Light Inksworth stared into the bathroom mirror, the harsh fluorescent light buzzing overhead. The face looking back was handsome, framed by dark hair pulled into a messy half-bun, but the eyes behind his glasses held a frantic edge.
He raised a hand and slapped his own cheek—hard.
PAK!
A sharp sting radiated across his skin.
'It's not a dream,' Light thought, his stomach churning. 'I would have preferred a nightmare.'
He didn't feel the joy one might expect from suddenly inheriting a legacy. Instead, a hollow shout of frustration clawed at his throat. The dread wasn't abstract; it was printed in black and white right in front of him.
He looked down at the New York Times spread out on the vanity. The front-page headline screamed about Stark Industries securing another multi-billion dollar contract with the U.S. Military.
Beneath the text was a photo of the board of directors, but one figure dominated the frame: a man with a perfectly groomed mustache and a smile that reeked of arrogance and cynicism.
Tony Stark.
'This is the Marvel Universe,' Light realized, a cold sweat breaking on his neck.
It didn't matter if this was the comic continuity or the cinematic one; either way, he was screwed. If he tried to flee the United States before the events of Infinity War, it wouldn't matter.
New York might be ground zero, but when Thanos snaps his fingers, geography becomes irrelevant.
It was a cosmic coin toss—heads you live, tails you turn to dust.
The entire universe was a slaughterhouse waiting to happen.
There was nowhere to run.
Light picked up the newspaper again, his eyes scanning the sidebar. Below the Stark Industries puff piece, there was an editorial debating the "Mutant Threat."
'Great,' he thought grimly. 'So it's not the MCU. It's Avengers and X-Men, AU Marvel...'
The danger just doubled. He considered his options, weighing whether to curl up and wait for the end or try to carve out a living. He took stock of his inheritance. Aside from this refined, western-style brownstone in Manhattan, he had been left a comic book publishing company.
In his previous life, he had been a lowly assistant in the manga industry. He hadn't expected to return to the grind in this new life, but the irony wasn't lost on him. He couldn't stop the apocalypse, so he might as well make a name for himself before the sky fell. At least then, his second life wouldn't be a total waste.
Light walked out of the bathroom and slumped into the leather office chair, waking the computer with a tap. He needed to understand the cultural landscape.
It was exactly as his memories suggested. The current comic book market was suffocated by superheroes, specifically patriotic archetypes. It was an industry built in the shadow of Captain America. Steve Rogers was portrayed as the ultimate lone hero—integrity, nobility, and righteousness dialed up to eleven. A modern god wrapped in a flag.
The market was saturated with clones of Steve. Every story followed the same tired formula: the virtuous hero struggles, persists through grit, and inevitably knocks down the villain. It was propaganda masquerading as entertainment.
However, Light noticed a glaring gap. The cultural industry in this universe was strangely sterile. The diversity of genres was non-existent. The art was technically proficient, sure, but it lacked soul. It lacked edge.
A spark of excitement cut through his dread. If he was going to die when the Mad Titan arrived, he could at least build a comic book empire before the dust settled.
He cleared a space on his desk, laying out a pristine sheet of white paper. He pulled a pencil from the drawer, the wood feeling familiar in his hand. He was about to start drawing, intent on creating something that would shatter the stagnant hero concept of this world.
But the moment the graphite tip touched the paper, a mechanical, disembodied voice resonated in his skull.
[The Supreme Mangaka System is initializing... Activation complete. The Host may access the interface via thought.]
Light froze, the pencil hovering millimeters above the page. Then, a rush of ecstasy flooded his veins. He had a cheat. Just as he was resigning himself to a mediocre struggle, fate had handed him a weapon.
A translucent blue interface materialized in the air before him. It was sleek, divided into three distinct sectors: Search, Lottery, and Warehouse.
Light focused on the Search tab. An interface resembling a standard search engine popped up, floating in his vision. There was no physical keyboard; the system responded directly to his mind. He focused on a single title, a legend from his past life: ONE PIECE.
The screen refreshed instantly. The cover art appeared—vibrant, chaotic, and full of life—along with character bios, chapter counts, and metadata.
Light mentally clicked on the first chapter. The System's voice returned.
[ Host, all retrieved comics can be projected onto the paper via Ghost Trace. You need only follow the strokes. ]
'Damn,' Light thought, inhaling sharply. 'That's a broken mechanic.'
It was essentially a high-tech tracing table, but infinitely more precise.
Light's expression shifted. He reached out, finding that the virtual interface was tactile to him. He grabbed the floating window, rotated it, and laid it flat against the physical white paper on his desk. He adjusted the dimensions with a pinch of his fingers until it fit perfectly.
As the digital interface aligned with the paper, a bewildering phenomenon occurred.
A faint, glowing phantom image of the comic page seeped onto the physical sheet. It was a perfect blueprint.
'This is incredible,' Light murmured. Even someone with zero artistic talent could produce a masterpiece in minutes just by tracing the phantom lines.
For a waste like him who doesn't have any talent or skill to take note of, this was an artifact of god-tier utility.
Light wasted no time. His hand flew across the page, finishing the first sheet with mechanical precision. He checked it against his memory—flawless.
Adrenaline pumping, he swiped to the second tab: The Lottery.
At the top of the screen, a counter read: [Fan Value: 0].
Below it sat a digital roulette wheel, pitch black and emanating an aura of ominous mystery.
"What exactly does this do?" Light asked aloud, his voice echoing in the quiet office.
[ Each published work generates Fan Value. The Lottery consumes this value to extract abilities, items, or characters from the published works. ]
[ Fans are categorized into four tiers: ]
[ Ordinary Fan: Provides 1 Fan Point per month. ]
[ Sincere Fan: Provides 10 Fan Points per month. ]
[ Loyal Fan: Provides 100 Fan Points per month. ]
[ Fanatic: Provides 10,000 Fan Points per month. ]
"Ten thousand?" Light frowned, doing the mental math. "That kind of devotion is rare. You see it with pop stars maybe, but comic artists? Most people don't worship the guy holding the pen."
[ Host, this tier of fan is more intense than a celebrity stalker. They view the creator and the creation as divine. ]
"Understood," Light said, rubbing his chin. "And the cost?"
[ Each draw requires 100,000 Fan Points. The higher the consumption, the greater the probability of obtaining High-Tier rewards. ]
Light raised an eyebrow. "So, theoretically, I could pull something god-tier for the base price of 100k?"
[ Theoretically, yes. ]
Light smirked. He knew how these systems worked. "Theoretically" meant the odds were microscopic, but the chance was non-zero.
He glanced at the third tab, the Warehouse. It was currently empty, a digital void waiting to be filled with lottery winnings. No starter pack, no freebies.
Light navigated back to the Search bar, staring at the projected interface. If this were just a search engine, it would be useful for plagiarism, nothing more. But the Lottery changed everything.
If he published One Piece... if he garnered enough fans... he could pull items from the story. Devil Fruits. Haki.
Light's eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint appearing in them. He clasped his hands together, the pencil snapping between his fingers.
'This system,' he thought, the dark reality of New York fading into the background. 'This is the foundation. This is how I will survive... I must survive.'