Chapter 2: The System

Arwyn stood still, his sneakers rooted to the living room floor. Nathaniel's words hung in the air, heavy and strange, like a riddle he hadn't asked for. He blinked, letting the idea sink in, then let out a shaky chuckle. "The hell is a Dream Sketcher?" he said, his voice bouncing off the walls.

Nathaniel tilted his head, a smirk tugging at his lips. He pointed at Arwyn's hand, the one still clutching the cereal box from earlier. "Draw almost anything," he said, "then slam it with that hand when you're done."

He shoved his own hands into his pockets, casual as if he'd just explained how to microwave leftovers. "Picture your energy flowing into it, right through your fingers, and it'll come to life."

Arwyn opened his mouth to repeat it, half-mocking. "Slam it after drawing and then..." He stopped, eyes widening as the pieces clicked. "Wait. You're saying I can draw almost everything?"

Before Nathaniel could answer, Arwyn bolted. His socks slid on the hardwood as he raced back to his room, heart thumping with a mix of doubt and excitement. 

He snatched his sketchbook off the desk, the one stuffed with years of doodles: swords with jagged edges, guns with impossible designs. He hugged it to his chest and sprinted back, pencil already gripped like a lifeline. 

Dropping the book onto the coffee table with a thud, he flashed Nathaniel a cocky grin. "Alright then. Let's test this, shall we?"

He flipped to a blank page, and the paper crinkled under his fingers. The pencil moved fast, scribbling damn sharp lines into the white space. 

Spiky hair took shape, then a cocky grin he'd traced a thousand times from manga panels. The orange gi followed, bold and messy, and he shaded in a Kamehameha wave, its glow spilling from Goku's palms. This was it, his big move.

Nathaniel leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, one eyebrow inching up like he knew something Arwyn didn't. "Kid, what are you—"

"Shut up, I'm cooking," Arwyn snapped, hunching closer to the page. His tongue poked out slightly, a habit from years of late-night sketching. "You said anything, right? Watch this." He finished the last stroke, dropped the pencil, and slammed his hand down hard. 

A jolt shot through his palm, warm and electric, like static jumping from his skin to the paper. The sketch glowed, with a faint yellow that pulsed from the lines.

It twitched. Goku's eyes flickered, ink bleeding into color for half a heartbeat. Arwyn's jaw dropped. "What the... It's moving! It's moving! Oh my goodness, it's—" He leaned in, breathless, as the figure shifted. Then… 

The edges curled inward, blackening, and the whole Goku thing crumbled into ash and static with a soft hiss.

The room went quiet. Arwyn stared at the smoldering pile, his triumph souring. "What... huh?"

Nathaniel burst out laughing, a deep, wheezing sound that filled the space. He doubled over, clutching his stomach, tears glinting in his eyes.

"The hell?" Arwyn kicked the sketchbook off the table, his face burning. "You said anything!"

"I said almost anything," Nathaniel managed between gasps, wiping his face. "You really thought you'd just whip up a copyrighted anime character? That's your grand plan?"

Arwyn's cheeks flushed hotter. "You didn't say there were rules!"

"Rule one: stick to your type of sketching." Nathaniel flicked the ashes off the table, casual again. "You're a Manifestor Sketcher. Objects, not people. This is your imagination, not Akira Toriyama's. Try again, genius."

Arwyn glared at the ruined page, his pride stinging. "So I've got to make my own overpowered thing as a... Manifestor whatever?"

Nathaniel's smirk widened. "Bingo. Objects only. Unless you want dead Toriyama's lawyer knocking."

Arwyn groaned, scrubbing out Goku's charred remains with angry scribbles. "This power's trash."

"Nah, you're just basic," Nathaniel said, tossing him a fresh pencil. It landed in Arwyn's lap. "You don't know how to use it yet. Draw something that's yours. And please, for the love of God, don't make it a sword. Everyone starts with swords."

Arwyn caught the pencil, hesitating. Then a grin crept back. "Fine. If this flops, you're buying me ramen."

Nathaniel snorted. "Deal. But I pick the toppings."

So Arwyn started again. No sword this time. He sketched a gun instead, a Glock, its sleek shape flowing from memory. His pencil danced over the page, and he nailed every detail: the barrel, the trigger, the grip. He'd watched enough tutorials online to know the parts.

"You're drawing a gun now?" Nathaniel's voice had a teasing edge.

Arwyn smirked, not looking up. "You got a problem?"

Nathaniel shook his head. "If your dad sees you waving that around, don't blame me."

"Yeah, whatever." Arwyn finished the last line and sighed, leaning back to admire it. Perfect. He ignored Nathaniel's jab, too locked in on the bet. "Here goes," he said, slamming his hand down again. That same heat surged through his fingers, stronger this time. 

The page glowed yellow, bright enough to make him squint. He stood, stepping back, eager to see it unfold.

"Oh my god, it's... it's working," he whispered, voice trembling with awe. Nathaniel chuckled quietly, leaning harder against the wall, like this was old news to him.

The gun's tip rose from the paper, then the trigger, the handle. It built itself piece by piece, just as he'd drawn it. Arwyn's eyes widened, his hands shaking as he pointed at the light. "I can see it! I can see it!" he shouted, sounding like a kid spotting fireworks for the first time. The glow pulsed brighter, filling the room with a soft hum.

