities: half-drawn swords, glowing vials, a birdcage with no bird.


    Nathaniel¡¯s hand clenched, but the merchant raised a palm, grinning yellowed teeth. ¡°Peace, lads! I be no brigand. Just a humble peddler o¡¯ wares, traversin¡¯ these accursed fields.¡± His eyes flicked to the ashen lantern, then Arwyn¡¯s sketchbook. ¡°Thou¡¯rt a scribbler, eh? Rare sight, that.¡±


    Arwyn pushed up, wincing, katana bumping his thigh. ¡°Scribbler?¡±


    ¡°Aye, one o¡¯ them dream-weavers what doodle life from naught,¡± the merchant said, accent chewing every word. ¡°Seen around seven in me time, but none so green as thee, though.¡± He squinted at Nathaniel, grin fading. ¡°Hold a tick¡­ thy face. I¡¯ve glimpsed it afore, in tales spun two thousand winters past. The Blue-Haired Boy, they called ¡®im. A legend what vanished into the void.¡±


    Nathaniel¡¯s jaw tightened, green eyes narrowing. It had been a long time since he¡¯d ever heard a name like that. He attempted to brush it off. ¡°You¡¯ve got the wrong guy, old man.¡±


    The merchant chuckled, low and rough. ¡°Mayhap. But time¡¯s a fickle wench here. Two millennia in Terra Incognita¡¯s but a blink elsewhere, they say.¡± He tapped his temple, winking at Arwyn. ¡°Legends don¡¯t die. They just wander off.¡±


    Arwyn¡¯s gut twisted. 25 years on Earth, 2000 here? Nathaniel¡¯s 25 years away meant¡­


    ¡°You¡¯ve been gone that long?¡± he hissed, glaring at Nathaniel.


    ¡°Later,¡± Nathaniel snapped, voice cold. He turned to the merchant. ¡°What¡¯s your game, peddler?¡±


    ¡°No game, milord!¡± The merchant bowed mockingly, cart creaking as he shifted. ¡°I roam, I trade. Headed for yon crimson towers. Runar, they name it. A land o¡¯ wild sketches and wilder folk. Heard tell o¡¯ a dark ¡®un named Satsuma passin¡¯ through, chasin¡¯ whispers o¡¯ a quill what rewrites fate. Farther still lies Sketcher¡¯s Rest, but that¡¯s a journey for madmen or heroes.¡±


    Arwyn¡¯s scar flared yellow at ¡°Satsuma¡±. Cedric¡¯s bloodline.


    ¡°Where¡¯d you hear that?¡±


    ¡°Whispers in the grass,¡± the merchant said, shrugging. ¡°This place talks, if ye listen.¡± He rummaged in his cart, pulling out a small, cracked mirror etched with runes. ¡°Take this, scribbler¡ªfree o¡¯ charge. Reflects more¡¯n thy pretty face. Might aid thee in Runar.¡±


    Arwyn grabbed it, the glass cool and heavy. The grass twitched as he tucked it into his jacket, like it smelled the trade. Nathaniel¡¯s eyes flicked to the horizon. Those crimson spires were sharper now, a city of jagged sketches clawing the sky.


    ¡°Move on, old man,¡± Nathaniel said, tone flat. ¡°And keep your legends to yourself.¡±


    The merchant tipped an imaginary hat, chuckling as he hauled his cart away, trinkets clinking. ¡°Fare thee well, Blue-Haired Boy. Mind the fields, they hunger for more¡¯n lanterns.¡±


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Arwyn watched him vanish into the grass, the ache in his chest pulsing with his scar. He flipped open his sketchbook again, sketching a quick bandage for his grazed arm. Careful, small. The page flared softer, the bandage wrapping tight, but the grass shivered around it, blades sniffing. His poules held at 5,900, but that ache deepened, as if a warning.


    Nathaniel adjusted the rings on his fingers, voice low. ¡°Sketcher¡¯s Rest, huh? That¡¯s where Cedric¡¯s headed. Let¡¯s go, kid, before this place eats us alive.¡±


    Something rustled in the grass behind them faintly, but closer than the merchant¡¯s cart. Arwyn gripped his katana tighter. Terra Incognita was listening.


    ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± He couldn¡¯t help but ask Nathaniel, though even he didn¡¯t know anything about this new world despite it being his homeland.


    ¡°Don¡¯t ask me,¡± he said with a small titter. ¡°Ain¡¯t visited this for two millennia. Expect me to know little to nothing, kid.¡±


    The world had gone dark, the moon shining as it rose from the east. Unlike the city he lived on Earth, the stars visible in the sky were uncountable. The crimson sky lightened, replaced by a peaceful and calm night, accompanied by the nearby crickets¡¯ croaking.


    Arwyn, still hurt from the earlier sketches, still focused his attention on Nathaniel. ¡°So, 2000 years?¡±


    Nathaniel reached inside his jacket, bringing out the Delacroix Diary. ¡°I brought it for you to learn faster.¡±


    ¡°Yeah? What else do you have there?¡±


    ¡°A couple of books from your dad¡¯s bookshelves, and your Glock,¡± Nathaniel responded, flipping the diary to another page. The concept of time in Terra Incognita wasn¡¯t available in the book, till he¡¯d flip the book to the final, auto-written work.


    ¡°Hey kid, your volume just updated. I¡¯ll read it out for you.¡± And so, Nathaniel recited it as they slowly walked towards Runar. At that point, they walked for hours, from Marco¡¯s house to the outskirts of Runar. Even so, they weren¡¯t tired¡ªnot a single bit.


    ¡°Time bends here, like ink on wet parchment. A day on Earth is 80 on Terra Incognita, they say. Even the stars lie in this place. The merchant spoke of Runar, a city of jagged sketches and wild souls. He called it a land of chaos, where dreams bleed into nightmares and nightmares into truth.¡±


    Arwyn mockingly sighed, though his mind worked like a flash, calculating how much time would pass on Earth from a year in Terra Incognita. He was already considered smart in his mathematics, but with these newfound senses of his, his skill increased significantly.


    ¡®There¡­ Using inverse variations¡­ Then that¡­¡¯ It¡¯d only take him a few seconds to think.


    ¡°So, a day on Earth is 80 days in Terra Incognita, huh?¡± Arwyn asked, reassuring Nathaniel just after a moment of silence. Unfazed, Nathaniel nodded as he kept his gaze at front.


    With a smirk, Arwyn was confident with his calculations. ¡°If a day on Earth is 80 days, then one year here is just like¡­ 4 and a half days there.¡±


    He chuckled, turning his eyes to Arwyn with amusement. ¡°Well well, you finally got something right, genius.¡±


    Then a shooting star from above drifted from west to east, brighter than the other stars and enough to comprehend. Arwyn, his first time seeing one, smiled with gleaming eyes. He pointed to the star as it travelled. ¡°Look! A shooting star!¡±


    ¡°In here, they say a shooting star means fortune for someone who sees it.¡± Nathaniel took a deep, refreshing sigh and sat on the downwards terrain. The night wind blew in front, just right. ¡°Terra Incognita¡¯s a place of dreams and nightmares, kid. I bet you¡¯ll like it here, and I bet your father would too.¡±


    Arwyn still stood, letting go of the lantern. It pressed the rustling grass as it landed. ¡°I¡¯d agree. He told me once that his bucket list was to go somewhere in Europe, where we could live in a cabin somewhere far from the city. There¡¯d be mountains, rivers, trees and all.¡±


    The grass under the lantern twitched harder, blades curling up like they remembered it¡ªthen stopped, flattening out as if listening. Arwyn¡¯s scar pulsed faintly, a warm flicker syncing with the night¡¯s hum. He pulled the cracked mirror from his jacket, turning it over in his hands. The runes etched into its frame glinted under the moonlight, and for a split second, the glass flickered¡ªnot his reflection, but a shadow moving fast, too blurry to make out.


    ¡°What the¡­¡± Arwyn squinted, tilting it. The flicker vanished, leaving just his tired face staring back. There was his hazel eyes, messy hair, and his scar glowing soft yellow.


    Nathaniel glanced over, still sprawled on the slope. ¡°Told you that peddler¡¯s junk¡¯s more than it seems. Keep it close. Runar¡¯s gonna test us.¡± He tapped the diary against his knee, voice dropping. ¡°That ¡®Satsuma¡¯ bit? Cedric¡¯s been here, alright. Left a trail even the grass can¡¯t shut up about.¡±


    Arwyn tucked the mirror back, his smirk fading. ¡°Then I guess we¡¯re following it. Quill or not, he¡¯s got the answers.¡± He stepped forward, boots sinking into the grass, the rustling louder now¡ªnot crickets, not wind, but something shifting beneath. The terrain dipped sharper ahead, Runar¡¯s crimson towers looming closer, their jagged edges cutting the starlight like broken pencils.


    Nathaniel stood, brushing dirt off his jacket. ¡°Answers don¡¯t come cheap here, kid. Neither does fortune.¡± He nodded at the lantern, still dim on the ground. ¡°Next time, sketch something that fights back.¡±


    The rustling grew, like a low, scraping hum. Arwyn¡¯s hand hovered over his sketchbook, scar flaring brighter¨Cnot from danger, but from determination.

 Chapter 12: Cobblestone

    It¡¯d take them around a day to reach Runar¡¯s big stone wall that separated the continent from the outskirts. The sun rose, and the wind blew just fine. As they approached it, there was a whole camp of soldiers standing guard.


    Arwyn clutched the Delacroix Diary, its leather warm against his palms. His scar tingled, 5,900 poules buzzing steady in his veins. His Passion Energy was yet to be fully recovered. ¡°Can¡¯t we use the diary to check what the old Dream Sketchers did here?¡± he asked, thumbing the pages. Blank. Useless unless Nathaniel played narrator.


    Nathaniel leaned against a pine tree, its trunk thicker than any Earth-grown giant, smirking like he was sizing up an old foe. ¡°Your family? Shit, kid, they transmigrated to Earth over two thousand years ago¡ªback when I was still kicking around this dump.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean, transmigrated?¡± Arwyn¡¯s hazel eyes narrowed, the diary trembling faintly in his grip.


    Nathaniel raised a hand, pointer finger up, the rest clenched. ¡°Later.¡± He nodded toward the wall. ¡°For now, we¡¯ve got that to crack. Runar¡¯s a beast. Those guards down there? Seasoned like steak. Might have magic tricks up their sleeves that¡¯ll whoop us if we¡¯re not sharp.¡±


    Arwyn squinted. The camp stirred, with smoke curling from a fire, a dozen soldiers in patchwork armor glinting with inked designs. Serpent-hilted swords, shields etched with glowing vines. One paced with a spear that hummed, its tip flickering like a sketch gone glitchy. ¡°Dream-forged gear,¡± Nathaniel muttered, voice low. ¡°They¡¯ve got Sketchers¡ªor scavenged their scraps.¡±


    Finally, a soldier noticed the two standing out in the open. His shout cut the air. ¡°Halt! State your mark!¡± He pointed, armor clanking as the camp snapped alert.


