Malcolm woke up to the warm glow of sunlight streaming through the window. He blinked, his vision adjusting to the brightness. On the nightstand beside him was a plate of breakfast—hotdogs, eggs, and rice—along with a bottle of water. The smell of food made his stomach growl, but before he could reach for it, something caught his attention.
The notebook—or rather, the thing—appeared in his field of vision, hovering just above his head.
"My Lord! You're awake!" it exclaimed, its voice a mix of relief and excitement.
Malcolm jerked back, startled. He stared at the notebook, his mind racing. Was it all a dream? he wondered. But no, there it was, floating in front of him, very much real.
"Who are you?" Malcolm asked, his voice cautious. "I mean… what are you?"
The notebook froze mid-air, as if struck by lightning. Then it flew closer to his face, its pages fluttering dramatically.
"How could you not know me, my Lord?!" it cried, its tone both hurt and indignant. "We've spent ten years together! How could you not recognize your beloved?"
Malcolm raised an eyebrow, confused. "Ten years? What are you talking about?"
The notebook's pages flapped wildly, as if it were gesturing with hands. "We've been through so much! I've been with you through thick and thin! I even saw you at night, watching those… those videos of women moaning and—"
"STOP!" Malcolm interrupted, his face turning bright red. He grabbed the notebook and clamped its covers shut, silencing it. "Okay, okay, it's you. I believe you. Just… keep your voice down!"
He glanced nervously at the door, making sure no one had overheard. The last thing he needed was a nurse walking in on this bizarre conversation.
The notebook wriggled free from his grip, floating back into the air. "I'm just saying, my Lord, we've been through a lot together. You can't just forget about me!"
Malcolm sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Alright, alright. I get it. You're… my notebook. Or something. But what exactly are you? And why are you talking?"
The notebook hovered in front of him, its aura glowing faintly. "I'm your partner, my Lord. Your creations, your imagination, your soul—they've given me life. I'm here to help you wield the power of the Infinite Canvas."
Malcolm stared at it, still trying to wrap his head around everything. "So… you're like a magical, sentient notebook?"
"Exactly!" it said, its tone cheerful now. "And together, we're going to do amazing things."
**Continued Script:**
Malcolm raised an eyebrow, his arms crossed as he stared at the notebook hovering in front of him. "I still don't believe you," he said flatly. "You sound more like a sleazy salesman than some magical artifact."
The notebook gasped, its pages fluttering indignantly. "What?! How could you doubt your abilities and your creations, my Lord? You should never sell yourself short!" It flew closer to his face, its covers flapping like angry hands. "You're the Summoner of the Infinite Canvas! You're capable of greatness!"
Malcolm leaned back, unimpressed. "Yeah, yeah. You keep saying that, but I haven't seen any proof."
The notebook huffed, crossing its imaginary arms. "Fine. If you don't believe me, then try it yourself. I bet the guys are all worried about you." It hovered down to his lap, its tone shifting to one of pride. "Go on, flip my page."
Malcolm sighed, shaking his head. "When you say it like that, it sounds like I'm flipping your—" He stopped himself, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Never mind."
He reached out and flipped the cover of the notebook. The moment his fingers touched the pages, he felt a surge of energy—magical, ominous, and alive. The notebook seemed to hum in his hands, its aura pulsing with power.
The first page was no longer blank. Instead, it bore a message, written in elegant, almost glowing script:
Welcome to the Tome of Infinite Canvas
Behold, the notebook you now hold is no mere collection of parchment and ink. It is a gateway, a vessel, a living breath of the arcane. Its spine hums with a resonance that echoes through the unseen, and its pages whisper secrets that the mortal mind was never meant to comprehend. To open it is to step into a labyrinth of truths that twist and writhe like serpents in the dark.
But heed this warning, for not all knowledge is a gift, and not all doors should be unlocked.
Pages 236 to 309
These pages are alive. They shift and writhe beneath the touch, their words crawling like insects across the paper. To flip them is to invite chaos into your mind. The knowledge here is dangerous, uncontrollable, and hungers for the unwary. Open them only if you are prepared to face the consequences of what lies beyond the veil. And even then, tread lightly, for the shadows within these pages are not mere ink—they are watching.
Pages 312 to 366
These pages are forbidden. They are not meant for mortal eyes, nor for any eyes that value sanity. To open them is to risk unraveling the very fabric of your being. The symbols etched here are not words but sigils of power, and they pulse with a malevolent energy that defies understanding. Do not be tempted by curiosity, for what lies within these pages is not knowledge—it is a curse. To gaze upon them is to invite the attention of forces that should never be awakened.
