The silence in the apartment was broken only by the wheezing hum of the central processing unit and the frantic clicking of the stylus on the tablet. Leo could no longer feel his fingers. To be honest, he couldn't feel much else either, except for the red-hot iron bar that seemed to be piercing his skull.
"Just one last touch-up on the shadows..." he murmured, his eyes bloodshot.
A notification appeared at the bottom of his screen. An email from Giga-Corp: "Following a restructuring, we will be using AI to finalize your renderings. Payment within 90 days."
Leo remained motionless. Then, darkness. Not the darkness of a power cut. A deep, organic darkness, as if the universe had just been erased with a giant eraser. His heart stopped with a final feeling of injustice, but his mind was sucked elsewhere.
The Renaissance:
When Leo opened his eyes, he saw no white light. He saw ink.
He was standing in the center of a huge circular room, carved out of stone so dark that it seemed to absorb the faint glow of the blue torches. His hands... his hands were long, ebony claws. He wore black leather armor with purple highlights, whose plates seemed to pulsate like a living creature.
In the center of the room stood a massive seat made of bone and obsidian: The Little Throne.
A creature with pointed ears and parchment-like skin, dressed in a butler's livery that was too big for it, bowed low in the shadows.
"Congratulations, Master Leo. You have survived the transition. Welcome to your dungeon. I am Vark, your evil advisor."
Leo tried to speak, but his voice came out like the rumbling of crushed basalt.
"Where am I? And why do I feel like I'm anchored to the ground?"
"You are the God of the Dungeon, Master. You cannot leave these walls, for you ARE this stone. Your essence is bound to this domain. But in exchange..." Vark pointed to a massive book floating in front of the throne. "You have the Grimoire of Source. Everything you draw becomes reality."
Leo approached the book. He felt the power of the ink flowing through his demonic veins. He was a prisoner, yes, but for an artist who had spent his life in nine square meters, this dungeon was like an infinite canvas. There were already rumors of a Black Market where he could sell his creations to the other Lords, a window to the outside world.
" I will redraw this world," Leo began, his claws grazing the first blank page. "And this time, no one will ask for free revisions"
He stopped abruptly.
The sound of rusty metal and frantic clattering echoed through the main hallway. The heavy doors of the throne room flew open. A skeleton in golden armor, its cape in tatters, came running in, nearly tripping over its own femur.
The undead didn't even look at Leo. It rushed behind a pillar, trembling with every bone in its body, shield raised above its skull as if it feared the sky would fall on its head. He was fleeing from something with utter terror, his armor clanking like broken dishes.
Leo raised an eyebrow, his bone feather suspended in midair.
"Vark..." growled the demon. "What is that?"