After Halley had vanished from view, I felt compelled to visit the Abode of Knowledge. Without a phone call, text, or invitation. I was just going to drop by Zanh Kiem's place, without considering whether he was willing or able to receive me.
I needed to decompress and clear my head so that I could reflect on the day's events with a calm and unclouded mind. A conversation with the Maker could potentially be very beneficial in this regard. Additionally, the adage that two heads are better than one still held true. Of course, such an unannounced visit was a breach of etiquette, but I didn't care about that at the moment. I probably would have brazenly shown up at the Abode of Knowledge if a simple thought hadn't struck me halfway there. A thought so glaringly obvious that it rooted me to the spot.
As I listened to Halley's tale, it occurred to me: I couldn't blame him for being open, for revealing everything to Rock. After all, he was just a naive young guy who shared everything with those he considered friends. He didn't see the shades of gray, which explained his reckless trust in the custodian of the House on the Hill.
But...
What separated me from him? Just as Halley had no secrets from Rock, I held nothing back from Zanh Kiem. Of course, I could tell myself, "This is different!" and dismiss it. However, this was indeed different - because Rock wasn't Halley's friend; he was simply doing his job, which fundamentally altered the situation. In my case, withholding vital information from the Maker would be more than foolish; it would be a colossal mistake. Any unnecessary ambiguity between Zanh Kiem and me could hinder our efforts to save the world.
Even though these thoughts helped to calm me down, I decided against visiting the Abode of Knowledge. Instead, I headed to the city, to my apartment, opting to use my abandoned comic book project as a distraction.
After changing my clothes and leaving Metatron in the cave, I made my way to the capital, doing my best to avoid drawing attention to myself. Upon reaching my apartment, I exited the Break and took a deep breath. To my mild surprise, the familiar surroundings of Izao's home offered additional comfort. With calmness came a hint of hunger; it was already quite late in the evening, and I had last eaten at noon. After quickly whipping up some scrambled eggs and eating, I began to feel slightly drowsy. Instead of drawing, I succumbed to the fatigue and collapsed onto the bed.
After lounging for roughly ten minutes, I managed to muster the energy to pick up the already assembled storyboards. As I lazily flipped through the pages, I realized I had perhaps overestimated my abilities, doubting that I would be able to continue working on the comic today. Moreover, I'd long sensed that the story I wanted to convey through illustrations might not catch on with readers. Despite the solid plot and high-quality graphics, thanks to the prana-sensitive paper, and a vibrant, easily relatable character, something seemed to be missing.
The most frustrating part was that I couldn't pinpoint what that missing piece was; I just felt its absence intuitively. So, I sifted through the finished storyboards and tossed them onto the floor. I could have converted them into images and, even in this form, the comic would probably find its audience. It was, after all, a substantial, if average, work. But, like any creator, I wanted more. I knew I couldn't produce a masterpiece, but I strived to create something of quality. Yet, the draft lying on the floor was merely passable and far from good.
To distract myself, I grabbed the remote control and turned on the TV, listlessly flipping through channels, pausing on an anime show. However, this too quickly lost its appeal; as luck would have it, the series airing consisted mainly of endless fighting scenes. I honestly couldn't fathom the popularity of such abundant combat among viewers. Many well-known anime are almost half composed of action scenes, with the plot making up a negligible part. Yet, these shows are watched by hundreds of thousands, if not millions.
I don't get it...
Hold on!
A small epiphany, like a jolt of electricity, shot through me. Could that be it? Perhaps I was intuitively sensing the disparity between what I was illustrating and what was being published and shown on TV. In other words, what was popular.
Snatching up the storyboards, I frantically leafed through them. The longer I looked, the more I understood that none of my original plans could be scrapped and replaced with battle scenes. It was impossible as it would either disrupt the narrative flow or shatter character believability. The only solution was to expand the volume of the work. But, this posed a problem due to industry standards. A standard comic should be twenty-four pages long. For a novice, this was essentially the only option as editors rarely considered even an extended thirty-six page volume from unproven authors. And I had already pushed my luck, barely fitting into this format. The largest single-issue publication was forty-eight pages, but this was reserved for highly popular releases or groundbreaking novelties.
Having the anime channel playing in the background, I found myself once again reviewing the storyboard and the already-completed strips. I got so engrossed with new ideas that before I knew it, I had sat down at the table and started sketching on blank sheets. In less than thirty minutes, a fresh storyboard plan had taken shape. I had never worked on a comic so swiftly before. First, I decided to alter the beginning, kicking off with the protagonist's childhood. Second, inspired by the show playing on the TV, I took a gamble and added a hint of romance at the very end of the story, something that my original concept hadn't included at all.