    Nathaniel cursed under his breath. ¡°Shit. Arwyn, stay back.¡± He cleared his throat. ¡°So uhh, we came to see a friend that lives here in this place.¡±


    Meanwhile, Arwyn pinched the bridge of his own nose. ¡®Fucking hell¡­ This man doesn¡¯t know how to talk shit.¡¯


    ¡°Friend, huh?¡± The guard¡¯s voice was gravel, his spear tilting forward. ¡°Then we need confirmation! Hand over your IDs, and we¡¯ll see about letting you pass.¡±


    Nathaniel huffed, disbelief dripping from every syllable. ¡°Since when did Runar need IDs to pass?!¡±


    The soldier stiffened, gripping his spear tighter. ¡°Since the wars of the fourteen continents, over two thousand years ago! Have you lived under a rock?¡± His tone sharpened, firm as the stone behind him. ¡°Now, I must ask for your IDs, travelers.¡±


    Arwyn snorted, stepping up beside Nathaniel. ¡°Two thousand years? Buddy, he¡¯s been gone longer than your wall¡¯s been standing. Cut us some slack.¡±


    The soldier¡¯s eyes flicked to Arwyn, sizing him up. Scar, sketchbook, the faint yellow hum in his veins. ¡°And you, kid? You reek of ink. What¡¯s your story?¡±


    ¡°Tourist,¡± Arwyn deadpanned, holding up the diary like a prop. ¡°Heard Runar¡¯s got great views. Crimson towers, markets, the works. Thought we¡¯d pop in, grab a souvenir.¡±


    Nathaniel shot him a sidelong glance, lips twitching. ¡°Yeah, what he said. We¡¯re harmless. Just two guys looking for¡­ what¡¯s his name again, kid?¡±


    ¡°Uh, Greg,¡± Arwyn said, picking the dumbest name he could muster. ¡°Big guy, likes ale, probably owes you lot some money.¡±


    The soldier didn¡¯t blink. ¡°Greg, huh? No Gregs on the ledger. And you¡ª¡± he jabbed his spear toward Nathaniel. ¡°¡ªyou talk like you¡¯ve been here before. Before the wall?¡±


    Nathaniel shrugged, leaning harder against the pine. ¡°Maybe I have. Place changes, though. Used to be open fields, chaos, good times. Now it¡¯s all runes and paperwork. What¡¯s next, toll booths?¡±


    The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    A second soldier, a wiry woman with a vine-etched shield, stepped forward with a smirk. ¡°Funny man. Fields are gone ¡®cause of filth like you. Wall keeps the mess out. So, IDs now or we drag you to the pit.¡±


    Arwyn raised a brow. ¡°Well, the pit sounds cozy, but we¡¯re on a schedule. Look, we don¡¯t have your fancy tattoos or whatever ¡®mark¡¯ you¡¯re after. How about a trade? Info for entry?¡±


    The first soldier scowled. ¡°Info? What could you know that¡¯s worth a damn?¡±


    Nathaniel straightened, grin fading to something sharper. ¡°How about some information about invisibility magic? I got a grimoire packed in my bag, written by my pal over here. And that wall? My pal¡¯s bloodline built it. Show some respect for the Delacroix.¡±


    The woman laughed, short and harsh. ¡°Delacroix, huh? Heard that name in legends. Traitors, deserters, outcasts. They fled when the fighting got thick. You expect us to roll out the carpet for that shit?¡±


    ¡°Fled?¡± Arwyn snapped, scar flaring hotter. ¡°My family didn¡¯t flee. They survived. And I¡¯m here now, so maybe I¡¯m fixing their mess. Let us in, and you might not have to deal with whatever¡¯s sniffing around out here.¡±


    The lead soldier¡¯s spear hummed louder, runes on his armor flickering. ¡°Smell that ink on you, kid. You¡¯re no tourist.¡±


    ¡°Trouble¡¯s already here,¡± Nathaniel cut in, nodding past the wall. ¡°Runar¡¯s towers are leaking Passion Energy. I can feel it from here. You think that wall¡¯s holding? Something¡¯s awake outside, and we¡¯re the ones who can handle it. Lock us out, and the only thing I can do is wish y¡¯all good luck when it spills over.¡±


    The woman hesitated, glancing at her captain. ¡°He¡¯s¡­ not wrong. Patrols reported glitches near the spires. Half-sketched beasts, shadows and entities moving fast. Could be Erasures.¡±


    The captain¡¯s jaw tightened, spear still raised. ¡°And so, it could be you stirring it up. No mark, no entry. Rules are rules, rogues.¡±


    Arwyn smirked, flipping open his sketchbook¡ªnot to draw, just to flash the pages. ¡°Rules? I¡¯ve got a diary that says my family¡¯s been breaking those for generations. Let us through, and I¡¯ll sketch you a nice spear-sharpener. Deal?¡±


    The woman snorted. ¡°Tempting, but we don¡¯t trade with strays.¡±


    Nathaniel crossed his arms, Ring of Chronos glinting faintly. ¡°Then how about this: I¡¯ve walked Runar when it was just dust and dreams. I know where the old gates, the old pirate treasure lie. The ones your maps forgot. Let us in, or I whisper their spots to every scavenger out here. Your Great Wall of China won¡¯t mean shit then.¡±


    The captain¡¯s eyes narrowed, but a flicker of doubt crossed his face. ¡°You¡¯re bluffing.¡±


    ¡°Oh really? Then try me,¡± Nathaniel said, voice flat. ¡°Two thousand years is a long time to forget secrets, soldiers.¡±


    Silence hung, thick as the smoke curling from the camp. The woman shifted, muttering to the captain, ¡°If they¡¯re Delacroix, they might know something. Pit¡¯s full anyway. Let ¡®em in, tag ¡®em as risks. We¡¯ll watch them as they go.¡±


    The other soldier was against her claim. ¡°Boss, you know what happens when we have ¡®em runnin¡¯ the lot. We get fired, or worse. They¡¯ll chop our heads off.¡±


    The captain glared, then lowered his spear an inch. He glanced at the woman soldier, then the denying one. Considering the options, it was a harder decision, but the bluff was too good to be one. Though at the same time, letting them in might cause a whole scene of chaos and then¡ª


    With a deep sigh to at least try and erase the overthinking in his mind, the captain made the decision.


    ¡°Fine. Cross, but you¡¯re marked now. One slip, and you¡¯re ash. Now move.¡±


    Arwyn exhaled, tucking the diary away. ¡°Pleasure doing business.¡± He stepped past, Nathaniel falling in beside him, smirking again.


    ¡°Told you I can talk shit,¡± Nathaniel murmured.


    ¡°Barely,¡± Arwyn shot back, but his lips twitched.


    They crossed the wall, Runar sprawling below¡ªjagged towers of stone and concrete, streets alive with figures in medieval garb. Men in tunics and braies, some layered with doublets or cloaks, hose tucked into leather turnshoes. Women in kirtles, wimples or barbettes framing their faces, fillets adding flair. Arwyn¡¯s black faux leather jacket, denim pants, and sneakers stood out like a glitch. Nathaniel ditched the tire from his head, spiky blue hair free under a puffer jacket and khakis.


    Eyes followed them¡ªshocked, confused, amazed. They were celebrities in a crowd of history.


    Arwyn¡¯s scar pulsed, the diary jolting in his pack. He pulled it free¡ªnew ink bled across a page: ¡°Generation 120: Arwyn Delacroix. The Wall bends when the Quill stirs.¡±


    His breath caught. Something watched from Runar¡¯s heart, and they¡¯d talked their way into its jaws. Nathaniel stared at the city, and muttered.


    ¡°Everything¡¯s different.¡±

 Chapter 13: Downtown

    The air buzzed thick¡ªnot just with Arwyn¡¯s 5,900 poules, but with Runar¡¯s own pulse, alive and jagged, pressing against his skin.


    Arwyn clutched the Delacroix Diary, its leather warm and heavy. His scar stung, a dull ache radiating from the yellow glow beneath his jacket. ¡°This place feels like it¡¯s sizing us up,¡± he muttered, flipping the diary open.


    He snapped the diary shut, hazel eyes darting over the crowd. His faux leather jacket and denim stuck out like a glitch in this medieval sprawl. He half-wanted to sketch a tunic just to stop the stares.


    Nathaniel stood beside him, spiky blue hair free now that he¡¯d ditched the tire prop, his puffer jacket unzipped over khakis. He smirked, but his eyes were sharp, scanning the chaos. ¡°Different¡¯s putting it tame and mild, kid. Last time I walked these streets, the towers were stumps, and they didn¡¯t breathe like a damn generator.¡±


    The Ring of Chronos glinted on his finger as he tilted his head toward a merchant slamming his stall shut. ¡°We¡¯re not exactly rolling out the welcome mat.¡±


    The crowd¡¯s eyes tracked them. Some were curious, and some were cold as steel. A man in a crimson robe, liripipe hood dangling past his shoulder, spat at their feet, hissing ¡°Delacroix¡± like a curse.


    Then another kid at the opposite side tugged his father¡¯s braies, pointing at Nathaniel¡¯s jacket.


    ¡°Papa, he¡¯s from the void!¡±


    The word rippled through the throng. Void, ink-blood, cursed, and Arwyn¡¯s scar pulsed harder. ¡°Great,¡± he muttered. ¡°Well, we¡¯re celebrities already.¡±


    Nathaniel nudged him forward. ¡°Keep moving, kid. Your name¡¯s poison here, so let¡¯s not test how deep it runs yet. We¡¯re going to the spire to find more of your ability. Diary¡¯s not enough.¡±


    They hadn¡¯t gone ten steps when a shadow darted from an alley. A street rat, all grubby tunic and bare feet, with a smile that glinted yellow. The man lunged for Arwyn¡¯s sketchbook. Fingers brushed the edge before Arwyn snagged the kid¡¯s wrist, scar flaring hot.


    ¡°Nice try, punk,¡± Arwyn growled, grip tight. The kid squirmed, eyes wide as saucers.


    ¡°You glow like the cursed ones!¡± The man¡¯s voice cracked, high and panicked, before he wrenched free and bolted, vanishing into the crowd.


    Arwyn flexed his hand, rattled. ¡°Glow? Is my energy that obvious, huh?¡± He tucked the sketchbook closer, scar still throbbing.


