The blue light of the monitor was the only thing keeping Leo anchored to existence. His eyes, bloodshot and stinging, felt as if they had been rubbed with sandpaper. Outside, the city of 2024 groaned under an acidic rain, but inside his nine-square-meter studio, the only sound was the incessant, mechanical click-clack of his stylus against the tablet.
He was working on "The Blood Virgin," a centerpiece illustration for a mobile game that he knew would be forgotten in three months.
"One more hour... just one more," he whispered. His voice was a dry, hollow croak.
A notification popped up in the bottom right corner. An email from his main client, "Giga-Corp Studios."
"Hi Leo, following a recent restructuring, we have decided to use AI to finalize the rendering of this series. We will no longer require your services for the finishing phase. Please send us all source files by tonight. Regarding payment for the 300 hours already completed, our accounting department will contact you within 90 days."
Leo sat perfectly still. The silence of the room became deafening. 300 hours. That was his rent. That was his food. That was his dignity.
He looked at his hands. They were shaking. His knuckles were deformed from years of absurd postures, sacrificed on the altar of productivity. He had spent his life creating worlds for people who had no imagination, drawing monsters for people who were the real monsters.
A single tear fell onto his graphics tablet. But it wasn't sadness. It was a rupture. Something in his mind went snap.
"You want art?" he said, staring at the frozen cursor. "I'll give you art."
Suddenly, the screen stopped emitting blue light. It turned black. A deep, organic black, like a pool of oil. Ink began to overflow from the edges of the tablet, spilling over his fingers, climbing up his wrists like living vines.
Leo didn't pull his hands away. He didn't scream. Instead, he closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. The ink smelled of sulfur, ancient parchment, and raw, unfiltered power.
"You are tired of serving, aren't you?"
The voice didn't come from the screen; it came from inside his own chest. A choir of voices, as if thousands of characters he had drawn over the years were speaking at once.
"In their world, you are just a hand. In ours, you will be the Source. Accept the Throne, Little Painter. Become the monster they forced you to draw."
Leo smiled. For the first time in years, he felt light.
"I accept," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "And I'm done with free revisions."
The studio exploded in a whirlwind of black ink. The concrete walls stretched and calcified, turning into millennial stone pillars. His cheap ergonomic chair shifted into a mass of muscle and leather. His human skin tore away, his skeleton widened, and his fingers elongated into ebony claws capable of shredding steel as easily as paper.
When he finally opened his eyes in the circular chamber of Aethelgard, facing the small, furry creature named Vark, Leo didn't panic. How could he? He had just left a world where he was a ghost for a world where he was a God.
Vark stared at him with apprehension, expecting the usual screams, the tears, the typical hysteria of the "Summoned."
But Leo simply looked at his new hands—massive, powerful, and brimming with mana. He felt the magic flowing through him like an inexhaustible inkwell. He looked up at the ceiling of the cavern, toward the "Divine Seats" he knew were watching.
"Is this your show?" he asked quietly, a predatory glint in his eyes. "Keep watching. Because I'm not just going to play. I'm going to redraw everything."
Vark stood frozen, his jaw hanging open. "You... you aren't afraid?" the advisor stammered.
Leo picked up the grimoire floating before him.
"I spent ten years living in a shoebox with debt and toxic clients, Vark. Your dungeon? To me, this is a vacation."