King Leonidas stepped forward and knelt before Malcolm, his stick-figure form radiating unwavering loyalty. "We are ready to serve you, my Lord," he declared, his voice firm and resolute. "We dedicate our existence to your purpose."
Behind him, the Stickman Legion raised their tiny stick-figure weapons and chanted in unison, their voices surprisingly powerful for their size. "Ahoo! Ahoo! Ahoo!"
Malcolm blushed, feeling both honored and slightly overwhelmed. As an artist, this was his greatest dream come to life—his creations, his imagination, given form and voice. It was surreal, almost too good to be true.
But as he looked down at his bandaged knees, a pang of reality hit him. He had lost his legs, and no amount of magical notebooks or stickman armies could change that. Still, he couldn't deny that he'd gained something extraordinary in return. A power far beyond anything he'd ever imagined.
Yet, with that power came a sense of unease. The notebook's warnings echoed in his mind. It wasn't just a tool for creation—it was a vessel for his darkest days, his deepest fears, and his most twisted thoughts. He was glad it came with a warning, but he knew he'd have to tread carefully.
He sighed, glancing down at his knees. "What can you do about these?" he asked, wiggling the stumps slightly.
King Leonidas hesitated, his stick-figure face scrunching up in thought. "Uhh… Uhh… Well…" he stammered, clearly out of his depth. "Although we lack expertise in that area, we will do our best to assist you. Right, men?"
The Stickman Legion exchanged uncertain glances before responding hesitantly. "Yes… yes… we'll do our best."
Malcolm couldn't help but chuckle at their awkwardness. "It's okay, guys. I wasn't expecting miracles. Just… focus on what you're good at for now."
King Leonidas straightened, his confidence returning. "As you command, my Lord. We shall train tirelessly to become your shield and sword."
The legion cheered again, their chants filling the room. "Ahoo! Ahoo! Ahoo!"
Malcolm smiled, feeling a strange sense of warmth. Despite their limitations, their loyalty was unwavering. And for the first time since the accident, he felt like he wasn't alone.
The notebook floated over, its tone teasing. "See, my Lord? They're already proving their worth. Now, what's next?"
Malcolm leaned back against the pillows, his mind racing with possibilities. "I guess… we figure out how to make the most of this. Together."
King Leonidas raised his sword high. "For our Creator!"
The Stickman Legion echoed his cry, their voices filled with determination. "For our Creator!"
Malcolm couldn't help but grin. Despite the challenges ahead, he felt a spark of hope. With his creations by his side, maybe—just maybe—he could turn this tragedy into something extraordinary.
Malcolm's brow furrowed as he tried to recall the details of the notebook's character sheet. The information had flashed before him earlier, but in the chaos, he hadn't fully processed it. One thing stood out, though—the name.
"Veyl?" he called out hesitantly, testing the name on his tongue.
The notebook froze mid-air, its pages fluttering as if caught in a sudden breeze. Then, it let out a dramatic gasp, its aura glowing brighter.
"My LORD!!" it cried, its voice trembling with emotion. It flew straight to Malcolm's chest, pressing itself against him like an overexcited pet. "I knew you still remembered my name! I've been waiting for this day—the day my creator, the most powerful being in existence, would call me by my name. Ughhh… I am touched. Truly, deeply touched."
Its dramatic flair was on full display, its pages flapping wildly as if it were wiping away imaginary tears. "I am charmed, my Lord. Utterly charmed."
Malcolm blinked, caught off guard by the notebook's theatrics. "Uh… okay, Veyl. Calm down. It's just a name."
"Just a name?!" Veyl exclaimed, pulling back to hover in front of Malcolm's face. "My Lord, a name is everything! It is identity, purpose, meaning! And you, my creator, have given me the greatest gift of all—recognition!"
Malcolm couldn't help but chuckle at Veyl's over-the-top reaction. "Alright, alright. I get it. You're welcome."
Veyl sighed dramatically, its pages fluttering as if it were fanning itself. "Oh, my Lord, you are too kind. Truly, I am blessed to serve you."
King Leonidas and the Stickman Legion watched the exchange with silent curiosity, their stick-figure faces somehow conveying a mix of awe and confusion.
Malcolm shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. Despite the absurdity of the situation, there was something endearing about Veyl's enthusiasm.
Malcolm adjusted his thoughts, his mind racing as he tried to piece together a plan. He recalled a character he'd drawn in Veyl's pages—a saint, a figure of immense healing power. If he could summon her, she might be able to fully regenerate his legs. But the problem was mana. A saint would undoubtedly be expensive to summon, and with his current MAG stat, he didn't have the reserves to pull it off.
He frowned, thinking of alternatives. If he could recover his decapitated legs from the minotaur encounter, maybe a supporter character could heal him—reattach the limbs, stitch them back together. But that was impossible now. His legs were likely trashed, buried under the debris of his neighborhood. And even if they weren't, how would he even ask for them? "Hey, has anyone seen my legs?" It was absurd.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. There had to be another way. The Player Bureau Association wouldn't let a disabled player like him roam inside the gates. But maybe, just maybe, he could level up using his summons to farm the gates. It was a long shot, but it was all he had.
"Well, first things first," he muttered to himself. "I need to know when I can be discharged."
He turned to Veyl, who was still hovering nearby, its aura glowing faintly. "Veyl, how can I put the legion back?"
Veyl perked up, its pages fluttering. "It's simple, my Lord. They just need to jump back willingly into their page. Or, if you prefer, you can force them back yourself. You just need to visualize a chain that's binding them and pull them into their respective pages."
