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– How did you–”

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—no 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– But why–”

“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!

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

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–

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—"

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–”

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–”

“–I get the Quill.” Arwyn finished, his voice steady despite the exhaustion.

And somehow, there was a flicker.

A flicker of hope.