    Nathaniel¡¯s smirk faded. ¡°Glow¡¯s gonna get us killed, kid. Keep that scar under wraps¡ªor at least stop flashing it like a damn beacon. You don¡¯t know how to conceal it yet.¡± He nodded toward the skyline, where the spire pierced the clouds, its peak pulsing faint yellow¡ªlike Arwyn¡¯s own energy.


    ¡°That¡¯s our play. If your family left answers, they¡¯re there¡­ Maybe.¡±


    The streets twisted as they moved. The cobblestone gave way to patches of dirt, then back again, like Runar couldn¡¯t decide its shape.


    A horn blared somewhere ahead, and a patrol of soldiers marched past, armor etched with glowing runes. ¡°No selling without a mark!¡± one barked at a trembling vendor, whose cart collapsed into piles of wood mid-plea.


    Nathaniel muttered, ¡°They¡¯ve locked it down tight. We¡¯re walking a thin line.¡±


    The Crimson Spire loomed closer, its base ringed by guards. Their spears hummed louder than the wall crew¡¯s, tips flickering with that same glitchy light. A captain stepped forward. He was taller, armor pulsing red, a serpent-hilted sword at his hip.


    ¡°No mark, no entry,¡± he said, voice flat. His eyes narrowed, raking over them. ¡°You¡¯re the strays from the wall, eh? Delacroix, they say. Spire¡¯s locked. Last of your kind burned here.¡±


    Arwyn¡¯s jaw clenched, scar itching to flare, but he swallowed the retort. ¡°Burned, huh? Good to know.¡±


    Nathaniel shrugged, hands in his pockets. ¡°The Spire wasn¡¯t locked the last time we were here.¡±


    The captain laughed, coughing. ¡°Well then! Seems you¡¯ve travelled the seas for two thousand years, eh?¡± His laugh quickly turned to a dark, serious expression. ¡°Out, before I inform the Royal Guard.


    This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.


    Nathaniel took a deep sigh, then nodded in acceptance. ¡°We¡¯ll be back. Keep the lights on.¡± They turned away. No fight, just a cold retreat into the crowd. The captain¡¯s stare bored into their backs, heavy as stone.


    ¡°So¡­ What¡¯s Plan B?¡± Arwyn asked, voice low.


    Nathaniel nodded. ¡°Inn first. Low profile, and regroup. Then we figure out how to crack that Spire.¡±


    The inn sat crooked on a side street. The timber walls were sagging, and smoke curled from the chimney. A sign swung above the door, faded runes spelling something Arwyn couldn¡¯t read. Looked like a language exclusive to those who were true Runarians. Nathaniel didn¡¯t notice the sign, so he didn¡¯t get the chance to translate it for him.


    Inside, the air smelled of stale ale and sweat. The innkeeper was a stout man in a stained doublet, gray hair spilling from a coif¡ªlooked up from wiping a counter. His eyes flicked to Arwyn¡¯s scar, then Nathaniel¡¯s blue hair, and his face hardened. ¡°Rooms?¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± Arwyn said, leaning on the counter. ¡°Two, if you¡¯ve got ¡®em.¡±


    The innkeeper snorted, crossing his arms. He noticed the inky aura that circulated Arwyn. He didn¡¯t have a problem with Nathaniel however. ¡°Not for Delacroix blood. Curse¡¯ll rot my beams. Bringin¡¯ fire and ash to my place.¡± His voice was a growl, brooking no argument. He pointed at Arwyn. ¡°You. Out.¡±


    Arwyn¡¯s scar flared, a hot spike of anger surging, but he bit it back. ¡°Seriously?¡± Nathaniel raised a hand, calm as ever. A smirk tugged at his lips. ¡°Suit yourself, pal. Enjoy the quiet.¡± ANd so, they stepped out, door slamming behind them, and the street swallowed them again.


    ¡°Such a friendly place eh?¡± Arwyn muttered with such sarcasm, kicking a loose stone. ¡°What¡¯s their deal?¡±


    Nathaniel fell into step beside him, hands still in his pockets. ¡°Delacroix Curse¡ªold tale, kid. Your kin split the rings, locked Terra Incognita¡¯s chaos behind walls like the one we just crossed. Saved the continent, sure, but it cost ¡®em. Passion Energy turned on ¡®em. It burned ¡®em out, mind or body, sometimes both. Locals say they fled to Earth, so it left Runar to rot with the mess. Now? Your name¡¯s a plague not just in Runar, but the whole Incognita. Folk¡¯ll think you¡¯ll spark the fire again and finish what your ancestors started.¡±


    Arwyn¡¯s steps slowed, diary heavy in his pack. ¡°So I¡¯m a walking bomb?¡± His scar pulsed, a dull ache syncing with Runar¡¯s hum.


    Nathaniel smirked, sidelong. ¡°Yeah, maybe. Or a key. Depends who¡¯s holding you when you go off.¡±


    The streets stretched on, a maze of cobblestone and human life.


    Runar wasn¡¯t just alive. It was unstable, feeding off something deep. Arwyn¡¯s sneakers slapped the stone, Nathaniel¡¯s khakis swishing beside him, their Earth gear a stark contrast to the tunics and hose around them. Minutes bled into each other, the Spire¡¯s glow a distant tease.


    They rounded a corner, and Arwyn collided with someone¡ªhard. He stumbled back, catching a flash of steel and leather. A girl stood there, ponytail high and tight, armor gleaming¡ªpatchwork like the guards¡¯ but sharper, swirls etched into the plates, not runes.


    A whipsword coiled at her hip, and its segmented blade glinted. There was a dagger that hung beside it, simple but pretty wicked. Her aura crackled. Passion Energy, raw and wild, hotter than Arwyn¡¯s but different, untamed.


    She wasn¡¯t a Dream Sketcher, since he¡¯d feel the ink if she were. Her amber eyes locked on him, sharp as her blades. ¡°Watch it, glowstick.¡±


    Arwyn steadied himself, smirking despite the sting in his chest. ¡°Glowstick? Cute. What¡¯s your deal?¡±


    She tilted her head, sizing him up. ¡°Santina. And you¡¯re trouble,¡± she replied, smelling. ¡°You reek of ink and bad luck.¡± Her voice was steel wrapped in silk, a warning laced with curiosity.


    Nathaniel stepped up, hands still casual. ¡°Bad luck¡¯s our specialty. You local, gal?¡±


    ¡°Born here,¡± Santina said, shrugging. ¡°And you¡¯re definitely not. Those clothes are a dead giveaway.¡± Her gaze flicked to Nathaniel¡¯s puffer, then Arwyn¡¯s scar, lingering a beat too long.


    Arwyn chuckled, wiping the dust off his clothes. ¡°It¡¯s called a jacket. Faux and leather.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, whatever. Stuff is not welcome here.¡± Santina stared at him, looking up and down his appearance.


    Before Arwyn could fire back, the diary jolted in his pack, pages rustling. He yanked it free. There was new ink, and it bled across the paper:


    ¡°Generation 120: Arwyn Delacroix. The Spire wakes when the Quill bleeds.¡±


    His scar seared, poules dipping (5800). And something tugged at him, deep and insistent.


    Santina¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°That¡¯s no tourist trinket.¡±


    A scream tore from the street nearby, and it echoed over the rooftops. The ground trembled, faint but real, cobblestones rattling underfoot. Arwyn¡¯s breath caught, diary trembling in his hands.


    Santina stepped back, hand resting on her whipsword. ¡°That scar. That¡¯s the Quill¡¯s¡­ You¡¯re a Dream Sketcher, eh?¡± She staggered even more, and after a moment, she smirked. ¡°The world¡¯s unfair with your kind. Good luck, cursed ones.¡± She turned, vanishing into the crowd like a shadow.


    Nathaniel grabbed Arwyn¡¯s arm, pulling him back with widened eyes. ¡°We need her, kid¡ªor we¡¯re fucking screwed.¡± His voice was low, urgent, blue hair catching the Spire¡¯s distant glow.


    Arwyn stared after her, scar burning, diary heavy. Runar watched, and its heart was starting to beat, even if it had no reason why.

 Chapter 14: Persuasion

    Nathaniel strode ahead, blue hair catching flickers of torchlight, the four Dreamer Rings glinting on his fingers like they were itching to be used. The diary jolted in Arwyn¡¯s pack again, but he ignored it¡ªno time for cryptic ink when they had a lead to chase.


    Nathaniel slowed, tossing Arwyn a pair of worn leather gloves with a calm, cocksure grin. ¡°Cover your hands, would you? That scar¡¯s flashing like a gun in New York City. Might as well paint a target on your back.¡±


    Arwyn caught them mid-stride, smirking despite the urgency. ¡°What, no matching hat?¡± He slid the gloves on, the leather cool against his skin, muffling the scar¡¯s yellow glow. Before he could quip again, Nathaniel bolted, boots slapping stone as he rounded a corner. His voice echoed back, sharp and fading: ¡°Get the girl!¡±


    ¡°Shit. Santina,¡± Arwyn realized and muttered, breaking into a run. The why wasn¡¯t fully clear, but Nathaniel had barked something about her knowing the Spire¡¯s back doors, her whipsword hinting at skills they¡¯d need, though it didn¡¯t matter. She¡¯d clocked him as a Dream Sketcher, felt the Quill¡¯s pull, and vanished like smoke. If she had answers about Cedric or the Spire, they couldn¡¯t let her slip.


    Arwyn caught up with Nathaniel after half a minute of sprinting, lungs burning. Runar¡¯s streets twisted tighter the deeper they went, cobblestone giving way to muck-slick alleys where the crimson glow of the Spire barely reached. ¡°You see her?¡±


    ¡°No. Don¡¯t feel her energy either,¡± Nathaniel replied, eyes darting in every direction. Compared to the main road, this stretch was a ghost town¡ªjust the plight of the poor and needy shuffling through the shadows, heads down.


    They pressed on, boots slipping on some unnameable sludge coating the ground. Arwyn steadied himself, catching his breath as the alley spat them onto a crooked street. A tavern crouched there in the gloom, its timber walls sagging under a slanted roof, lantern light bleeding through cracked shutters. Rough laughter and clinking mugs spilled out, raw and alive.


    Arwyn slowed, spotting her¡ªSantina¡¯s high ponytail and glinting armor disappearing through the door. He adjusted the gloves, katana bumping his thigh, and muttered, ¡°That¡¯s her. She went to the bar.¡±


    Nathaniel shot him a sidelong glance, taking the lead. ¡°It¡¯s a tavern, kid. Not a bar.¡± His tone dripped with that smug correction Arwyn had learned to tune out¡ªtrauma from crane-sketching hell still stung too much to care.