Malcolm nodded, processing the information. "Alright, let's try it."
He looked down at the Stickman Legion, who were still standing at attention, their tiny stick-figure faces filled with determination. "Alright, guys, great job today. You can head back now."
King Leonidas stepped forward, raising his stick-figure sword. "As you command, my Lord!" He turned to the legion. "Legion, fall back!"
The Stickman Legion saluted in unison before leaping into the air, their forms dissolving into streaks of light as they returned to the pages of the notebook. King Leonidas was the last to go, giving Malcolm a final nod before disappearing.
Malcolm watched as the last of the light faded, leaving the room quiet once more. He flipped through the pages of the notebook, noting the detailed illustrations of the Stickman Legion, now motionless but still full of life.
"Alright, Veyl," he said, closing the notebook. "What's next?"
Veyl hovered closer, its tone thoughtful. "My Lord, if I may suggest, perhaps you should focus on recovering your strength first. Once you're discharged, we can begin your training and explore the full potential of the Infinite Canvas."
Malcolm nodded, leaning back against the pillows. "You're right. One step at a time."
Malcolm glanced at Veyl, who was still hovering nearby, its aura glowing faintly. He had a sudden thought. "Veyl, is there any way you can hide yourself? I don't want anyone walking in and seeing a floating notebook. That'd raise way too many questions."
Veyl's pages fluttered with confidence. "Yes, my Lord. I can make myself invisible to others, but not to you. Watch this."
In an instant, Veyl's appearance shifted. Its form became more transparent, almost ghost-like, though Malcolm could still see it clearly. To anyone else, it would seem as if nothing was there.
"Perfect," Malcolm said, nodding in approval. "Just stay like that for now."
With that settled, Malcolm reached over and pressed the button on the side of his bed. A soft chime echoed in the hallway, and a few moments later, the nurse entered the room.
"Is there anything you need?" she asked, her tone warm and professional.
"Yes," Malcolm replied. "I'd like to know when I can be discharged."
The nurse nodded and began performing routine checks—taking his temperature, checking his blood pressure, and examining the bandages around his knees. "How are you feeling?" she asked as she worked.
"I'm… okay," Malcolm said, though the pain in his legs was still a constant reminder of what he'd lost. "Just tired, mostly."
The nurse smiled sympathetically. "That's to be expected. You've been through a lot." She finished her checks and stepped back. "If that's all, you're pretty much good to go. I can give you some medications to ease the pain and help the wounds close faster, but right now, you need to rest. Tomorrow, you'll be discharged whenever you're ready."
Malcolm let out a sigh of relief. He was glad to hear he could leave the hospital soon. The sterile environment and the constant reminders of his injuries were starting to wear on him.
"Thank you," he said, offering the nurse a small smile.
"Of course," she replied. "Just press the button if you need anything else, okay?"
Malcolm nodded, and the nurse left the room, closing the door softly behind her.
Once she was gone, Malcolm leaned back against the pillows, feeling a mix of relief and anticipation. Tomorrow, he'd be discharged. Tomorrow, he could start figuring out how to navigate this new reality.
Malcolm called Veyl over, and the notebook became more visible as he held it in his hands. He flipped through the pages, his mindscape unfolding before him. Inside, the Stickman Legion was still training, their movements precise and disciplined. As soon as they noticed Malcolm, they knelt in unison, their loyalty unwavering.
But beside them was another group—a Stickman Platoon. These stickmen were different, their figures armed with guns and wearing green helmets. At the front stood Lieutenant Winters, who saluted Malcolm with a crisp, professional gesture.
"Commander," Winters said, his voice steady and respectful. "I'm glad to see you in good shape."
Unlike the fanatic devotion of the Stickman Legion, Winters and his platoon carried themselves with a more modern, disciplined air. The marching stick soldiers saluted as they passed by, and Malcolm saluted back, a gesture of respect.
"Yes, I just recovered," Malcolm replied, his tone calm but curious.
Winters glanced toward the Stickman Legion, his expression slightly disdainful. "I see you've also met the… primitives," he said, his tone hinting at mild disapproval. "I had wished you would prioritize us over them."
Leonidas, who had overheard the comment, stepped forward, his stick-figure face stern. "I can say that your comment lacks respect and discipline," he retorted, his voice firm.
The two leaders locked eyes, their gazes intense, as if ready to clash at any moment. Malcolm hadn't anticipated this encounter, but he found it fascinating. The dynamic between the two groups was unique, and he couldn't help but be intrigued.
"Commander," Winters said, turning back to Malcolm. "I ask for your permission to showcase the skills of my platoon to these… primitive-looking bastards."
Leonidas smirked, his stick-figure spear resting on his shoulder. "Oh, I would very much like to spar with these disrespectful dimwits, my Lord."
Malcolm couldn't help but smirk. This was more than just entertainment—it was an opportunity. He could study and assess their combat techniques, which would be invaluable when facing monsters inside the gate.
"Okay," Malcolm said, his tone decisive. "Show me what you guys can do."
Winters immediately barked orders. "Men! Line up!"
The Stickman Platoon quickly formed ranks, their guns at the ready. On the other side, Leonidas raised his spear. "Spartans! To your positions!"
The Stickman Legion lined up, their shields and spears poised for battle. Both leaders smirked, their competitive spirits ignited.
Malcolm leaned back, watching intently. This was going to be interesting.