Then it faded, gentle as a breath. The living room settled back to normal, the TV still droning Titanic in the background. Arwyn's smile slipped. "What happened?" he asked, turning to Nathaniel with a frown.

Nathaniel didn't meet his eyes. He just pointed at the table, gripping the Delacroix Diary with a small, approving smile. "Can't you look?"

Arwyn spun around. 

There it was: the Glock, solid and real, sitting on the wood. His jaw dropped. "Is that... is that a Glock?" He rushed over, circling it, inspecting every angle. "Holy shit, man. What the hell."

He reached out, hesitant, and tapped it with a finger. Tack. Tack. Hard, cold, real. He grabbed it, lifting it carefully. It was heavier than he'd expected, the handle rough against his palm, but he held on. 

He'd never held a real gun before, but he'd studied enough clips online to know the stance. He swung it toward the cleanest wall, grinning. "Put your hands up!" he said, playful but loud. "I just made a literal Glock. I can do whatever I—"

Pak! Nathaniel's hand smacked the back of his head, cutting him off.

"Ouch! What was that for?" Arwyn yelped, rubbing the spot.

"Not bad for a first try," Nathaniel said, nodding at the gun. "But that trick cost you. Feel that headache yet? That hollow ache behind your eyes?"

Arwyn frowned, touching his temple. Now that he mentioned it, a dull throb pulsed there, like he'd stayed up all night sketching. "Yeah," he admitted, blinking hard.

"That's your Passion Energy running dry," Nathaniel said, tapping the sketchbook. "Every sketch takes a chunk. Bigger stuff, bigger drain. That Glock? Basic. Try a tank now, and you'd pass out before the treads show up. Maybe even die."

Arwyn squinted, the ache sharpening. "So it's like a mana bar?"

"Sure, if your mana runs on caffeine and existential dread." Nathaniel snatched the Glock, and with a flick of his wrist, it dissolved into ink, dripping onto the floor. "Want to make more than toys? Focus. Channel your passion, not your panic."

"I wasn't panicking," Arwyn muttered, bristling.

"Kid, you were sweating buckets." Nathaniel pulled a chocolate bar from his pocket and tossed it over. "Eat. Sugar helps. Next time, start small. Sketch a bullet before the gun. You forgot ammo, dumbass."

Arwyn caught the candy, unwrapping it with a grudging nod. "How do I get more energy?"

"Practice. Sleep. Don't be stupid." Nathaniel's tone softened. "And care about what you draw. This isn't a photocopier. It's your soul on the page. The more you give, the more it takes, and the more you get back."

He straightened, heading for the door, but paused mid-step. He turned, handing Arwyn the diary. "Oh yeah. You owe me ramen later."

Arwyn took it, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, whatever." He started picking up the mess, cereal box and all, like they'd swapped roles. As he carried it to the kitchen, a question nagged him. "Wait. What's that about a serpentine ring you mentioned earlier?"

Nathaniel stopped, one foot already out. "Dreamer Rings," he said, turning back. "I need four. Got three already."

"For what?" Arwyn pressed, leaning against the counter.

"To go home," Nathaniel said, quieter now.

Arwyn's head tilted. "Home? Where?"

"Terra Incognita."

The name hit like a cold splash. Arwyn's grip tightened on the diary. "What's Terra Incognita?"

Nathaniel froze, his back to him. The pendant at his neck pulsed faintly, its emerald eyes glowing. "You're not ready for that yet, kid," he said, voice low.

"Bullshit," Arwyn snapped, flipping through the diary's brittle pages. "You're in my house, talking about my family's book, and I'm supposed to just trust you? There's more, isn't there?"

Nathaniel sighed, rubbing his nose. "Fine. Don't say I didn't warn you." He nodded at the diary. "Read Generation 4: Fauna Delacroix. Go on."

Arwyn's fingers shook as he found it. The ink swirled, forming words: 

Terra Incognita isn't a place. It's a bridge. Where dreams and reality crash, where abandoned sketches linger as Erasures. They're twisted, half-alive things starving for life. The Dreamer Rings hold it together: Chronos for time, Gaia for space, Eos for life, Nyx for death. We lost them ages ago. Now Erasures leak here. The rings unlock the way back. Without them, the barrier falls— The rest was ash.

"Satsumas? My mom's family?" Arwyn's voice quivered, his hands sweaty on the leather.

Nathaniel's eyes widened. "Your mom's a Satsuma?"

"Yeah. What's wrong?"

He chuckled, dark and sly. "Is your uncle Cedric Satsuma?"

Arwyn's breath caught. "What about him?"

"He's not your uncle," Nathaniel said, grim. "He's an Erasurer. Steals power from sketches. Does he wear a ring?"

Arwyn pictured it: emerald eyes, serpentine. "He did."

"That's the Ring of Nyx," Nathaniel said, pulling a velvet box from his pocket. Three rings glinted inside: gold, vine-wrapped, blue. "He's been playing your family for generations. Your mom's death? Not an accident."

Arwyn's blood chilled. "Let's talk about this later," he said, voice tight. "Over ramen, maybe?"

Nathaniel nodded, softer now. "Sounds good."

But as he walked away, Arwyn stood there, diary in hand, wondering if any of this—himself included—was even real.