    Inside, the air slammed into them like a fist¡ªstale ale, sweat, and smoke thick enough to choke on. Bulky men in patched tunics and hose sprawled across tables, fists pounding wood mid-story, tankards sloshing. None clocked Arwyn or Nathaniel, who slipped in behind, blending into the dim like he¡¯d dodged a thousand bar fights.


    A fire crackled in the corner, casting jagged shadows over faces carved by Runar¡¯s grind. Santina stood at the bar, leaning in to mutter something to a grizzled bartender with a missing ear, and her whipsword coiled at her hip like a sleeping snake.


    They claimed a table in the corner, tucked against a wall sticky with who-knows-what. No waiter bothered with menus or drinks¡ªservice clearly wasn¡¯t the vibe here. Arwyn, ever the eavesdropper, caught a slurred tale from a bald, bearded brute at the next table, his breath reeking of cheap booze.


    ¡°Ya ¡®eard about ¡®em two guys wanderin¡¯ ¡®round the lot?¡± the man mumbled, words tripping over each other.


    His buddy, less plastered, sipped red wine with a smirk. ¡°Oh? The scribbler and the blue-haired dude? Seen ¡®em in books and all. Dude¡¯s got what¡ªten thousand winters¡¯ worth o¡¯ lifespan?¡±


    Arwyn¡¯s gloved hand twitched on his sketchbook, but he kept his head down. Nathaniel¡¯s smirk flickered, barely there, as he scanned the room. The rumors were already spinning¡ªgreat. Then a kid darted out. The kid was small, wiry, maybe eight, with a mop of brown hair and a grin too big for his face. The bartender¡¯s son, no doubt, judging by how he bobbed around the counter like he owned it. He made a beeline for Nathaniel, tugging at his puffer jacket.


    ¡°Oi, mister! You¡¯re him, ain¡¯t ya? The Blue-Haired Boy!¡± the kid chirped, eyes wide. ¡°Can I get yer autograph?¡±


    The tavern went dead quiet.


    Tankards froze mid-sip, heads swiveled, and every pair of eyes locked onto them. The bulky men straightened, murmurs buzzing like flies.


    ¡°Blue-Haired Boy?¡±


    ¡°Ain¡¯t he a ghost story?¡±


    This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    ¡°Two thousand years, they reckon!¡±


    ¡ªTheir gazes widening, a mix of awe and something sharper, meaner. Nathaniel¡¯s grin stiffened, just for a beat, before he crouched to the kid¡¯s level, ruffling his hair.


    ¡°Legends don¡¯t sign napkins, kid. How¡¯s a coin sound?¡± He flicked a bronze piece from his pocket, spinning it into the boy¡¯s grubby hands. But the room didn¡¯t relax¡ªthose stares bore in harder, heavy as stone.


    Santina turned from the bar, amber eyes narrowing as she clocked them. Her hand hovered near her whipsword, casual but ready. Arwyn¡¯s scar itched under the gloves. The chase was over, but the tavern felt like a keg about to blow.


    The tavern¡¯s silence snapped like a brittle twig. A chair scraped back, loud as a gunshot, and a hulking guy in a patched doublet lurched to his feet, tankard sloshing foam across the table. His beard was a greasy tangle, eyes bloodshot and mean. ¡°Blue-Haired Boy, huh?¡± he slurred, voice thick with ale and spite. ¡°Thought you was a bedtime story my ma told to scare me straight.¡±


    Nathaniel straightened, slow and deliberate, that cocksure grin still plastered on. ¡°Guess I¡¯m flattered. You gonna ask for a bedtime kiss too, or just stare?¡±


    Arwyn snorted, gloved hands flexing on the sketchbook tucked under his arm. His scar buzzed under the leather, 5,800 poules humming steady but twitchy, like a live wire begging to spark. The room smelled of sour sweat and burnt wood, and every eye was a dagger aimed their way. Santina leaned against the bar, amber gaze flicking between them and the drunk, her whipsword still coiled but her fingers itching.


    The big guy staggered closer, knuckles white around his mug. ¡°Ain¡¯t no ghost. Just some punk with dyed hair and a big mouth.¡± He jabbed a meaty finger at Nathaniel, then swung it toward Arwyn. ¡°And you¡ªglowin¡¯ like a cursed lantern. Delacroix, they¡¯re whisperin¡¯. Here to burn us out again?¡±


    Arwyn¡¯s jaw tightened, scar flaring hot under the glove. ¡°Burn you out? Buddy, I just got here. Maybe your ale¡¯s doing the torching¡ªsmells flammable enough.¡±


    A ripple of laughs cut through the tension, but it was short-lived. The drunk¡¯s face twisted, red as the Spire¡¯s glow, and he hurled his tankard. It sailed past Arwyn¡¯s ear, smashing against the wall in a spray of foam and splinters. The room erupted¡ªchairs toppling, voices barking, half the crowd surging to their feet. The other half shrank back, clutching drinks like lifelines.


    Nathaniel sidestepped, hands still in his pockets, Rings glinting faintly. ¡°Nice aim. Try that with a sword, and we might have a problem.¡±


    Santina pushed off the bar, boots clicking on the warped floorboards. ¡°Enough,¡± she snapped, voice slicing through the din like her whipsword could¡¯ve. The weapon stayed at her hip, but her aura flared¡ªwild, untamed Passion Energy rolling off her in waves. Not ink, not a Sketcher¡¯s mark, but something fierce and alive. The drunk froze mid-lunge, like he¡¯d hit an invisible wall.


    ¡°Sit,¡± she said, flat and final.


    He didn¡¯t.


    His buddies were two wiry guys in stained tunics. They flanked him instead, one pulling a dagger with a notched blade, the other cracking knuckles like he meant business.


    Arwyn¡¯s smirk faded. ¡°Shit.¡± He dropped back a step, sketchbook slipping into his hands. The gloves muffled the scar¡¯s glow, but he felt it. His poules were itching to burn. ¡°Nathaniel, we fighting or running?¡±


    Nathaniel¡¯s grin sharpened, eyes locked on Santina. ¡°Neither yet. She¡¯s got this¡ªor we¡¯re pretty much dead.¡± He nodded toward her, casual as if they weren¡¯t one spark from a brawl.


    The bartender¡ªgrizzled, one-eared, and done with it all¡ªslammed a fist on the counter. ¡°Oi! Take it outside or I¡¯m callin¡¯ the guard! No blood on my floor!¡± His kid, the mop-haired brat, peeked from behind the bar, grinning like this was the best night of his life.


    Santina didn¡¯t flinch. She stepped between Arwyn and the drunk, whipsword uncoiling with a flick of her wrist. The segmented blade hissed as it stretched, glinting in the firelight. ¡°Last chance,¡± she said, low and cold. ¡°Sit, or I carve you a new smile.¡±


    The drunk sneered, swaying. ¡°Fancy bitch with a toy. What¡¯s a girl gonna¡ª¡±


    He didn¡¯t finish. Santina¡¯s arm snapped forward, and the whipsword lashed out¡ªfast, precise, a blur of steel. It grazed his cheek, drawing a thin red line, then coiled back to her side. He yelped, stumbling into his buddies, hand clapping to his face as blood trickled through his fingers.


    ¡°Next one¡¯s your throat,¡± she said, voice steady as stone. The wiry pair hesitated, daggers and fists dropping an inch. The crowd held its breath, tankards forgotten.


    Arwyn exhaled, sketchbook still clutched tight. ¡°Well, damn. She¡¯s not messing around.¡±


    Nathaniel chuckled, low and dry. ¡°Told you we need her. Girl¡¯s a walking blade-storm.¡±


    The drunk slumped into his chair, muttering curses, his crew backing off with glares but no guts to push it. Santina turned, whipsword snapping back to her hip, and fixed Arwyn with that amber stare. ¡°You two draw trouble like flies to shit. Dream Sketcher, huh? Quill¡¯s got you marked. I felt it back there.¡±


    Arwyn met her gaze, scar pulsing under the glove. ¡°Yeah, and you¡¯re what? Runar¡¯s resident badass? Why¡¯d you step in?¡±


    She smirked, faint but sharp. ¡°Didn¡¯t. Just don¡¯t like loudmouths ruining my drink.¡± She jerked her head toward the bar, where a dented mug of ale sat untouched. ¡°But you¡¯re here for the Spire, aren¡¯t you? That scar¡¯s screaming it.¡±


    Nathaniel leaned in, voice dropping. ¡°She¡¯s not wrong, kid. And she knows the back ways¡ªfelt it in her stance. We¡¯re not cracking that tower without her.¡±


    Arwyn¡¯s eyes flicked between them, diary heavy in his pack. The Spire¡¯s pulse hummed through the walls, syncing with his scar, tugging like a leash. ¡°Fine,¡± he muttered. ¡°Santina, right? You¡¯re in or you¡¯re not. I¡¯m not begging.¡±

 Chapter 15: Persuasion (2)

    Her smirk widened, eyes glinting like she¡¯d caught a scent. ¡°Not yet, glowstick. But you will.¡± She grabbed her mug, took a slow sip, and set it down with a clink. ¡°Spire¡¯s locked tighter than a king¡¯s vault since that scream. Back door¡¯s a sewer grate. Nasty, but it works. Problem is, it¡¯s crawling with Erasures. You got the ink to handle that?¡±


    Arwyn¡¯s grip tightened on his sketchbook, poules flaring to 5,900 under the gloves¡ªadrenaline kicking in. ¡°I¡¯ve handled worse. You?¡±


    Santina tilted her head, sizing him up. ¡°Maybe. But I don¡¯t babysit. You want in, you owe me a sketch. Something sharp, something fast. Deal?¡±


    Nathaniel raised an eyebrow, Rings glinting as he crossed his arms. ¡°Smart girl. What¡¯s your price tag?¡±


    She didn¡¯t blink. ¡°A dagger. Twin to this.¡± She patted her whipsword¡¯s hilt. ¡°And you keep that glowstick from lighting me up by mistake.¡±


    Arwyn shot him a smirk, then flipped his sketchbook open, pencil already in hand. ¡°Fine. One dagger, coming up. Don¡¯t blink.¡±


    His scar buzzed under the glove, poules humming as he scratched out a quick sketch: sleek, serrated, a coiled grip like her whipsword¡¯s vibe. Fifty poules, maybe less¡ªsmall price for a deal. He slammed his gloved hand down, Passion Energy flaring sharp and brief. The dagger materialized on the table with a soft thunk, steel gleaming, edge wicked enough to split hair.


    But a feeling went through him like a bullet. His legs buckled, but he held it in with a smile.


    Pain.


    Santina¡¯s smirk faltered, just for a beat, as she picked it up, testing its weight. She ran a thumb along the blade, stopping short of blood, and gave a low whistle. ¡°Not bad, glowstick. You might survive the sewers after all.¡± She tucked it into her belt, but her stance didn¡¯t soften. Still coiled, still a stranger.


