Kensuke cracked his knuckles—a sound like rifle shots. He looked at the dark citadel on the horizon, where a tyrannical warlord known as the “King of Erasure” had outlawed all art and storytelling.
“Neither,” Kensuke said, rolling his shoulders. His tattered robe fluttered in the alien wind. “I’m just a guy who draws fights for a living. But I’ve never drawn a fight I couldn’t win.” Kensuke cracked his knuckles—a sound like rifle shots
He closed his eyes, feeling the familiar ache in his wrist, the phantom pain of a thousand deadlines. Then, the world dissolved into sepia-toned exhaustion. His tattered robe fluttered in the alien wind
The knights fell to their knees. The squire stammered, “Great Demon Fist! Will you save us, or destroy us?” Then, the world dissolved into sepia-toned exhaustion
A petty warlord? That was nothing.
A vast, alien sky stretched above him—twin moons, one cracked like a dropped teacup. He was no longer in his Tokyo studio. He was sprawled in the center of a crater, his calloused fingers still curled as if holding a brush. But the brush was gone. In its place was a raw, throbbing energy coiling through his muscles like captive lightning.
He had no sword. No magic staff. No legendary armor.