The Definition of Things
Chapter three: The Definition of Things
The scent of fresh bread, cheap cologne, and floor polish mingled in the air as Caelum strolled through the shopping mall, weaving between sluggish crowds.
He adjusted the strap of his bag, stepping around a mother struggling to wrangle her screaming child into a clothing store. The kid was wailing like someone had just informed him Santa wasn't real. Caelum resisted the urge to give him a solemn nod and say, 'It only gets worse, buddy.'
Instead, he kept moving, his gaze flicking between storefronts as he mentally went over his list. Bread, coffee, a few other essentials—things he could technically draw but had decided against. For now.
He exhaled through his nose, fingers drumming against the strap of his bag.
It had been a week.
A week since he'd started testing the quill in earnest. A week of trial, error, and a lot of unconsciousness.
He'd learned a few things in that time.
The quill wasn't just blindly powerful. It followed rules—rules he had slowly uncovered through sheer stubbornness (and by passing out more times than he'd like to admit).
The first rule- The quill didn't create things arbitrarily.
It created things based on his definition of them.
He had recreated the leaf, the key, the dollar, all perfectly—because he had defined them exactly as they were. A key was metal, a dollar was thin, fibrous paper with embedded security strips, a leaf had veins and an organic texture.
He understood those things, And so, the quill did too.
But then came the problem.
He had tried to define a loaf of bread as butter.
And sure enough, when the ink shimmered, what had landed on his desk was a piece of bread-shaped butter. The outside had a crust, but the second he pressed a finger into it, it squished into soft, greasy failure.
Which, honestly, would've been hilarious if it hadn't also been terrifying.
Because that meant every object he created wasn't just a copy. It was shaped by his own perception.
Which led to the real issue. Defining something that didn't already exist, just like the bread-shaped butter.
That was a whole different beast. The first time he had tried, he had blacked out in less than a minute.
The second time, thirty seconds.
By the third time, he had barely made it ten before his vision tunneled and the floor became his new best friend.
He sighed, shaking his head as he reached for a basket outside a bakery, tossing in a loaf of bread.
"Lesson learned." He muttered to himself.
The quill didn't just pull from his thoughts—it pulled from him. His willpower, his energy, something deeper than just physical exhaustion.
He reached for a carton of eggs, lips pressing together.
That should've scared him.And, well. It did.
His fingers tapped against the edge of the basket as he started walking again.
"But slowly," he murmured, "my willpower is also rising."
It wasn't much. Yes.
But every time he pushed himself, every time he tried, he could feel the difference. He lasted longer before exhaustion hit. He didn't pass out as quickly.
It was small. Almost imperceptible, But it was there.
And that wasn't bad.
Because it meant he wasn't just experimenting anymore. He was adapting.
He stopped outside a coffee shop, watching as a group of teenagers loitered by the entrance, laughing too loudly, their energy endless. He huffed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Must be nice."
Still.He wasn't complaining.
This was his life now.
And, despite everything—despite the exhaustion, the uncertainty, the weight of what he was slowly unraveling—he was beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, it wasn't such a bad one.
Not yet, anyway.
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----
The city moved at its own rhythm.
The low murmur of distant traffic, the uneven chorus of footsteps on pavement, the occasional burst of laughter or conversation—all of it blended into something familiar, something constant.
Caelum walked with his hands tucked into his pockets, his bag slung over one shoulder, the weight of his groceries pressing against his back. The sky had shifted into that in-between shade of gold and blue, the air cooling as evening crept in. It was one of those rare moments where the world felt good. Not spectacular, not life-changing, simply good.
His feet moved in easy strides, the slow repetition grounding him. He passed a small bookstore with a faded sign, the scent of ink and paper wafting from the open door. A café on the corner spilled out the rich aroma of coffee and sugar, tempting him for a brief second before he reminded himself he still had some at home.
He wasn't in a hurry. And for once, that was nice.
He reached the quieter streets near his apartment, where buildings weren't crammed together so tightly, and where a small park stretched out beside the sidewalk.
His steps slowed.
