The transition from the fluid, colorful world of Aquarelle to the Graphite Realm was like leaping from a rosy dream into a nightmare of steel. The bright colors and fragrant scents vanished, replaced by thick clouds of coal dust and the sharp smell of burning oil and rusted iron.
Sol and his companions slipped through the gate, landing on a rough surface—not wet paper, but corroded steel beneath which giant gears groaned. The sky above was a ceiling of interlocking metal plates, from whose cracks faint light seeped, illuminating a complex network of pipes and steam.
"Oh… what mechanical hell is this?" muttered Constantine, his shattered lenses unable to process the overwhelming amount of metallic detail. Every corner, every edge, every nail here was sharp and harsh.
Garrett, who had regained some of his solidity, felt a relative comfort in this world. "Here, iron does not melt, and lines do not fade. This world acknowledges mass and sharpness, Sol. A world that mirrors my fractured spirit."
The diamond-tipped brush in Sol's hand pulsed with power, but differently. The sky-blue pigment in his eye wavered, as if trying to adapt to this new world that did not recognize fluidity. His body was no longer transparent; it regained its leaden density, yet every movement seemed to generate a faint "grinding sound" from within, as though his mechanical parts were beginning to interlock.
"This is the world of 'solid lines,'" Sol said, raising his hand to brush coal dust from his eyes. "A world where everything is drawn with extreme precision—but a precision devoid of soul."
They stood in a long corridor, flanked by rusted copper walls interspersed with massive metal doors that opened and closed with sounds resembling the cries of monsters. Behind these doors, they heard the pounding of giant hammers, the dragging of chains, and muffled human screams.
"These are the 'drawn workers,'" Constantine explained after cleaning his lenses slightly. "In the Graphite Realm, no being is free. Everyone is a slave to the 'Great Ink Machine.' This machine issues drawing orders and determines people's fates. And the second pigment, 'Steel Gray,' is the heart of that machine."
Suddenly, the corridor shook violently. One of the massive doors swung open, revealing a line of soldiers. They were not human but mechanical beings made of gears and spare parts, their faces blank copper masks. They wielded "electric hammers" that sounded like thunderclaps.
"Unclassified sketches! And two entities from other worlds!" intoned one in a metallic, inhuman voice. "By order of the Graphite General, you will be dismantled and your parts reused to build new engines for the Ink Machine!"
The mechanical soldiers charged, their electric hammers sparking blue in the air.
"Sol! Don't try to turn them into water!" shouted Constantine. "Here, hardness is law! You must learn to be as rigid as they are!"
But Sol did not listen. He closed his blue eye and focused his new energy from the sky-blue pigment. In Aquarelle, he had learned to melt; here, he felt he must learn to "fuse."
Instead of attacking, Sol used "Scaling Adjustment" around his body. In an instant, he shrank to the size of a dust particle and slipped between the soldiers' legs unnoticed. Then, quickly returning to his normal size behind them, he kicked one soldier down to the ground.
"Amazing!" shouted Garrett, slicing another soldier with his void sword. "You manipulated their 'composition ratio'!"
Yet the mechanical soldiers were far too numerous. They continued pouring out of the massive doors.
"Sol! We must reach the Graphite Heart!" shouted Constantine. "The Graphite General is hiding the pigment there!"
They rushed through dark corridors, pursued by an army of machines. Sol used his new ability expertly, adjusting his body scale to slip through narrow gaps or suddenly enlarge to strike foes. Garrett carved his path with strength, his void sword tearing through steel as if it were paper. Constantine pointed out secret passages and weaknesses in the machines' design.
They reached a massive hall, filled with enormous steam-belching machines. At the center sat the Graphite General.
He was not human but a ten-meter-tall mechanical giant, his body composed of massive steel plates and protruding bolts. His eyes were two glowing red lamps, his arms two giant hammers connected to hydraulic mechanisms.
In his chest beat a heart of steel gray—not organic, but a massive ink sphere pulsating with metallic light—the second pigment they sought.
"You have reached your end, corrupted lines!" the General bellowed, shaking the hall. "I am the guardian of the Ink Machine's heart, and I will not allow you to disrupt our perfectionist system!"
The General lunged at them, his hammers striking the ground with destructive force, turning steel into metallic shards.
"We cannot liquefy him," said Constantine urgently. "His body is pure graphite—the most stable form of lines. You must find a way to break his structure!"
Sol realized direct combat would fail. He returned to his ability to "analyze" beings. He looked at the General and saw he was not merely a machine but an "architectural drawing realized." He saw the geometric lines forming his armor, the angles giving him strength.
"He's strong because he's too 'organized,'" Sol whispered to himself.
Instead of attacking, Sol began "Visual Mass Redistribution." He imagined the General's weight unevenly distributed. With a stroke of his brush in the air, Sol created a subtle fracture in the General's design.
Suddenly, the General's right side lifted slightly, as if gravity had shifted to one side. The giant staggered, leaning.
"What are you doing?!" the General roared, struggling to regain balance.
Seizing the opportunity, Sol focused his blue eye and began "Structural Disassembly." He did not erase him but "redrew" the angles connecting his parts.
In moments, the General's bolts loosened, his steel plates fell one by one—not from external force but because the "logic of their connection" had been erased. The Graphite General collapsed from a majestic giant into a heap of scattered scrap.
The gray graphite heart, the massive pulsating ink sphere, fell from his shattered chest.
Sol seized the sphere. Instantly, a surge of "constructive power" coursed through him. The gray pigment fused with his blue eye, which now glowed deep blue-gray, its brilliance shifting with every movement.
But victory was not peaceful. Suddenly, the hall's walls cracked, revealing small black voids. From these emerged sharp black lines that coiled around Sol and his companions.
"They're the 'High Critique Pens'!" Constantine shouted in horror. "They do not erase the body—they erase 'existence'! The Philosopher is here! He has returned!"
At that moment, the Philosopher appeared from the largest black void. He no longer had an arm but now consisted of "floating black voids" connected together, hovering like an "Eraser's ghost."
"This world has become very sick," the Philosopher said, his voice deeper and more terrifying. "The First Painter knew this and fled. I am only trying to restore 'order' before the blight consumes everything. And now, I will force you to become the 'ultimate eraser'!"
He extended his hand—made of black void—and unleashed a "wave of nothingness" toward Sol. The wave was faster than anything Sol had ever faced.