Now, the revised plot of the first part of the giant combat robot universe story is as follows. The beginning: our hero's childhood unfolds in a small village, far removed from the clan bases. This village comes under attack by corsairs, hired guns for a rival clan. Explosions, horrific destruction, underscoring the sheer helplessness of even armed civilians against multi-ton walking war machines. Vivid, albeit brutal, scenes played out in my mind, illustrating both the terror and the elegance of mechs. The climax of this mini-arc sees clan vehicles arriving to aid the beleaguered village, and after a swift yet fierce battle, they repel the corsairs. Witnessing all this from ground zero, our young hero becomes enamored with mechs, taking a solemn vow to one day pilot these awesome machines of destruction.
The mid-section of the story, which was initially the beginning, portrays the hero coming to grips with reality. He realizes that as a natural-born individual, not a product of genetic manipulation, his chances of becoming a mech pilot are slim. However, his love for robots prompts him to train as a technician, ensuring that if he can't pilot them, he can at least repair them, keeping him close to the mechs he adores. Upon completing his mechanic's training, he's dispatched to a remote outpost. Shortly after his arrival, a new clan war breaks out. The enemies launch a missile strike on the pilots' barracks at the outpost and then deploy several mech squads to seize control of the planet. All the surviving pilots of the hero's clan scramble into their mechs and engage the enemy. But several mechs, whose pilots were casualties of the missile attack, are left unmanned. Risking everything, our hero jumps into the cockpit of one of these vacant robots and joins the fray. Naturally, adhering to comic book conventions, the "good guys" triumph after a hard-fought battle.
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The third segment of the narrative opens with the protagonist facing trial. He stands accused of usurping the upper class's position, a grave offense for someone of his lowly birth, punishable by death. However, the protagonist harbors no regrets for his actions and shows no fear of the impending sentence. The few minutes he spent controlling a mech were, to him, the most blissful moments of his life. In a surprising turn of events, the clan leader intervenes in the trial, acquits the protagonist, and dispatches him to the military academy. This decision is rationalized by the massive losses incurred by the pilots in the ongoing war, a consequence of an enemy attack on the barracks prior to the hostilities. Thus, there is an abundance of combat machines, but a severe shortage of skilled operators. The protagonist is chosen to be the test subject to determine if those naturally born temporarily fill the personnel void while the expedited training of clan warriors is in progress.
The narrative concludes with an examination where five graduates are pitted against each other, each controlling their own mech. Naturally, the protagonist is assigned the oldest, least capable machine. His rivals are quicker, stronger, and have superior training. His only advantages are his extensive knowledge of mech equipment, his relentless determination, and his nimble mind. These assets allow him to evade hits in the early stage of the examination and even inflict some damage on his adversaries. All except for one pilot, the operator of a silver mech, who displays such mastery over their machine that they effortlessly eliminate the others like targets in a shooting gallery. Eventually, only two mechs remain on the field, the protagonist's and the silver one. In an unexpected twist, a squadron of enemy combat vehicles invades the examination field, triggering a genuine, not simulated, battle. In the heat of the fight, the protagonist uses his robot to shield the silver mech. The enemy's attack on it is thwarted by this act, but the protagonist is gravely wounded. The final spread is dedicated to a scene where the pilot of the silver mech visits the infirmary to express gratitude to the hero. The pilot is revealed to be the princess of the clan.
The storyboards practically flew from beneath my fingers. The work didn't just progress - it soared. Tasks that previously took me days, or even weeks, were now completed in mere minutes. By one in the morning, the draft version was finished. I spread it across the floor, climbed onto a stool, and looked down at the bigger picture. The new version was more cartoonish, somewhat naive, and slightly fairy-tale-like. However, it didn't lose the tragedy, the epic scope, or the significant questions about birthright inequality. The piece was less serious but much more vibrant and dynamic, even though the volume increased by a quarter.
If I were a regular author-artist, I could never recreate what I accomplished that night. But, thanks to the Spark, prana-sensitive paper, a good scanner, a computer equipped with necessary software, and a printer, I had a comic book ready by morning. Not just a storyboard or a draft, but a complete work. Unfortunately, I couldn't find anything to bind it with since my stapler was out of staples.