    ¡°Grate¡¯s two streets west, under a busted cart. Erasures are thick there¡ªbeen hunting ¡®em for marks all week. That¡¯s my game, not yours.¡±


    Nathaniel leaned forward, voice low. ¡°Hunting Erasures? You¡¯re no Sketcher¡ªwhere¡¯s that Passion Energy coming from?¡±


    She shrugged, sharp and dismissive. ¡°Runar breeds tough. Don¡¯t need ink to feel the world trying to eat me.¡± Her amber eyes flicked to Arwyn¡¯s gloves, then away. ¡°Heard your kind stirs ¡®em up, though. That scream? Some bastard Sketcher tore through here days ago, left a mess of ¡®em bleeding out the Spire¡¯s cracks.¡±


    Arwyn¡¯s stomach twisted, scar pulsing harder. ¡°Is it by chance¡­ A man named Cedric Satsuma?¡± He traded a look with Nathaniel, who frowned, rings glinting as he flexed his fingers.


    ¡°Nah,¡± Santina said, sipping her ale again. ¡°Satsuma rolled through Runar a week back. Heard he¡¯s chasing some feather-trinket west of here. This was fresh. Spire¡¯s been spitting Erasures since, and I¡¯ve been cashing in. You¡¯re late to the party.¡±


    Nathaniel¡¯s grin faded, replaced by a rare crease of worry. ¡°Another? Here? That¡¯s no coincidence, kid. Spire¡¯s awake¡ªand not just for you.¡±


    Arwyn¡¯s mind raced¡ªCedric was ahead, Quill in his sights, but someone else was ripping holes in Runar?


    ¡°Great. More psychos with superpowers. So the sewer¡¯s a death trap?¡±


    Santina snorted, setting her mug down. ¡°Pretty much. Erasures are my bounty¡ªfive marks a head. You want the grate, it¡¯s yours. I¡¯m not your guide, glowstick. I¡¯m just pointing the way. Don¡¯t die and owe me a debt.¡± She pushed off the bar, whipsword swaying as she turned toward the door.


    Arwyn stood, sketchbook snapping shut. ¡°Wait. You¡¯re bailing? After that?¡±


    She glanced back, smirk sharp as her new dagger. ¡°Got my prize. You¡¯ve got your path. I hunt alone. I always have.¡± Her boots clicked toward the exit, leaving a faint ripple of wild energy in her wake.


    Nathaniel grabbed Arwyn¡¯s arm before he could follow. ¡°Let her go, kid. She¡¯s not our babysitter, and we¡¯ve got bigger problems than her ego.¡± His eyes flicked to the Rings, then the tavern¡¯s grimy walls. ¡°Spire¡¯s calling. You ready for the shitshow?¡±


    Arwyn yanked his arm free, scar burning under the glove. ¡°No. Going anyway? Yeah.¡± He adjusted his katana, diary thumping in his pack like it agreed. Santina¡¯s silhouette vanished into the day.


    The room stirred, a low buzz swelling in her absence. The drunk¡¯s crew sulked at their table, nursing bruised egos and muttering curses under their breath. Whispers snaked through the crowd.


    ¡°Delacroix luck,¡±


    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    ¡°Blue-Haired ghost,¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re after the Spire,¡±


    Some eyed Arwyn and Nathaniel like they were loot to tail, and others scowled like they¡¯d brought a plague. The kid, coin clutched tight, darted back behind the bar, his grin sharp and gleaming. Too eager, too sly.


    Arwyn clocked it: that little runt was trouble waiting to spill.


    Nathaniel nudged him, voice a murmur. ¡°Air¡¯s thick with eyes, kid. We¡¯re out before they grow spines¡­ Or snitches.¡±


    Arwyn nodded. The Spire¡¯s hum pulsed louder, seeping through the walls like a heartbeat, tugging him west. He shot a last glance at the drunk, still wiping blood from his cheek. He then followed Nathaniel toward the door. The crowd parted, wary but passive, tankards clinking back to life as they slipped out.


    No one followed¡ªnot yet.


    Outside, Runar¡¯s daylight hit like a slap¡­ The crimson sun bled through a violet haze, casting long shadows over the crooked street. The tavern¡¯s noise faded, replaced by the distant clang of a smithy and the shuffle of ragged locals hauling crates.


    Two streets west, Santina had said. Sewer grate, busted cart, Erasure hell. Arwyn¡¯s legs ached, his lungs still raw from the chase, and the diary¡¯s weight dragged at his shoulders. They¡¯d been running on fumes since the rift, and Terra Incognita¡¯s warped time¡ª80 days here to one on Earth¡ªmeant no real rest in what felt like forever.


    Nathaniel squinted at the sky, blue hair glinting in the weird light. ¡°Sun¡¯s high¡ªmidday, maybe. We hit that grate now, we¡¯re walking into a meat grinder half-dead. You¡¯re at around 6,000 poules, sure, but I can hear your knees creaking from here.¡±


    Arwyn scowled, shifting his katana. ¡°I¡¯m fine. Spire¡¯s awake, Cedric¡¯s a week ahead, and some psycho¡¯s spitting Erasures everywhere. We stop, we lose ground.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, and you collapse mid-sketch, we lose everything.¡± Nathaniel crossed his arms, Rings catching the sun. ¡°I¡¯ve got 2,000 years on you, kid. Trust me, rest isn¡¯t surrender. We need a hole to crash in, at least just for a few hours. Runar¡¯s not exactly a bed-and-breakfast town, but we¡¯ve got options.¡±


    Arwyn rubbed his neck, scar pulsing in time with the Spire¡¯s call. ¡°Options? Like what? That innkeeper back there wanted my head on a spike for being a Delacroix?¡±


    ¡°Point.¡± Nathaniel scanned the street, eyes narrowing. ¡°The tavern¡¯s out. Too many ears, and that kid¡¯s got the word ¡®snitch¡¯ written all over him. Streets are a gamble as well. Erasures sniff out Passion Energy like bloodhounds. We need something off-grid, low-key. Alley squat, maybe, or a merchant¡¯s backroom if we¡¯ve got anything to trade.¡±


    Arwyn dug through his pack¡ªsketchbook, diary, a few pencils, Marco¡¯s old lighter. ¡°Trade? I¡¯ve got lint and a bad attitude. You?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯ll do¡­ I guess. I got a coin, though it¡¯s small, but a sketch might sweeten it. Merchants here love weird shit from outsiders.¡± He nodded toward a narrow alley branching west. ¡°Let¡¯s move. Grate¡¯s that way, and we scout a spot en route. Oh, and sketch me a beanie here. They¡¯ll see my hair.¡±


    Without another word, Arwyn drew one¡ªplain black, good enough for the meantime. He slammed it with his gloved hand, and it bounced into reality. But the realm¡¯s wind drifted the other way, reacting to his slam.


    Pain. Again.


    He forgot how painful it was when he slammed a sketch which had value. Considering his home city¡¯s trend was around beanies, the value must be extremely high.


    And so, he let out a suffering groan and went on his knees.


    ¡°Agh!!¡±


    Nathaniel tittered, as if mocking him. He grabbed the beanie out of his hands and put it on his head, hiding the spiky blue hair. ¡°Get used to it, kid. You¡¯ll be drawing your swords next time.¡±


    Arwyn laughed with him as he stood up. The scar on his hand brightened, muffled by his glove. ¡°You fucker¡­¡±


    They cut through the muck, boots sinking into the sludge as the Spire¡¯s crimson silhouette loomed taller. Arwyn¡¯s scar flared hotter with every step, poules steady but his body screaming for a break.


    The alley twisted past a slumped woman peddling dented pots, then opened to a row of sagging stalls¡ªfish, rags, some guy hawking ¡°genuine Erasure teeth.¡± Nathaniel slowed near a tarp-covered shack, its owner an old man with a squint and a ledger full of junk.


    ¡°Oi, you,¡± Nathaniel called, flipping the coin in his hand. ¡°Got a corner to rent? Few hours, no questions.¡±


    The merchant eyed them, lingering on Nathaniel¡¯s hair and Arwyn¡¯s gloves. He spat into the dirt. ¡°Ten marks for the backroom. No noise, no mess.¡±


    ¡°Ten?¡± Arwyn snorted. ¡°For a nap in this dump?¡±


    Nathaniel elbowed him, tossing the coin and Marco¡¯s lighter onto the ledger. ¡°Two marks¡¯ worth. Take it or we sleep in your gutter.¡±


    The old man squinted at the sketch, unfolding it with grubby fingers. ¡°Earth junk, huh? Fine. Four hours, backroom¡¯s yours. Door¡¯s round the side.¡± He pocketed the coin and waved them off, muttering about ¡°cursed foreigners.¡±


    Arwyn followed Nathaniel around the shack, ducking under a tarp flap into a dim, musty nook.


    It was barely a room. Just a dirt floor, a straw mat, and a crate for a table. A cracked lantern flickered in the corner, casting weak light over walls patched with burlap. It stank of mildew and fish oil, but it was quiet, hidden, and most importantly, off the street.


    Nathaniel flopped onto the mat, Rings clinking as he stretched. ¡°Not the Ritz, but it¡¯ll do. Four hours. Sleep, recharge those poules. I¡¯ll watch first.¡±


    Arwyn slumped against the crate, katana across his lap. ¡°Four hours in this hellhole? Spire¡¯s practically yelling at me to move.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯ll yell louder if you¡¯re dead on your feet.¡± Nathaniel¡¯s grin was back, faint but firm. ¡°Rest, kid. Erasures¡¯ll still be there when we wake up.¡±


    Arwyn grumbled, but his eyes were already heavy, scar¡¯s hum fading to a dull throb. The diary thumped once more in his pack, like it was settling too. Four hours¡ªthen the sewer, the Spire, and whatever mess Cedric and this new dumbass had left behind.

 Chapter 16: Sewers

    The four hours were up, and Arwyn felt every second of it¡ªor didn¡¯t. He sprawled on the straw mat, katana clutched across his chest like a lifeline. His body felt lighter, like he could breathe much easier now.


    The rest had sharpened his edges, nudging his Passion Energy up a notch, but the Spire¡¯s hum had wormed into his skull, tangling his dreams with ink-slick screams and a woman¡¯s voice whispering his name.


    Arlene¡¯s..?


    He jolted awake, eyes bleary, the backroom¡¯s mildew stink hitting him like a damp rag. Nathaniel stood by the tarp flap, Rings glinting as he peered into the alley. They were battered but sharper now, the haze of exhaustion burned off.


    But¨C


    Bang!


