Chapter 3: Ink and Instinct

The night air buzzed with neon glow as Arwyn and Nathaniel settled outside the ramen joint. Pink and blue lights flickered over the empty tables, casting jagged reflections on the pavement. 

Arwyn plopped his sketchbook and the Delacroix Diary onto the chipped wooden table, their edges worn from being shoved in his pocket all day. Steam curled from the bowls in front of them, thick with miso and pork scent. 

Nathaniel didn't wait. He dove in, slurping noodles like he'd been starving for weeks.

Arwyn poked at his ramen, letting it cool. "So, as a Dream Sketcher, I can only draw objects. That's the deal, right?"

Nathaniel swallowed a mouthful, broth dripping down his chin. He didn't bother wiping it. "Objects, kid. Just objects." His slurps echoed, loud and shameless, like he didn't care who stared.

"Yeah. So how'd you get created then? You're not an object," Arwyn said, leaning back in his chair.

Nathaniel laughed, a sharp bark that didn't reach his eyes. "You're a Manifestor. I came from an Animist Sketcher." He twirled his chopsticks, flicking a noodle strand into his mouth.

Arwyn closed his eyes for a second, irritation bubbling up. Motherfucker. There's more to this stupid system than he's letting on. He forced a smile, masking the itch in his brain, and opened his eyes. "Alright. What's an Animist Sketcher then?"

Nathaniel pointed a chopstick at himself, grinning. "What do you think?"

Arwyn slurped his own noodles, thoughts spinning. "So Animists draw people?"

"Yep," Nathaniel said, wiping his lips with his sleeve. "But they're reckless. If they're not totally locked in, their creations go wild. That's how Erasures happen. Abandoned sketches turn into monsters."

"Monsters like you?" Arwyn smirked, tapping the diary with his knuckle.

Nathaniel's blue eyes darkened, sharp behind his glasses. "I'm a success, kid. Most Animist sketches end up in Terra Incognita, half-alive and starving. That's why I need the rings. To get home before I unravel."

"How'd you even get here? On Earth, I mean?" Arwyn asked, swirling his broth.

Nathaniel chuckled, low and bitter. "Got chucked through the barrier. Hit hard."

Arwyn's grin lingered, but a shiver crawled up his spine. He brushed dust off his sketchbook, fingers lingering on the cover. "So my uncle has the fourth ring."

"Bingo." Nathaniel tossed his chopsticks into his bowl, now mysteriously empty. Seconds ago, it had been brimming with broth. "But let's save that for later. Finish your ramen."

"What the... How did you—" Arwyn stared, baffled.

"Never mind," he muttered, gulping down his own half-full bowl in one go. He stood, stretching, and they left the restaurant behind. The city pulsed brighter now, traffic clogging the streets with honks and exhaust. His sketchbook weighed heavy in his pocket, still humming faintly from the Glock he'd made earlier.

"Hey. Faggots!" a voice slurred ahead. Three figures stumbled from an alley, grinning like feral dogs. One waved a knife, its blade catching the streetlight's glare. "Hand over the book, pretty boy."

Arwyn rolled his eyes, pulse kicking up. "Seriously? Drunk assholes?"

Nathaniel stepped back, arms crossed, casual as ever. "Your move, kid. Remember, no people. Just objects."

Arwyn's stomach flipped. This wasn't a sketchbook flub with Nathaniel mocking him. This was real, sharp, and closing in fast. He glanced back, voice tight. "What? But why—"

"Pay attention, dumbass! He's running at you!" Nathaniel jabbed a finger forward.

The first thug charged, knife raised. "You're dead!"

Shit. Arwyn's hands shook as he yanked his sketchbook free, pencil slipping in his sweaty grip. He scribbled a net, lines sloppy and jagged, then slammed his palm down. A whoosh of air burst from the page. 

Carbon-fiber strands exploded outward, snagging the thug's legs mid-stride. He yelped, crashing face-first into a dumpster with a wet clang, dragging his buddy down with him. Trash bags spilled, their curses muffled under the tangle.

The third thug lunged, knife slashing toward Arwyn's chest. "Fuck, I need something bigger," he hissed, flipping a page so fast it crumpled at the edges. His pencil scratched wildly, brain blanking. 

Draw. Draw. Draw! 

…

…

FUCK! I CAN'T THINK!

The blade glinted inches away, and panic screamed in his skull.

Shield. That's it. 

