People always talk about childhood defining you. That's true for me, but not in the way most would expect.
Because of something that happened when I was a kid, I ended up with an ability no one else has. Not something you'd read in comic books or daydream about when the world gets boring. This is different. It is real and dangerous.
Anything I draw or paint, I can bring into the world. A creature, a weapon, a door that leads to nowhere—I can summon it. But nothing comes without a cost.
I feel a strange energy flowing through me every second of every day, like electricity just beneath my skin. I call it mana. It fuels my ability. The stronger or more complex the thing I summon, the more mana it drains. When I run out, the creation vanishes.
But there's another rule, too. One that's more personal. My art determines the strength of what I summon. If my drawing is poor, the thing I bring to life will be weak, fragile, and temporary. But if I pour time and precision into it, if I push my skill to the edge… then what I summon becomes something else entirely. Real. Powerful. Lasting.
And right now, I need all the power I can get.
The scream shatters the air like slow-motion breaking glass. I try piercing the creature by using both my hands to slice him through the stabbed wound, but there's no stopping it—it's not a sound so much as something that penetrates inside me, as if it's attempting to tunnel its way into my mind. I think I'm going to fall, but I hold my ground, tightening my grip on the sword, while trying my best to maintain balance.
The creature recoils, still with my father's face, but now unraveling, skin sloughing away like melting wax, bones squirming underneath. The air next to it ripples, distorting and churning, like reality trying to contain whatever this monstrosity is.
"Julius." It jeers, but the voice is gone now. It is many-tongued, broken—five voices speaking at once, and not a single one of them a man.
I take a step back, creaking the floorboards under my foot. I'm breathing hard, my chest tightening, but I don't stop. I can't.
"Why are you here?" I ask repeatedly, and now there is only calmness, not any anger.
That creature does not answer. Instead, it tries to reach me with its claws. Yes, its disguise has worn off. That evil thing looks imperfectly human, but off. Its wide-set, milky-white eyes lack pupils. Its frozen and too-wide mouth is a stitched-on smile. Its mouth does not function with words to communicate when it talks—it stutters after the dialogue.
"I didn't want this," I whisper, "but you came here wearing his face."
The air around the blade starts to shimmer. Golden glyphs appear along the edge of the steel—runes I didn't draw, but that know me. The painting knew. The sword hums like it's awakening.
The creature freezes for a second, but it's too late.
I raise the blade, and it ignites, not with fire, but with radiant energy—like sunlight breaking through stormclouds. The light pierces through the dark, casting the demon's twisted body in stark shadow.
I swing.
The moment the blade strikes its head, the creature lets out a broken screech, high-pitched and otherworldly. Its body begins to crack, glowing veins of violet light spreading like lightning across its form.
And then—it burns.
Not like wood or paper. It dissolves. The light consumes it from the inside out, turning it to ash without heat, without smoke. Just dust falling in slow motion, drifting to the ground like it never belonged in this world to begin with.
Silence.
I lower the sword, breathing hard. My hands are trembling again, but this time, it's from exhaustion.
From the weight of what just happened.
clap clap clap
I turn back, and my face suddenly fills with immense fear.
Another one. Standing just a few feet away. Its appearance is nearly identical to the creature I just turned to dust—same too-wide smile, same ghost-pale eyes that glow without pupils.
Despite its similar appearance, this one feels entirely different—its presence radiates power, heavy and suffocating, like a storm pressing against my skin.
I never even noticed it!
When did this thing get here? How long has it been watching?
Despite my shock and fear, I raised my hand towards that canvas. The elf from the canvas breaks the barrier of art and reality and comes to life, standing right beside me. His feet silent on the floor next to where I stand. His sword shines silver, his eyes keen with purpose—just the way that I painted him.
He speaks not a word, but he needs not. We approach the creature together.
The demon tilts its head, as if in a gesture of amusement, its mouth curving with a parody of a human smile. But there is no soul in those white, luminous eyes—nothing but hunger.
I whisper, "Attack."
The elf is a blur of flame and breeze, charging ahead, sword clashing against the air. Steel scrapes against the claw. The creature parries with a speed that is not natural, but the elf is faster. Every slash shines with a gentle radiance, with the power I placed there when I created him.
I'm panting where I stand, trying to call upon more mana to hold myself together. My legs are shaking not with fear, but with the power building in the room. That presence. That power. It's like a suffocating presence.
But I am not by myself. The elf attacks once more and sends the demon stumbling back with a solid hit. It wavers, a momentary lapse, but I notice an opportunity.
I raise my arm again toward my bedroom, my heart pounding like a war drum. Inside, the air ripples—the boundary between paint and reality waves. A canvas glows, humming with energy. Upon it, a hooded assassin is halted in a half-turn, knives glinting in his painted hands. The shadows stretch, then tear—and he steps out.
He does not speak. He moves like smoke and vengeance. In moments, the assassin stands at the demon's rear, twin daggers flashing. One dagger strikes the demon's back, deep enough that the beast roars in fury and agony. Its arms and legs flail, contorting in surprise. But just when I think we might prevail in this, my vision blurs. My knees weaken. A sharp hollowness pulls at my chest. The elf stumbles. The assassin blinks. And then one by one, my summoned creatures vanish like mist on glass. My mana runs out.