As time was pressing, I neatly folded the pages and sealed them in a large envelope. After a moment's thought, I labeled it under Izao's grandfather's name. I can't even explain why I didn't use my own name. It just felt right, and Andre Vaillant ended up being listed as the sender instead of Izao Vaillant. A rather silly disguise, when you think about it, but I wasn't thinking too deeply at that moment. Instead of mailing the envelope, I dropped it into the collection box of the largest publishing house in Wilflaes on my way to university. The publisher oversaw three weekly comic and manga magazines intended for different audiences.
Already in the Break and rushing toward the university, I realized I probably rushed the process. I should've kept the comic for a couple of days and reviewed it with fresh eyes. Maybe revise something, remove or add parts, instead of merely sending a freshly finished work to the editor. Also, the fact that my pilot project barely fit into forty-eight pages suggested my action was poorly thought out. But it was done now, and all I could do was wait for a response from the publisher.
Despite my raig speed and the fact that the Break can be quite helpful after a sleepless night, I barely made it to the first lecture, entering the classroom just twenty seconds before it started. As it turned out, my rush was for naught. The scheduled lecturer fell ill, and we were assigned a teacher in ancient poetry. On the bright side, I managed to catch a few winks, subtly, with my eyes open. I left the lecture feeling even fresher than when I entered the hall.
"Let's go for a walk?" As soon as I stepped outside, Claire latched onto me.
Today, the girl was unusually lively and cheerful, practically radiating energy and freshness. While I couldn't help but feel a hint of envy, she also roped in Christian, before dragging us both towards Palm Alley.
"Where are you going?" Jan shouted after us. "Next lecture is in fifteen minutes!"
"Get lost!" The redhead dismissed his words. "If you're so keen, you go to this snooze-fest! Just the title alone puts me to sleep, 'The Influence of the Philosophy of Modern Times on the Ruling Houses of Europe.'"
"Your constant absenteeism paints you as highly unreliable people," Jan persisted, still concerned about us, albeit in his own peculiar way.
He did have a point. Studying was not only about gaining knowledge, but also about learning perseverance and the ability to deal with uninteresting material. However, caught up in the whirlwind that was Claire, Christian and I brushed off Jan's perfectly sensible words and went for our walk. Perhaps, if I had been well-rested and full of energy, I would have attended the lecture, regardless of how dull it sounded. But, in the current state, I simply surrendered to the whims of our female companion.
I wasn't sure what had come over Claire, but she seemed to be glowing. She was constantly joking around, teasing Christian, and keeping me engaged in the conversation. There were moments when I thought she should have pursued a career as a motivational psychologist - she would have been a surefire hit.
Veering off the main path, we arrived at a large clearing where several military department students were engaged in a makeshift game of rugby. We stayed far enough to not intrude on their game.
Under the patronage of the Count of Runar, and thanks to the university's rather liberal rules, we had relaxed in many ways, even allowing ourselves to forget that we lived in a class society. Hence, what transpired next took us completely by surprise.
A heavy ball, thrown skillfully by a shapeshifter, hit the back of Christian's head, instantly knocking him out. Immediately after, a large body collided with us, knocking Claire and me off our feet.
"Got it!" A tall guy with a third-year chevron yelled at the top of his lungs, snatching the ball off the ground.
As he picked it up, he purposely stepped on the foot of the unconscious Christian, feigning ignorance.
"What are you doing?!" The red-haired girl jumped to her feet, making a mistake by yanking at the shapeshifter's sleeve.
Her action earned her a resounding, offensive slap across her face.
"Who are you to dare raise your voice at a noble, let alone lay your hands on me!" The shapeshifter roared. "Know your place!" With that, another slap sent Claire sprawling to the ground.
By all rights, I should have stayed put, uninvolved, and then lodged a complaint after the fact. But in reality, I was barely holding myself back from slipping into the Break right then and there and slashing at the smug face of the shapeshifter with my "Word."
"Is that all you're capable of?" I said, rising to my feet. "Hitting girls?"
"You calling me a coward now?!" the shapeshifter bellowed gleefully.
I didn't have a chance to respond or even nod.
A couple of swift hits.
I saw them coming - I noticed the shoulder movement, the oncoming fists. I even managed to flinch, attempting to dodge the attack; my training with Zanh Kiem was not in vain.
But that was it.
The speed and reflexes of an ordinary person were no match for a shapeshifter who couldn't even be bothered to change forms.
Two flashes of pain - that was the last thing I remember...