He sketched a crude circle, edges wobbly, and slapped the page. A dull clang rang out as a metal disc popped into existence, hovering just in time. The knife bounced off, sparks spitting into the night. The thug stumbled back, surprised, but didn't stop.

Nathaniel flipped through the diary, voice calm. "Manifestors excel at terrain control. Think traps, barriers, weapons. But don't overdo it. Your energy's finite."

Arwyn barely heard him, blood pounding in his ears. He scratched a flamethrower nozzle onto the shield's edge and slammed again. A roar erupted, fire blasting from the disc in a wild arc. The thug dove sideways, sleeve singed, as flames licked the pavement.

"Arwyn!" Nathaniel barked. "You're eating your Passion Energy like it's unlimited!"

The warning hit too late.

Arwyn's knees buckled, a hollow ache blooming behind his eyes. Five sleepless nights' worth of exhaustion crashed into him at once. The shield flickered, then crumbled to ash. He swayed, vision doubling. "Shit… headache."

Nathaniel grabbed his arm, steadying him. "Told you. Smaller. Use the environment."

The third thug recovered, staggering up, knife still clutched tight. His drunken snarl twisted hotter, and he charged again, blade slicing the air. Arwyn's head throbbed, but Nathaniel's voice cut through. "Think smaller, kid! Use the garbage!"

His sketchbook nearly slipped from his sweaty hands. Smaller. Environment. The words bounced in his skull as the thug closed in, knife gleaming under a flickering streetlight. 

Arwyn's pencil darted across the page: three jagged lines, a coiled spring. He slapped it down. A sharp click snapped from the dumpster beside the thug. Its lid flung open, and a rusted mattress spring shot out, whipping around his ankle like a lasso. 

He tripped mid-lunge, crashing chin-first into a puddle of oily sludge. The knife skittered across the asphalt, clinking into the gutter.

"Gross," Arwyn muttered, legs wobbling. The spring melted into ink, its job done. He gripped his sketchbook tighter, chest heaving.

Behind him, ripping sounds split the air. The two tangled thugs tore free of the net, eyes wild. "You're dead, you little—" one growled, lurching forward with a broken bottle.

Think faster.

Arwyn's pencil wobbled as he sketched a slanted line under the dumpster's wheels. He slammed the page. A groan of metal screeched as the dumpster tilted, wheels slipping on the conjured slope. It tipped hard, vomiting a wave of trash: banana peels, soggy cardboard, a stench like rotting meat. 

The thugs vanished under it, flailing as the pile buried them. A stray diaper slapped the ground last, sealing their fate.

"Eat shit," Arwyn spat, though his smirk faded fast. Darkness crept into his vision's edges, and he stumbled, catching himself on a lamppost. The sketchbook dangled from his limp hand. Am I killing them? His head spun, seeing double: two lamp posts, two piles of trash.

Nathaniel stepped up, plucking the sketchbook from his grasp. "Cute. But you burned a month's energy on a Tuesday night." He tossed a chocolate bar at Arwyn's chest. "Eat. Before I'm dragging your dumbass home."

Arwyn fumbled the wrapper open, shoving the chocolate in his mouth. The sugar hit like a lifeline, steadying his pulse. "They were just drunks," he said, voice rough. "Why'd they want the diary?"

Nathaniel's fingers tightened around the leather cover. His usual smirk vanished, replaced by something heavier. Concern, maybe. "What'd you just say?"

"The guy said, 'Hand over the book,'" Arwyn repeated, nodding at the diary. "Not my sketchbook. That one."

Nathaniel stared at it, jaw tight. "A sign, perhaps, or maybe they were too drunk."

"Huh—" Arwyn started, but pain cut him off. A spike drove through his skull, and he collapsed against the wall, clutching the sketchbook. "Why does it hurt so much?"

"Because you're sloppy," Nathaniel said, pressing the diary into his hands. "Read this."

Arwyn squinted at the blurry text through the ache: Generation 34: The Resurrection Artifact. The Phoenix Quill. Forged from an Animist's tears. Can resurrect one soul. Once. As of today: No one has claimed it.

His heart thudded, loud in his ears. "Could it really bring her back?" His voice cracked, raw and small. "Or is this just a fairy tale?"

Nathaniel's face softened, just a flicker. "If we get the fourth ring. Cedric's hoarding it for power. Help me reclaim it, and—"

"—I get the Quill," Arwyn finished, voice steady despite the weight in his bones. A spark flared in his chest, faint but real. Hope.