The white paper was calling to him.
It wasn't the ordinary call of a blank page. It was a magnetic hum, a vibration rising from the cold stone to tickle his new, monstrous talons. Leo stared at the grimoire. He didn't yet understand the exact nature of this object, but he could feel its weight, a promise of creation laced with the scent of death. The leather binding the book seemed almost to breathe, expanding and contracting in sync with his own racing heartbeat.
Vark, the gaunt, ape-like creature, approached with a series of hops on his spindly limbs. His voice, guttural and grating like two stones being ground together, shattered the silence of the chamber.
— "It's your grimoire, Artist. Your only tool, your only friend, and likely your future coffin if you don't learn how to use it. Draw in it, and magic will follow."
Leo hesitated. He looked down at his hands: those ebony claws, massive and sharp, capable of shearing through steel. How could an artist used to the delicate precision of a stylus create anything with these butcher's tools?
— "I don't... I don't have any ink," Leo managed to rasp. His demonic voice, deep and cavernous, still hit him like an electric shock.
Vark burst into a shrill, piercing laugh that echoed against the weeping walls of the dungeon.
— "Ink? You're full of it, pal! It's your mana. Your black blood. Your distilled imagination. Just put your finger on the page. Let your will flow. But be careful: every stroke costs a piece of yourself. Draw trash, and you'll die like trash. The spectators don't tune in for scribbles."
Leo stepped toward the bone pedestal. The pain in his skull, once agonizing, had settled into a dull heat, a latent energy begging for an outlet. He placed his clawed index finger on the corner of the first page.
The contact was instantaneous. A jolt of lightning surged through his body. The page wasn't made of cold parchment; it was an organic material, warm and supple to the touch. As soon as his talon grazed the surface, a droplet of viscous black liquid, darker than the deepest night, welled up from his skin.
It was his essence. His mana.
Leo closed his eyes for a second. He no longer saw the circular room or Vark's yellow, mocking eyes. He saw blueprints, curves, and lines of force. His past life as a designer took over. Panic retreated, replaced by a fierce, predatory focus. If this world wanted to turn him into a monster for a divine reality show, then he would be the best-armed monster on the set.
With a sharp, fluid motion, he traced the first line of what would become his salvation. The paper seemed to drink the black ink with insatiable thirst, and a faint violet glow began to radiate from the edges of the book.
— "Not bad..." Vark whispered, his ears twitching with excitement. "Looks like you finally found the manual."
Leo wasn't listening anymore. He was already somewhere else, lost in the geometry of destruction.