Children were playing—laughing, shouting, running in chaotic circles as the last traces of sunlight kissed the edges of the grass. A boy chased after a red ball, his arms outstretched as if catching it was the single most important thing in the world. Another kid dangled off the monkey bars, kicking their legs as they yelled something at a friend below.
It was strange, watching them. Not in a way that made him feel out of place. Not exactly.
But there was something distant about it. Like watching a memory that didn't belong to him.
Caelum exhaled through his nose, shifting his grip on the bag. 'so carefree'.
The moment passed as he stepped onto the pathway leading to his apartment building.
And that's when the thought struck him.
He had created objects. Inanimate, silent things. But what about—
His body went still. A shiver ran through him, sharp and immediate. His fingers clenched, breath caught somewhere between his chest and throat.
"No." His words unintentionally left his mouth.
His own mind recoiled at the thought, as if something in him knew he shouldn't even be considering it.
Creating things was one thing. But something alive?
His stomach twisted. His pulse quickened. Why had he even think about that?
He swallowed hard and forced himself to move, stepping quickly toward the entrance of his apartment building.
'Don't be ridiculous.The quill was a tool, not a god's hand.'
Wasn't it?
His fingers were ice-cold as he pushed open the door and stepped inside.
---
The familiar quiet of his apartment greeted him as he locked the door behind him.
Still, that lingering unease clung to his ribs like something heavy, something unsettled.
He exhaled sharply, shaking his head as if he could physically rid himself of the thought. 'Forget it. It was nothing'
Turning away, he moved into the kitchen and set the bag on the counter. The act of unpacking felt mechanical, his hands moving on autopilot as he put things away—the bread in the cupboard, the eggs in the fridge, the coffee beside the half-empty jar already sitting there.
Each small action grounded him, little by little.
When the groceries were stored, he changed into his home clothes, rolling his shoulders as the stiffness of the day began to fade.
The next step was routine.
He grabbed a glass of water, reached for the small orange bottle sitting on the counter, and twisted the cap off.
The pills rattled softly as he tipped one into his palm. He stared at it for a moment.
'So small. Why is it damn expensive.'
A dry chuckle left his lips, humorless. "Should've tested the quill on these instead of a loaf of bread," he muttered, tossing the pill into his mouth and swallowing it down with a sip of water.
'Would the quill even work on something like this?' his thoughts ran wild.
Could he copy the chemical compounds, the exact molecular structure of his medication? Or would it turn into something entirely different, something wrong at its core, like the butter-bread abomination?
He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. Doesn't matter. For now, at least.
With everything done, he moved toward his desk, dragging the chair back and sinking into it.
The quill sat there. Waiting As always.
His fingers hovered over it before finally closing around the smooth wood. He turned it over in his hands, his thumb running along the dark blue feather.
His grip tightened. "Let's give it a try, huh?"
The words were light, almost joking.But his heart wasn't entirely steady.
His hands weren't entirely still.
Because, even though every rational part of his mind screamed against it, the idea had taken root.
He wont draw a person.That was too much. Too wrong even for a soon to be dead person like him.
But he could make something small. Something harmless.
An insect, maybe.
He exhaled slowly, gripping the quill as he reached for a blank sheet of paper.
And, with careful strokes, he began to draw.
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The ink shimmered.
Caelum's breath slowed as he watched the delicate strokes on the page twitch, shift, and peel away from the paper like a layer of reality being unraveled.
The beetle landed softly on his desk.
It was a simple thing, no larger than the nail of his thumb—glossy black, with spindly legs and delicate antennae. A perfect replica of the one he had seen crawling across his window the other day.
Except this one hadn't come from nature. It had come from him.
His fingers hovered near it, he was hesitant. The beetle remained still, as if waiting.
Then, its legs moved.
A slight adjustment of weight, the tiniest shift of balance, before it started walking across the desk with the mechanical precision of an insect that had no idea it shouldn't exist.
Caelum exhaled through his nose, dragging his knuckles against his lips as he watched it move.
It wasn't impressive, It wasn't like a living thing at all. It was just like a doll, And that was the problem.
His hand twitched. Before he could stop himself, his finger pressed down.
A faint crunch was heard.
