The night air was still heavy when Ethan stirred awake, his body sore and his head pounding. He was slumped against the trunk of a massive tree, fingers still clutching the stylus that now glowed faintly, its brilliance from the night before reduced to little more than a dim ember.
He inhaled deeply, trying to steady the frantic beat of his heart. The image of the armored knight haunted him still—those crimson eyes cutting through the darkness, the weight of each step crushing his spirit, and the bitter realization that he had brought it into existence himself.
"If I can draw monsters…" Ethan muttered under his breath, his voice hoarse. "Then I should be able to draw something to protect myself too. Right? That makes sense."
He glanced down at the stylus. Its tip trembled faintly, almost as if responding to his thoughts, though the glow remained unstable. A strange feeling grew in his chest—a tangle of dread and curiosity. This wasn't just a tool anymore; it was a bridge between his imagination and reality.
Ethan pushed himself to his feet, swaying as he staggered into a small clearing in the forest. Moonlight filtered down through the canopy, forming a pale circle on the ground. He lowered himself cross-legged at its center, stylus poised in the air like a brush ready to paint the unseen.
"Okay," he whispered. "Start simple."
He moved his hand, carving a circle through the air. A faint shimmer of light appeared, wavering like smoke, fragile and fleeting. The glow nearly blinked out before Ethan shut his eyes and focused on the image in his mind.
An object. Small. Practical. A torch.
When he opened his eyes, the shaky outline solidified. Light condensed, forming a wooden shaft crowned with golden fire. The torch dropped to the ground, landing with a soft thud. The flame crackled gently, casting warm light, yet somehow did not burn the wood beneath it.
Ethan froze, eyes wide, his breath caught in his throat. His hands trembled as he reached for the torch. Warmth. Real. The fire danced naturally, its glow reflecting off his awestruck face.
"I… I actually did it," he murmured, half whisper, half shout of disbelief and triumph.
But the relief was short-lived. His knees buckled. The world spun. A violent wave of fatigue slammed into him, as though something had been ripped from his very core. Gasping, he collapsed to the ground.
"So… every stroke drains me," he muttered between ragged breaths.
The torch flickered beside him, steady and real. A creation so small, yet it had nearly toppled him. What would happen if he tried to create something as massive as that knight? The thought made him shudder. His body wouldn't just fail—it would break.
He wiped sweat from his brow and let out a shaky laugh. "Alright… so this isn't free. I'll have to be smart about it. Otherwise I'll end up dead before that thing comes back."
The flame wavered, then suddenly extinguished. The wood cracked apart, dissolving into motes of light that vanished into the night. Ethan stared at the fading particles, both empty and exhilarated.
Nothing lasts forever. There's a time limit. A cost.
He straightened slowly, fixing his eyes on the stylus.
"Then I'll have to learn. Not just to draw—but to understand the rules behind all this."
---
The next few hours, Ethan experimented.
He sketched an apple—red and glossy, appearing in his hand. Yet when he bit into it, the taste was bland, like chewing condensed air. He tried a small knife—it looked sharp, gleamed even, but the edge splintered into light when he pressed too hard.
But each trial taught him something.
Detail shaped the strength.
Focus shaped the stability.
Emotion shaped the outcome.
When he drew a shield with trembling hands, gripped by fear, the result cracked immediately. But when he calmed himself—remembering nights back home, sketching with love and focus—the lines of light grew steady, the form more stable.
"It's not just skill… it's belief," Ethan whispered.
His gaze lingered on the stylus, now pulsing faintly in his hand. This world wasn't ordinary, and neither was the tool he'd been given. It wasn't just like the tablet pen he had once used in his dimly lit apartment—it was something deeper, something intertwined with his being.
"Which means…" he swallowed hard, fear creeping in. "…that knight… was he born from my belief too? Or from my fear?"
The memory of those red eyes pierced his mind again. He felt as though the creature wasn't just a random monster but a reflection of himself, a shadow waiting to rise again.
Ethan's grip tightened around the stylus. "Then I have to be ready. I need to get stronger before it comes back."
A sudden snap of branches cut through the silence. Ethan's body stiffened, instincts flaring. He raised the stylus, ready to sketch something in defense.
But it wasn't the knight that emerged. From the underbrush hopped a small creature, furry and brown, with a pair of tiny horns jutting from its head. Its wide eyes blinked curiously at Ethan, harmless and almost comical.
Ethan let out a nervous chuckle, lowering the stylus. "Nearly gave me a heart attack…" He exhaled in relief, shaking his head. "But hey, at least I know this thing keeps me from feeling completely alone."
He studied the creature for a moment, then glanced down at the stylus. An idea sparked, wild but tempting.
"Maybe… I can draw something to protect you too. And it'll give me practice."
Despite the exhaustion weighing on him, Ethan lifted the stylus again. Lines of golden light shimmered faintly at the tip, awaiting his command.
And there, in the heart of that strange forest beneath the cold gaze of the moon, Ethan began tracing the first strokes of his new destiny—learning not only to create but to wield his art as both shield and weapon.
Yet far beyond the clearing, deep in the black woods, two crimson eyes flickered open once more—watching, waiting, drawn to the fragile glow of golden light.