    A heavy fist pounded the door, three sharp bangs that rattled the shack¡¯s flimsy walls. ¡°Open up, Blue-Haired Boy!¡± a gruff voice barked. ¡°You¡¯re wanted for questioning. Those Rings ain¡¯t yours to flaunt!¡±


    Arwyn shot upright, katana scraping the crate as he swung it to his side. ¡°Shit. Was it the kid?¡±


    Nathaniel¡¯s grin was tight, eyes flicking to the door. ¡°Snitch, alright. Merchant probably cashed us out too. Runar¡¯s all about the marks.¡± He stepped back, hands loose but ready, Rings catching the lantern¡¯s weak flicker.


    The door splintered inward, three guards barreling through in dream-forged plate¡ªarmor etched with faint, shifting runes, heavy as hell but alive with old Sketcher tricks. The lead one, a broad bastard with a scarred lip, pointed a spear at Nathaniel. ¡°Those Rings. Relics from the exodus. Hand ¡®em over, ghost, or we carve ¡®em off ya.¡±


    Arwyn¡¯s scar flared, poules humming as he flipped his sketchbook open. ¡°Ghost? He¡¯s more alive than your brain, pal.¡± He scratched out a quick smokescreen¡ªjagged lines, a puff of gray. Slamming his gloved hand down. Fifty poules flared out (6,150 left), and a thick cloud erupted, choking the room in ashy haze. The guards coughed, spear tips swinging blind.


    And Nathaniel moved fast, too fast.


    Arwyn caught a flash of something new. Blue threads, thin as spider silk, shot from Nathaniel¡¯s outstretched hand, coiling around the lead guard¡¯s spear mid-thrust.


    The weapon froze, then jerked sideways, slamming into the wall with a crunch. The guard stumbled, cursing, as the threads dissolved into faint sparks.


    Nathaniel smirked for less than a second, and the rings pulsed once, sharp and blue.


    Arwyn blinked through the smoke, sketchbook still clutched. ¡°What the¡ª?¡±


    ¡°Later, kid,¡± Nathaniel snapped, already bolting for the back flap. ¡°Out! Now!¡±


    The other two guards lunged, but the smokescreen held. Arwyn darted after Nathaniel, boots pounding dirt as they slipped into the alley. The merchant¡¯s voice wailed behind them fading under the clang of armor and shouts. ¡°Cursed tenants! Ruined me!¡±


    They didn¡¯t stop, cutting west through the muck-slick streets, the Spire¡¯s crimson glow looming closer. Two streets to the grate and Santina¡¯s tip burned in Arwyn¡¯s head. It was their shot at the Spire¡¯s underbelly, where Cedric¡¯s trail and this new guy¡¯s chaos might collide.


    Rest had cleared the fog: Cedric was key, but this wildcard was trouble they couldn¡¯t dodge.


    Arwyn caught his breath as they slowed, the alley tightening around them. ¡°Seriously. What was that back there? You¡¯ve been holding out on me.¡±


    Nathaniel shot him a sidelong grin, flexing his fingers. ¡°Sketch Binding, kid. Ties sketches to my will. Objects, beasts, whatever¡¯s got ink in its veins. Been a while since I flexed it.¡± His grin faded, voice dropping. ¡°Used to have like¡­ a trillion poules to throw around, back when I wasn¡¯t a babysitter. Something¡¯s got ¡®em locked up now, and I¡¯m scraping by on scraps.¡±


    ¡°A trillion!?¡± Arwyn¡¯s jaw dropped, scar buzzing hotter. ¡°And you¡¯re just¡ªwhat, rusty? Who took it?¡±


    ¡°Long story. Older than me, even.¡± Nathaniel¡¯s eyes darkened, but he waved it off. ¡°Point is, I¡¯m not at full tilt¡­ yet. That took 200 poules, and I¡¯ve got maybe 10,000 left in the tank. Enough to keep us alive. Move.¡±


    They hit the spot. There was a busted cart, splintered wood tipped over a rusted grate, ink-black water gurgling below. The alley was a shadowed slit, a fishmonger¡¯s stall nearby choking the air with brine, barely masking the sewer¡¯s rot.


    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    The Spire¡¯s crimson glow bathed it all, hum so loud it rattled Arwyn¡¯s teeth. He adjusted his gloves, katana steady at his hip.


    A screech split the air. Glitching, wet, wrong. Three Erasures clawed up from the grate: a warped hound snapping ink-dripping jaws, a lone clawed arm skittering like a spider, and a shifting mass of blades whirring in a glitchy dance. Arwyn¡¯s scar flared, drawing them like a beacon.


    Arwyn¡¯s sneakers skidded on the slick stone, katana ripping free from its sheath with a hiss. The Erasures lunged¡ªink-slick and screaming, a mess of glitched hunger. The hound came first, jaws snapping, drooling black that hissed where it hit the ground. His scar burned under the glove as adrenaline kicked in.


    ¡°Fuck me,¡± he muttered, slashing low. The blade caught the hound¡¯s flank, shearing through ink-flesh¡ªwet, wrong, like cutting tar. It yelped, a sound that warped into static, then lunged again, claws raking the cart¡¯s splintered wood.


    Nathaniel darted left, blue threads snapping from his fingers. They coiled around the clawed arm skittering toward him, yanking it mid-air.


    It thrashed, a spider-thing with no body, just intent. ¡°Stay sharp, kid!¡± he barked, slamming the arm into the grate. Metal clanged, ink splattered, and the thing twitched once before dissolving into ash.


    The blade-mass whirred closer, a buzzing swarm of jagged edges¡ªknives, swords, scissors, all mashed into a nightmare.


    Arwyn flipped his sketchbook open, pencil scratching fast: a spiked net, heavy, barbed. He slammed his gloved hand down¡ª100 poules burned out (6,100 left), and the net burst into being, dropping hard.


    It pinned the mess, blades screeching as they fought the tangle, ink spraying like blood.


    ¡°Nice one,¡± Nathaniel grinned, ducking the hound¡¯s next snap. His threads lashed out again, wrapping its muzzle, yanking it back. ¡°But they¡¯re not done.¡±


    Arwyn¡¯s chest heaved, scar pulsing hot. The net held, but the blade-thing was shredding through, barbs snapping one by one. The hound tore free of Nathaniel¡¯s threads, static howl rattling his skull. And the grate¡ªshit, it rattled too, more claws scraping up from the dark.


    ¡°More?¡± Arwyn growled, katana flashing as he hacked the hound¡¯s leg. It buckled, ink gushing, but didn¡¯t stop. ¡°How many bastards did this psycho Sketcher leave?¡±


    ¡°Too many,¡± Nathaniel shot back, threads snagging the hound¡¯s neck now, twisting tight. It thrashed, then burst into a spray of black, soaking his khakis. He cursed, shaking it off. ¡°Sewer¡¯s a nest. Spire¡¯s bleeding ¡®em out¡ªyour scar¡¯s a damn dinner bell.¡±


    ¡°Well, I guess it¡¯s time for more¨C¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Nathaniel interjected, serious this time. ¡°You have too little Passion Energy, kid.¡±


    Arwyn froze, katana mid-swing, as Nathaniel stepped forward, Rings flaring blue¡ªa cold, electric pulse that lit the alley like a storm.


    The air tightened, Passion Energy crackling around him, and his grin was gone, replaced by a focus Arwyn hadn¡¯t seen before.


    ¡°Watch this,¡± he said, low voice, hands snapping out.


    Blue threads erupted¡ªnot just a few, but a dozen, thin and razor-sharp, weaving through the air like living veins.


    They lashed the hound first, coiling its legs, neck, jaws¡ªeach thread tightening with a faint hum, pinning it mid-lunge.


    It glitched, a static scream choking off as Nathaniel twisted his wrist. The threads pulled, and the hound shredded apart¡ªink exploding outward, then¨C


    It collapsed into a sizzling puddle, ash rising like smoke.


    Then the blade-mass broke free of Arwyn¡¯s net, whirring toward them, a storm of edges.


    But Nathaniel didn¡¯t flinch.


    His threads snapped again. Faster, tighter, spearing through the mass like needles through cloth. They hooked every blade, every jagged shard, suspending it mid-air.


    He clenched his fist, and the threads contracted, crushing the mess into a ball of warped steel and ink. It hit the ground with a wet crunch, twitching once before dissolving.


    The grate rattled harder, and two more Erasures clawed up, a glitching bird-thing with razor wings and a hulking arm with too many fingers. Nathaniel¡¯s eyes narrowed, threads already moving.


    They wove a net of their own¡ªnot Arwyn¡¯s clumsy spikes, but a lattice of blue light, precise and deadly. It dropped over both, tightening like a noose.


    The bird¡¯s wings snapped, the arm¡¯s fingers curled inward. Then both of them burst in a spray of ink and ash, the threads cutting through like wire through clay.


    Arwyn¡¯s jaw hung slack, katana limp in his hand. ¡°Holy¡­ shit. That¡¯s Sketch Binding?¡±


    Nathaniel shook out his hands, threads fading as he exhaled. Sharp, controlled. ¡°Yeah. Took 600 poules. I got 9,400 left. Back in the day, I¡¯d have wiped a city¡¯s worth of these without blinking, and in a second.¡± He shot Arwyn a dry look. ¡°Don¡¯t gawk, kid. Your net¡¯s cute, but we¡¯ve got a sewer to crack.¡±


    Arwyn snapped his mouth shut, scar still buzzing, poules steady at 6,100. The grate lay quiet now, ink pooling around its edges. He sheathed his katana, sketchbook tucked under his arm, and muttered, ¡°Trillion my ass. You¡¯re still a monster.¡±


    Nathaniel chuckled, kicking the grate open with a screech of rust. ¡°Scraps, kid. Just scraps. Let¡¯s move before the next wave smells you.¡± He dropped into the sewer, splashing into the sludge below, and Arwyn followed, the Spire¡¯s hum swallowing them whole.


    As the two walked deeper, at the side rested a dagger. Arwyn noticed and didn¡¯t think anything of it at first, but when it came to him, he glanced for another check.


    It was the one twin to Santina¡¯s whipsword.


    ¡°She must¡¯ve come here first, kid. Let¡¯s move.¡± Nathaniel was as careless as ever. He strolled on, while Arwyn pocketed the knife, now wet with liquid you couldn¡¯t even describe.

 Chapter 17: Sewers (2)

    The sewer swallowed them whole, a splash of ankle-deep sludge soaking Arwyn¡¯s sneakers as he landed beside Nathaniel. The grate clanged shut above, sealed by his sketched bar (50 poules, 6,050 left), muffling the last echoes of Erasure screeches.