All that remained was a smear of ink beneath his fingertip, sinking into the grain of the wood.
For a long moment, he just stared at it.
Then, he sat back, rubbing his temple. "Well," he muttered, voice dry. "That wasn't dramatic at all."
---
The night stretched on, marked only by the soft scratch of the quill against paper and the steady ticking of the clock on the wall.
Each time, the process was the same.
Draw. Watch. Observe.
The butterfly had lasted longer than the beetle—its delicate wings flapping hesitantly before it found its rhythm. It had drifted through the room, landing briefly on the rim of his lamp, before disintegrating into a fine mist of ink that soaked into the surface like spilled water.
Not dead. Not broken. Just erased.
Like it had never existed in the first place.
Caelum frowned, tapping his quill against the desk.
"So that's how it works, huh?" he murmured. "Things made from ink don't die—they just stop being."
His fingers drummed idly against the wood.
Then the real question was—
"how long did they last?"
Because if the beetle had only made it a few minutes, and the butterfly lasted longer, then maybe…His gaze flickered toward the blank page before him.
What if he made something bigger and more complicated?
His fingers twitched. The quill was warm against his grip, waiting.
He dipped the nib to the page and began to draw.
---
Time blurred.
He didn't stop at insects.
A small bird was next—its feathers meticulously inked, every detail fine-tuned. It peeled itself from the page, fluttered, and lasted a full half an hour before vanishing mid-flight.
Then came an attempt at a cat. That one hadn't gone well.
The drawing had shuddered before it lifted, lines warping in real-time. The body had been fine, but the eyes—empty, soulless things—never moved, never blinked.
The moment it had breathed, Caelum had grabbed the paper and torn it apart.
His hands had been shaking for nearly an hour after that.
"Okay," he muttered to himself, staring at the shredded scraps. "So maybe that's a line I shouldn't cross."
He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. And yet, as much as the cat had unsettled him, it had also taught him something.
Every time he created something, it pulled at his willpower greatly—demanded a lot more than he could manage. At first, he had assumed it was just a bit, like how focusing on a task for too long drained a person.
But this wasn't normal exhaustion.
His body wasn't aching, his muscles weren't sore.
Instead, it was like his very will had been carved into, like something unseen had reached inside and scooped out a handful of whatever made him him.
And yet, despite the fatigue pressing against his skull, there was the faintest hint of endurance.
He leaned back in his chair, turning his wrist and flexing his fingers.
He had lasted longer tonight than he had last time. It was barely noticeable, but it was there.
His willpower—whatever the quill was taking—was growing.
Slowly, But undeniably.
His lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Guess I'm getting better at playing god," he muttered dryly.
---
Midnight crept closer. His thoughts were sluggish, his movements slower, but still, he kept going.
He had tested insects, birds.
But he had yet to try something entirely new. that didn't exist in nature.
Something that belonged only to him.
The thought sent an uneasy tremor down his spine. Creating something that already existed was easy—it was just copying. Mimicking at best.
But making something original? That was true creation, That was a step into unknown territory.
His fingers curled around the quill.He pressed the nib to the paper—
And the exhaustion hit like a tidal wave.
His vision blurred. His breath caught.
---
When Caelum woke, the lamp flickered weakly, its bulb buzzing like an insect caught between glass.
His head was pounding.
His limbs felt like they had been filled with lead, every muscle sluggish and unresponsive.
For several moments, he just lay there, sprawled across his desk, the taste of exhaustion thick in his mouth.
Then, with great effort, he forced himself to sit up.
The room was the same. His desk was the same. The quill lay where he had left it, untouched.
He stared at the empty page, his stomach twisting.
'Had i been too drained to complete it? Or did the quill stopped before it could finish?'
'Or had it taken more willpower than i had realized it was capable of taking?'
His fingers twitched against the desk. He swallowed dryly, dragging a hand over his face.
"Yeah," he muttered, voice rough. "This is definitely gonna kill me earlier than i thought."
But despite the exhaustion, despite the uncertainty clawing at the back of his mind, one thought remained clear.
He was getting stronger. And he wasn't stopping now.