Falling into the abstract tunnels felt like drowning in an ocean of liquid glass. Sol didn't feel his body hit the ground; it was as if his weight had been erased. When he opened his blue eye, he found himself lying on a floor that wasn't solid but a grid of intersecting lines, like drafts of ancient maps.
Here, in the depths of Iris, there was no day or night. The ceiling above was rocky, covered with gigantic scribbles left by deranged painters. The walls pulsed with strange phosphorescent colors—greens that resembled nothing in nature, purples that sent chills down the spine.
"Am… am I still drawn?" Sol muttered, touching his face.
His body remained intact thanks to the Perspective Injection Constantine had given him, yet he noticed something terrifying: the diamond-tipped brush in his hand was beginning to merge with his right hand, as if metal, ink, and paper skin were becoming a single entity.
"Don't move too much, newcomer," a voice warned. "Logic here is as fragile as eggshell."
The voice came from behind a stone column carved only halfway. Out stepped a creature Sol had never seen—a body drawn as a medieval knight, but completely flat. He was two-dimensional, like paper; from the side, he almost vanished from sight.
"I am the Flat Knight," the figure said, bowing mockingly. "One of the forgotten guards on the margins of this world. And you… you smell of Eternal Pigment. A scent we haven't breathed since the Creator's ink ran dry."
Sol struggled to stand, clutching the brush fused to his hand. "I'm looking for my friends. The Headless Knight and the Master Restorer… the Purifiers pulled them through a black hole."
The Flat Knight laughed—a sound like dry paper rustling."The Purifiers? Then they're in the Repository of Rejects. A place where colors are stripped from bodies and lines dismantled to reuse ink for drawing new nobles. No one returns… unless they can rewrite reality."
"Show me the way," Sol said firmly, his blue eye gleaming with a hidden threat.
"The way is not a path you walk, Sketch," the Flat Knight said, pointing with his flat spear toward a dark tunnel dripping thick black ink. "The way is a visual puzzle. You must understand the First Sin of the painter to pass."
Sol followed the Flat Knight through narrow tunnels. Along the way, he saw heart-wrenching scenes: creatures that were once birds, now mere wings drawn without bodies, flapping helplessly in gray voids. Faces of extraordinary beauty lay discarded on the ground, deemed "too beautiful" for the city's gloom.
"Why did the painter leave us like this?" Sol asked, his voice choked.
The Flat Knight stopped and stared at him with his single charcoal-drawn eye."Because the painter was never seeking beauty, Sol. He sought perfection. And when he realized he could not draw perfection, he went mad and left behind the Eraser to destroy all reminders of his failure."
Suddenly, the air froze. The wall opposite cracked, and something immense emerged. It wasn't a Purifier, nor a monster—it was a giant gilded frame, floating in midair, with a blinding white void inside.
"The Hungry White!" shouted the Flat Knight, twisting sideways to hide. "Run, Sol! If the frame touches your shadow, you'll be absorbed into the blank canvas… never to return!"
But Sol didn't flee. The diamond-tipped brush in his hand throbbed with intense heat. His blue eye began to dissect the floating frame. He saw that the frame was not metal but a logical constraint, keeping things from exceeding their boundaries.
"I… I do not acknowledge boundaries," Sol whispered.
Instead of running, Sol charged at the giant frame. He raised his brush-fused hand, and rather than striking, he began shading the white void within it. He drew rapid, chaotic lines, turning the pristine emptiness into a storm of graphite.
The frame shattered with a sound like breaking glass. The white void that had threatened to consume everything transformed into a chaotic painting, created in seconds by Sol. The "white" receded, and the frame collapsed, revealing a hole leading to a secret chamber beneath the tunnels.
Sol entered the room. Before him was a massive wooden table. On it lay a map of the city, but not made of paper. It was composed of living nerves and black blood. At the center of the map, he saw a name written in golden letters, making him shiver from head to toe:
"SOL: Sketch No. 0… The Prototype of the Cosmic Eraser."
Next to it, a shaky handwritten note read:"I created him to erase me if I could not stop drawing. He is not a mistake… he is my salvation."
In that moment, Sol realized the truth. He was not merely a fugitive; he was the Creator's fail-safe for this world.
Before he could fully process the revelation, the sound of approaching military footsteps echoed. Not Purifiers… but the Philosopher—the supreme leader of the Purifiers, the man who wielded the Golden Eraser.
"Finally… Sketch Number Zero has returned home," came a deep, calm voice from the darkness.