    Darkness pressed in, broken only by the faint yellow glow of his scar under the glove. There was a restless buzz syncing with the Spire¡¯s distant thrum. The air stank of rot and ink, a sour bite that clung to his throat. Nathaniel shook sludge off his khakis, Rings glinting faintly as he scanned the tunnel.


    ¡°Nice drop,¡± Nathaniel muttered, voice low, bouncing off dripping stone. ¡°Smells like death¡¯s armpit down here.¡±


    Arwyn laughed, katana still drawn, tip hovering over the black water. ¡°Yeah, well, your threads made it a party up there. Six hundred poules eh? Such a show-off.¡± He smirked, but his eyes darted ahead.


    The sewers had curved walls of cracked brick that stretched into shadow, and ink pooled in corners like spilled blood. No screeches, no claws. Just silence, heavy and wrong.


    Nathaniel shrugged, stepping forward, boots squelching. ¡°Scraps, kid. Keep that scar dim. We don¡¯t need more guests.¡± He flexed his fingers, blue threads flickering once then fading. His Sketch Binding on standby, not flexing yet.


    Arwyn took point, sketchbook tucked under his arm, katana ready. The tunnel split fast. Left, right, or straight?


    All three yawned into gloom. ¡°Santina said west,¡± he murmured, glancing at the Spire¡¯s hum pulsing faintly leftward. ¡°But this place is a damn maze. Pick one, old man.¡±


    ¡°Left,¡± Nathaniel said, nodding toward the hum. ¡°Spire¡¯s pull¡¯s stronger that way. Cedric¡¯s trail might be too.¡±


    They trudged left, water sloshing, walls tightening until Arwyn¡¯s shoulders brushed stone. The path curved, then¡­ they dead-ended. There was a collapsed arch, rubble choking the way, ink trickling through cracks like veins. ¡°Great,¡± Arwyn growled, kicking a loose brick. It splashed, sending up a whiff of something rancid. ¡°Backtrack?¡±


    Nathaniel frowned, peering at the rubble. ¡°Hold up. No claw marks, no glitch stains. This is old as hell. Erasures didn¡¯t do it.¡± He tapped the wall. ¡°Someone¡¯s been through here, though. Feel that?¡±


    Arwyn squinted, and faint scratches marred the stone, not ink-born but steel-sharp. ¡°Santina¡¯s whipsword?¡± His scar pulsed, suspicion creeping in. ¡°She beat us down here. Bounty hunting, maybe¡­ She was cleaning out the nest before we stumbled in.¡±


    ¡°Smart girl,¡± Nathaniel said, turning back. ¡°Let¡¯s try right. If she¡¯s ahead, she¡¯s leaving breadcrumbs, whether she means to or not.¡±


    The right tunnel stretched longer, air growing colder, sludge thicker¡ªunnameable liquid now, oily and slick, lapping at their shins. Another split¡ªtwo paths this time, both dark, both humming with the Spire¡¯s call.


    Arwyn picked left again, random as flipping a coin, and they pushed on. And¡­


    Dead end number two. Rusted bars blocked the way, bent outward like something big had tried to break through, then given up. No Erasures, though. Not a screech, not a glitch. The silence gnawed at him.


    ¡°She¡¯s wiped them out,¡± Arwyn muttered, sheathing his katana, hands on his hips. ¡°No claw marks, no ink-beasts. Santina¡¯s been busy, bounty hunting for sure. Five marks a head, she said.¡±


    Nathaniel crouched, peering at the bars. ¡°Well, she¡¯s moving. West, like us. Maybe after Cedric, maybe not.¡± He stood, wiping sludge off his hands. ¡°Keep going. Straight this time.¡±


    The straight path widened more than Arwyn had expected. The ceiling arched higher, and the Spire¡¯s hum grew teeth-rattling loud. There was something pulling him, not Erasures, but deeper and older.


    The sludge thinned here, revealing cracked stone beneath, and something caught his eye. A soggy scrap of paper floating in the muck, wet and drippy, ink smudged but legible. He fished it out with his katana¡¯s tip, holding it up to the scar¡¯s faint glow.


    ¡°Bounty notice,¡± he said, squinting.


    ¡®Wanted: Fugax. 30,000 gold coins. Spire¡¯s Lower Vault.¡¯


    ¡°Shit. 30,000?¡± He flipped it to Nathaniel, who caught it with a grimace.


    ¡°¡®Reward scales with Passion Energy stored,¡¯¡± Nathaniel read, voice low. ¡°This thing¡¯s a tank. Hundreds of thousands of poules, maybe more. No wonder Santina¡¯s here. That¡¯s no small fry she¡¯s chasing.¡±


    Arwyn¡¯s stomach twisted. ¡°Fugax? Sounds like a boss. And no Sketcher made it. Santina said that psycho wasn¡¯t one of us. So what¡¯s feeding it Passion Energy down here?¡±


    Nathaniel folded the paper, tucking it into his jacket. ¡°The Sketcher who made it put effort. Probably just quit the thing mid-way or crumpled it. Either way, Santina¡¯s ahead, hunting this thing. We¡¯re on her heels. Lower floor¡¯s close.¡±


    Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    They pressed on, tunnel sloping upward now, sludge giving way to damp stone. The Spire¡¯s hum shook the walls. A ladder loomed ahead, rusty as a metal that¡¯d been soaked in water for a whole generation, bolted to the wall, leading up through a jagged hole. Faint light spilled down. It was crimson, pulsing, the Spire¡¯s glow. Scratches marked the rungs.


    Whipsword again, Santina¡¯s trail.


    ¡°Lower floor,¡± Arwyn said, gripping the ladder. ¡°She¡¯s been here. If she¡¯s after this guy, we might catch her¡­ Or whatever¡¯s left.¡±


    Nathaniel nodded. ¡°Or we walk into her mess. Stay sharp, kid. Your scar¡¯s screaming for a reason.¡±


    Arwyn climbed, katana bumping his thigh, diary thumping in his pack. The sewer¡¯s silence broke above. A distant clang, steel on stone, from the Spire¡¯s guts.


    Santina, or something bigger?


    The rungs creaked under his grip, rust flaking off where Santina¡¯s whipsword had scratched her path. Nathaniel followed, and both of their footsteps clacked against the marble floor.


    He hauled himself over the edge, though this time, his sneakers scraped damp stone as he landed in the Spire¡¯s lower vault. The air shifted. Less rot, more metal, a tang of burnt ink hanging thick.


    The chamber sprawled wide, with cracked pillars that loomed like broken teeth. The buzz was deafening here, rattling his bones, until he couldn¡¯t tell where one ended and the other began. Nathaniel dropped beside him, silent, scanning the shadows.


    Then Arwyn saw it¡ªher.


    Santina stood thirty feet ahead, whipsword coiled at her hip, one boot planted on a hulking corpse that sprawled across the floor. Fugax, no doubt¡ªthe Erasure, but its ink-armored hide cracked open like a shattered eggshell.


    The thing was massive, twice her size, a mess of jagged limbs and a gaping maw frozen mid-roar, leaking black sludge that hissed faintly as it dissolved into ashes.


    Her new dagger, the twin he¡¯d sketched, jutted from its chest, sunk to the hilt, a clean kill. She didn¡¯t turn, just wiped ink off her cheek with a gloved hand, her high ponytail swaying as she shifted her weight.


    ¡°Well, glowstick,¡± she called, voice flat but edged, not looking back. ¡°Late again. Thought you¡¯d drowned down there.¡±


    Of course she¡¯d notice Arwyn¡¯s presence. Even in the calmest of days, he could never conceal his aura¡­ just yet.


    Arwyn smirked, stepping forward, katana still sheathed but loose in its scabbard. ¡°Yeah, well, your breadcrumbs suck. Dead ends everywhere. You¡¯re too fast for us slowpokes.¡±


    Nathaniel stayed back, eyeing the corpse. ¡°Fugax, huh? Thirty thousand coins¡¯ worth of ugly. Nice one.¡±


    Santina finally turned. Her amber eyes glinted in the crimson light, sharp and tired, bags under them, and a smudge of blood on her jaw she hadn¡¯t bothered to clean. ¡°Nice? Took two hours and half of my damn patience. Bastard soaked up my Passion Energy. Three hundred thousand poules, at least, before I cracked it.¡±


    She kicked the corpse, a dull thud echoing. ¡°Worth it though. Spire¡¯s bounty office¡¯ll pay out tomorrow.¡±


    Arwyn¡¯s eyes flicked to the dagger. ¡°My sketch held up, then. You¡¯re welcome.¡±


    She smirked, faint but real, pulling the blade free with a wet squelch. ¡°Better than most Runar junk. I still don¡¯t owe you anything, glowstick.¡± She wiped it on her thigh, tucking it back into her belt, but her stance stayed coiled. She was less cocky now, more guarded. Her armor was scratched, one pauldron dented deep, and a thin cut ran along her forearm, blood dried dark.


    Nathaniel crouched near Fugax, tracing a claw mark with his finger. ¡°No Sketcher made this... Something else fed it, pumped it full of juice.¡± Nathaniel stood, looking around the large interior. It looked like a cathedral, limestone walls and arches, wood for the scaffolding, and stone from the earlier fight. ¡°Where¡¯s the psycho anyway?¡±


    Santina¡¯s smirk faded, jaw tightening. ¡°Psycho¡¯s long gone a week back, like Cedric. Left this mess for me to mop up.¡±


    She then spat into the ink pool, a bitter sound. ¡°Runar¡¯s been drowning in Erasures since. Lost a sister to one three years ago. They clawed her apart in front of me. Couldn¡¯t even bury her, just ash and ink.¡±


    Then Santina laughed, brushing it off. ¡°Now I hunt ¡®em. Keeps the streets clean, keeps me sane.¡±


    Arwyn blinked, his snark stalling. They let out a moment of silence, before Arwyn replied softly.


    ¡°Condolences.¡± He shifted, sketchbook heavy under his arm.