At all costs, leave these pages sealed.
The notebook is both a gift and a burden. Treat it with reverence, for it is far more than it appears. But remember, some doors, once opened, can never be closed again. Proceed with caution, or not at all. The choice is yours, but choose wisely—the consequences are eternal.
Malcolm's eyes widened as he read the words. The notebook's tone had shifted from playful to ominous, and he couldn't help but feel a chill run down his spine.
As he flipped to the next page, a sound echoed in his mind—a rhythmic, synchronized chant. It grew louder, more distinct, until he could hear the clashing of weapons and the shouts of men.
In his mind's eye, he saw them: the Stickman Legion. They were training, their simple stick-figure forms moving with precision and discipline. At the front stood King Leonidas, his bold red cape flowing as he barked orders.
Suddenly, Leonidas turned, his stick-figure face somehow conveying authority and intensity. "HALT!" he shouted, raising his stick-figure sword. "Hail our God, our mighty creator!"
The Stickman Legion stopped mid-drill, turning to face Malcolm. In unison, they knelt, their voices booming in his mind. "All hail, our God!"
Malcolm's jaw dropped. He was equal parts embarrassed and shocked. "What the hell is this?" he muttered.
A holographic screen appeared in front of him, displaying detailed information:
[ Stickman Legion (Bounded) ]
General Description:
A disciplined, battle-hardened group of stick figure warriors, inspired by the Spartan warriors of 300. Each member of the Stickman Legion is a skilled fighter, brought to life with unique traits that make them more than just lines on paper.
---
Leader of the Legion
Name: Leonidas
Role: Commander
Personality: Brave, strategic, and fiercely loyal to the cause.
Appearance: Slightly thicker lines to symbolize authority; wears a cape (simplistic, drawn with bold red strokes).
Trait: Brave Commander: Increases its stats to 300%.
Backstory: Drawn to embody courage, Leonidas's leadership inspires his stick warriors to fight beyond their limits.
Legion Traits
Unified Goal: Defend their creator at all costs.
Battle Cry: "For our Creator!"
Combat Style: Coordinated and efficient, leveraging simplicity and precision to overcome opponents.
Weakness: Vulnerable to erasers or damage to their drawn forms, which can distort their abilities.
Stats Per Each Warrior (They are bounded, thus their stats are suppressed when summoned)
STR: 11 (110)
AGI: 9 (91)
END: 13 (130)
VIT: 1 (20)
The Stickman Legion and Leonidas continued to praise Malcolm, their voices echoing in his mind.
[ Would you like to summon it? Cost: 15 Mana ]
[ Does not cost mana to maintain. Summons can be brought back to the book and do not cost mana to resummon them again unless they are eliminated. ]
Malcolm's eyes flickered as he processed the information. He couldn't believe their stats. Individually, they were small, but there were 300 of them—and that didn't even account for Leonidas's 300% stat increase as their commander.
"This… this is insane," he whispered, his heart racing.
The notebook hovered closer, its tone smug. "Told you, my Lord. Now, are you ready to see what you can really do?"
Malcolm hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering over the page depicting the Stickman Legion. He could feel the energy radiating from the notebook, a strange, almost electric sensation that made his fingertips tingle. Taking a deep breath, he pressed his hand against the page.
A surge of energy rushed through him, flowing from his body into the notebook. He felt a sudden wave of fatigue, as if part of his strength had been drained. He remembered the system's explanation: each point of MAG gave +3 mana and +5 magic damage. With his current MAG stat of 10, he had 30 mana in total—and summoning the Stickman Legion had just cost him 15.
The page began to glow, a soft, golden light spreading across the paper. One by one, the stickmen started pouring out of the page, their simple yet dynamic forms materializing in the air before landing on the hospital floor. They moved with surprising grace, their stick-figure limbs precise and coordinated.
Last to emerge was King Leonidas, his bold red cape flowing dramatically despite his simplistic design. He landed with a flourish, his stick-figure sword raised high.
The Stickman Legion quickly lined up on the hospital floor, their movements synchronized and disciplined. Despite their small size—each one no taller than a foot—there was an undeniable aura of strength and determination about them.
King Leonidas stepped forward, his voice booming despite his diminutive stature. "All hail our God!" he shouted, his stick-figure face somehow conveying unwavering loyalty.
The rest of the legion followed, their voices echoing in unison. "All hail the Infinite Creator!"
The sound of their voices filled the room, a chorus of devotion that left Malcolm both awestruck and slightly embarrassed. He glanced at the door, half-expecting a nurse to burst in at any moment.