    ¡°Nah, it¡¯s alright,¡± she said, too quick, eyes flicking away. ¡°Just business. Thirty thousand buys a lot of quiet.¡± But her voice cracked, just a hair, and she turned back to the corpse, nudging it with her boot like she could kick the lie away too. ¡°You¡¯re chasing Cedric, right? West¡¯s that way, past the Veil, they told me. Don¡¯t expect me to tag along.¡±


    Nathaniel stood, Rings glinting as he crossed his arms. ¡°Not asking. But you¡¯re neck-deep in this Spire mess¡ªpsycho¡¯s trail or not. What¡¯s feeding these things?¡±


    Santina shrugged, but it was stiff, forced. ¡°Dunno. Spire¡¯s been humming louder every day. That bounty paper¡¯s old. Fugax was loose down here for a while.¡± She glanced at Arwyn, amber eyes narrowing. ¡°That scar¡¯s loud. Louder than what I normally hear.¡±


    ¡°Mine?¡± Arwyn¡¯s hand twitched to his glove as he reacted to her, then the Spire. ¡°What¡¯s that supposed to mean?¡±


    She stepped closer, whipsword swaying, voice dropping low. ¡°I felt it back there. Your Passion Energy¡¯s wild, untamed, like mine used to be. Trained it out of me, fighting these guys. You? You¡¯re a walking spark in a powder keg, and the Spire likes that. It feeds on it.¡±


    She paused, then smirked again, softer. ¡°Don¡¯t blow us all up, huh?¡±


    Nathaniel chuckled, breaking the tension. ¡°He¡¯s trying. So, the lower vault¡¯s clear¡ªwest next, or up?¡±


    Arwyn¡¯s eyes flicked to the corpse, then Santina. ¡°West. Cedric¡¯s the goal¡ªQuill¡¯s out there. But¡­¡± He nodded at Fugax. ¡°This psycho¡¯s mess keeps following us. You sure you¡¯re out, Santina?¡±


    She turned away, heading for a side tunnel. ¡°Got my coins, my kill. Spire¡¯s your problem now, glowstick. Don¡¯t die, cause I¡¯d miss the free daggers.¡± Her laugh was dry, but it lingered, a crack in the armor she wore tighter than her gear.

 Chapter 18: A New Grimoire

    Arwyn hauled up the ladder, the rungs creaking under his grip, rust flaking where Santina¡¯s whipsword had carved her mark. The clang hit again. Steel on stone, sharp and close that rattled the metal. Nathaniel climbed below, his voice still looping in Arwyn¡¯s head:


    ¡°Something¡¯s still moving.¡±


    The diary thumped hard in his pack, clawing to break free, and his katana bumped his thigh with every step.


    He hit the top, boots scraping damp stone as he swung over the edge into the Spire¡¯s mid-tier guts. Air slammed him. Thick, electric, Passion Energy crackling wild against his scar like a live wire. The chamber sprawled wide and ugly. There were cracked pillars that jutted up like broken fangs, bases slick with ink pools that shimmered red under the Spire¡¯s pulse.


    Ink veins snaked the walls, pulsing slow, alive, and the floor was a mess. Shattered stone, burnt sketch scraps, a faint buzz humming under it all like something waited to pounce.


    Nathaniel dropped beside him as his boots squelched. ¡°Kid,¡± he muttered, voice low and tight, ¡°that¡¯s no bounty trash.¡±


    His eyes locked on the rubble, the center of the room. The dust still swirled from a fresh-collapsed pillar. A glint caught there, faint violet sheen glowing through the grit. Arwyn¡¯s scar flared even more. With hesitation, he stepped forward, kicking debris aside.


    Leather-bound, edges singed, the thing pulsed under his fingers as he snatched it up. A book. A grimoire.


    ¡°Hey,¡± Nathaniel breathed, then narrowed his eyes. ¡°That¡¯s¡­ shit, that¡¯s Daverno¡¯s.¡±


    Arwyn brushed ink-dust off the cover, squinting in the red haze. A spiral rune, Terra Incognita script, not Delacroix, etched deep. And the title? Arcane Codex. He flipped it open, and its ink shifted like it was alive. Words forming, fading, sketching themselves as he watched.


    His scar buzzed hotter, itching under the glove, and Nathaniel¡¯s jaw went tight, a crack in his usual cocky mask. ¡°You know kid, he was my apprentice,¡± he said, voice rough. ¡°back when I fought here in Incognita. Weak bastard, barely 500 poules. He couldn¡¯t even sketch a straight line. When I got yanked to Earth, I figured he¡¯d faded into nothing. But well, guess I was wrong.¡±


    Arwyn¡¯s gut twisted, eyes darting over the shifting ink. ¡°This isn¡¯t any diary,¡± he muttered, flipping pages fast. Scribbles, runes, notes in a shaky hand that steadied as it went. ¡°He wrote this after you bailed?¡±


    Nathaniel nodded, and Arwyn smirked, scar pulsing. ¡°Weak to what¡ªstrong enough to leave this?¡±


    ¡°Stronger than me, maybe,¡± Nathaniel shot back, dry as hell. ¡°After I got turned Earth-side, I never heard from him ever since. Told him to hide his name though.¡±


    Arwyn¡¯s fingers tightened on the leather. It wasn¡¯t just a manual. It had secrets, stuff the Delacroix Diary never coughed up. Arcane Sketching, it said. Part of the Dream Sketching system, but twisted differently.


    His Manifestor gig conjured nets, bars, daggers, stuff you could touch. Arcane Sketching? Pure energy, Passion bent raw. Arcane people drew symbols to summon elemental energy in forms such as balls or beams.


    Daverno¡¯s notes spilled it. He¡¯d sucked as Nathaniel¡¯s apprentice, too shaky to keep up, but after the blue-haired bastard vanished, he¡¯d grinded. 50,000 poules, with no status whatsoever. Arwyn couldn¡¯t swap styles. Manifestor Sketching was in his blood, but this grimoire was a cheat code anyway.


    ¡°Efficiency,¡± he muttered, eyes locked on a page. ¡°Says here you stretch Passion Energy. You channel it sharp so that you waste less. My nets? Sloppy at 100 poules. It could drop to 70 with this.¡± His scar hummed, syncing with it like it agreed. Nathaniel raised an eyebrow, the rings glinting as he leaned in.


    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    ¡°Daverno always was a nerd,¡± he said, smirking faint. ¡°Keep reading, kid. He¡¯s got more.¡±


    So Arwyn flipped fast, ink shifting under his glare. There was a chapter about Erasures.


    ¡°Passion leaks feed them, cracks amplify them,¡± Daverno scrawled. Arwyn glanced back at Nathaniel, whose gaze was entirely on the book. He had a smirk tugged at his face, and a proud one at that.


    ¡°Keep going,¡± Nathaniel said, voice flat.


    More, and about Sketch Binding.


    ¡°Blue-Haired Mentor, Nathaniel¡¯s his name, though society calls him the Fortissimum. I can¡¯t blame them, the man was a trillion-poule monster, bound sketches like threads. Using those threads, he can either bind sketches into one single piece, or separate them into pieces. I¡¯ve seen him separate stuff once, and man was it gory.¡±


    Arwyn¡¯s jaw dropped. ¡°You weren¡¯t kidding?¡±


    He shrugged, grin gone with confirmation, no explanation. He didn¡¯t know why he¡¯d got nerfed either. Nathaniel just knew he himself had been a god once, and that god shaped Daverno.


    Arwyn¡¯s chest tightened, scar flaring. 6,300 now, itching to burn. ¡°Trillion poules,¡± he muttered, half to himself. ¡°And you¡¯re stuck at 10,000 now? That¡¯s¡­ damn tough.¡±


    The Spire trembled hard, sudden, and cracks split wider, ink veins pulsing fast. Arwyn¡¯s scar flared, Codex thumping like the Diary beside it. Nathaniel¡¯s rings sparked, blue threads flickering, ready but held.


    ¡°Daverno hid this here,¡± Arwyn muttered, eyes darting. ¡°Why?¡±


    Nathaniel, still silent, turned and walked back to the ladder that they¡¯d just climbed on. He finally spoke, with a voice softer than Arwyn would ever hear him. ¡°Runar¡¯s spire was a good place for preservation and secrecy. Told him to hide it here, and well, it¡¯s here.¡±


    Arwyn checked the table of contents. It had ink shifting, chapters glowing faint. Erasures, Arcane tricks, Sketch Binding, TI history¡­ No Phoenix Quill.


    His heart sank, a cold pit in his gut, till Nathaniel¡¯s hand clapped his back, firm but light. ¡°Quill¡¯s something only the Delacroix would know,¡± he said, voice steady. ¡°We¡¯ll find it ourselves, kid.¡±


    Arwyn snorted, shoving the Codex into his pack beside the Diary. ¡°Yeah, great¡ªanother dead end.¡± His scar buzzed. 6,300 steady, itching under the glove, but the grimoire¡¯s weight felt right, heavy with promise. He flipped his sketchbook open, pencil scratching fast to test out if this ¡®efficiency¡¯ really worked.


    Another apple, small, tight. 50 poules burned, but sharper, brighter, no flicker. Daverno¡¯s trick clicked. There was less waste, and more punch. The orb flared violet, lighting the chamber¡¯s mess. Rubble, ink pools, a spiral stair winding up into shadow.


    ¡°Nice,¡± Nathaniel muttered, smiling again. ¡°Efficiency¡¯s kicking in. Daverno would be smug as hell.¡±


    Arwyn threw and caught the apple with a steady posture. One hand in his pocket, and one holding the apple. His shoe repeatedly clacked against the floor, echoing through the Spire. ¡°So, what¡¯s next?¡±


    Nathaniel kept his smile, but now a bit serious, as though the air shifted as Arwyn asked the question. ¡°We go back.¡±


    He expected something more than a grimoire he can¡¯t even utilize to its maximum potential. Maybe gold, or an enchanted bracelet that could increase his Passion Energy significantly. But¡­ nope. Just a grimoire.


    ¡°What? Just this shit?!¡± He pointed at the book with his middle finger, fucking him off and pointing at the same time. ¡°After all that Erasure blah-blah, we get a book that I CAN¡¯T EVEN USE.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll get it, if we get out of here alive.¡± Nathaniel glanced at the far-upper corner of the hall. ¡°That¡¯s why.¡±


    And Arwyn looked the same way.


    Cameras.


    Nathaniel sighed, knowing that guards will inevitably come. ¡°They never installed cameras the last time I went here before. I bet there were some at the sewers as well.¡± He continued strolling down the way they¡¯d just entranced earlier. ¡°When the guards come, we surrender. And¡­¡±


    He looked back, and Arwyn¡¯s scar pulsed brighter as he held the book, staring blankly at the camera. ¡°Oy! Can¡¯t you hide your scar for god¡¯s sake?!¡±


    But his voice trailed off as Arwyn stayed.


    His mind swirled around the idea of panic. He didn¡¯t know what to do, though he most definitely didn¡¯t want to get locked up in a place where everything seemed worthless, where people didn¡¯t give a single damn about anyone, anywhere, anytime.


    He snapped back a moment after, and Nathaniel was gone. He ran away without him, without even a message or anything. Was this perhaps a test, or did he really just¡­ poof out of there?


    In any case, it didn¡¯t matter. Arwyn fled the Spire, and jumped¨Cdidn¡¯t climb down, but jumped down onto the sewers. It was colder and quieter, now that he was alone.


    ¡°Fuck, fuck, fuck! Where the hell is he!?¡±