The problem with making a monster anatomically correct is that it becomes exceptionally good at its job. And this dragon's job, apparently, was turning me into a charcoal briquette.
I sprinted across the plaza, the cheap armor clattering like a pots-and-pans avalanche. A torrent of fire melted the cobblestones where my head had been a second ago. The heat was real. The danger was real. My own damn edit was trying to kill me.
"This is what I get for having standards!" I screamed, diving behind an overturned fruit cart.
The dragon landed with a ground-shaking thud, its amber eyes scanning the chaos with cold intelligence. It wasn't just rampaging anymore. It was hunting. It knew who was responsible for its sudden upgrade in cognitive function.
Me.
I peeked through a gap in the splintered wood. My Red Pen was still clutched in my hand, glowing with a faint, steady light. I felt the dregs of my creative energy—that internalized well of focus and will I now knew as my "edit capacity." It felt about half-full. Maybe a little less. Enough for one big fix, or a few small ones.
Okay, Arata. Think like an editor, not a background guard. The plot problem: an overpowered antagonist has appeared too early in the narrative. Standard solutions? A deus ex machina, a hidden power awakening, or a convenient escape.
I didn't have any of those. I had a pen.
My first instinct was to create something. [Structural Edit: Magical Cage!]. I focused, slashed the pen through the air, and poured my intent into the world.
A faint red line appeared, flickered... and dissolved into nothing.
A note scribbled itself into my mind's margin, the handwriting sharp and critical—my own, from my life as an editor-in-chief.
You can't add new assets, rookie. You work with what the author gives you. Edit. Don't invent.
Of course. I couldn't just create a cage out of thin air any more than I could draw a new character into a finished manuscript page. I could only refine what was already there.
The dragon's head snapped toward the fruit cart. It had found me.
I scrambled back as its snout, big as a small car, smashed through the wood, sending apples and splinters flying. I was exposed.
Think. What's in the scene? What has the author already written?
The plaza. The castle walls. Panicked guards. The fainted unicorn-horse. A... a fountain.
Wait. A fountain.
In Chapter 1's opening description—that saccharine monstrosity of prose—there was a line about "a fountain where water spouted from a cherub's mouth, tasting like liquid rainbows." It was a throwaway detail, pure fluff.
But it was canon.
It was an existing asset.
And I could edit it.
The dragon lowered its head, jaws opening to unleash another blast of incinerating reality.
No time.
"Okay," I whispered, holding the Red Pen aloft. "Let's patch this continuity."
I poured my remaining energy into the pen, focusing not on creating, but on remembering.
[EDITOR'S AUTHORITY ACTIVATED]
[EXECUTING: CONTINUITY PATCH & STRUCTURAL REINFORCEMENT]
I slashed the pen toward the center of the plaza where the fountain should be.
A shimmering red outline appeared in the air—the blueprint of the fountain. For a second, it was just a sketch. Then, with the sound of grinding stone and rushing water, reality filled in the lines. The fountain materialized—a massive, three-tiered marble structure with a ridiculously cherubic angel at the top. It wasn't just a decorative piece anymore. It was solid. Real. Anchored to the story's history.
The dragon paused, confused by the sudden appearance of several tons of marble.
That was the opening I needed.
I wasn't done editing.
My editorial instinct screamed at me: The description was "tasting like liquid rainbows." That's not water. That's decorative nonsense. Useless.
I needed to fix the source material.
I aimed the Red Pen at the cherub's mouth.
[EXECUTING: VOCABULARY ENHANCEMENT & LOGICAL OVERRIDE]
[Edit Detail: "Liquid Rainbows" → "High-Pressure Aquifer Feed"]
The cherub's cute smile cracked. The marble eyes glowed with an intense red light. A low groan echoed from deep within the fountain's plumbing as the narrative logic forcibly overwrote itself.
"Come on, you glorified lawn ornament," I prayed.
The dragon, recovering from its confusion, took a deep breath, its throat glowing orange.
It was now or never.
I jabbed the Red Pen forward. "NOW!"
The cherub's mouth opened, and a geyser of water erupted with the force of a fire hose. Not a gentle stream. A solid, high-pressure column of it that slammed into the dragon's face.
There was a deafening hiss as a thousand gallons of cold water met a thousand degrees of draconic heat. A massive cloud of steam exploded outward, blanketing the entire plaza in a thick, blinding fog.
The dragon roared in fury and pain, stumbling back, its fire extinguished before it could even form.
I didn't stick around to admire my work. I scrambled for cover behind a stone pillar as the dragon thrashed blindly in the steam, bellowing its frustration.
It wasn't defeated. Not even close. It was just wet, angry, and disoriented. But in a fight between a background guard and an apex predator, "disoriented" was a win.
The steam began to clear. The dragon, dripping and furious, shook its massive head. It glared at the fountain, then at the castle, then at the pathetic screaming guards.
It seemed to make a calculation. This meal wasn't worth the trouble.
With a final, indignant snort that sent a spray of hot water across the cobblestones, the dragon beat its massive, anatomically correct wings. The downwash nearly blew me off my feet. It circled the plaza once, gave me one last hateful glare, and then flew off toward the mountains.
It retreated.
It actually retreated.
The plaza fell silent, save for the gushing of the now-overpowered fountain and the whimpering of a few guards.
Everyone stared. At the scorched earth. At the steaming fountain.
Then at me.
Toby. The dispensable guard. The one who hadn't run.
"Did you... did you just do that?" one of the guards stammered, his sword trembling.
I leaned against the pillar, completely drained. The Red Pen in my hand faded into nothingness. My internal "edit capacity" felt bone-dry. Empty. I had nothing left.
"Someone had to," I managed to say, trying to sound brave and not like a man who'd just survived his own proofreading.
The guards looked at each other, then back at me with a newfound respect. They saw a hero.
I just felt like an editor who'd survived a brutal revision cycle.
My ability wasn't strength or magic in the traditional sense. It was the power to see flaws in the manuscript of reality and correct them. To use the author's own inconsistent details against her poorly planned threats.
A quiet, handwritten note scribbled itself into my mind's margin, the tone weary but satisfied.
Crisis averted. Barely.
Edit Summary:
- Continuity Patch: Successful
- Logical Override: Effective, if a bit dramatic
- Result: Antagonist repelled via environmental puzzle-solving
- Remaining Capacity: 0% (Don't make a habit of this.)
Not bad for a rookie. Now go take a nap.
I almost smiled. Even my own subconscious was a critic.
As the guards started cheering and clapping me on the back, I felt a faint, distant warmth spread through my chest. It was a tiny, barely-there trickle of energy.
I focused, trying to place the source.
And then I heard it.
Not with my ears, but with that same sense that let me feel the story's structure.
A faint, rhythmic tapping.
Clack-clack-clack-clack-clack...
The sound of a keyboard.
Somewhere, in another world, the author was writing again.
And with every word she typed, a tiny drop of creative energy flowed back into me.
I leaned my head back against the stone, a slow, tired grin spreading across my face.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," I whispered.
My survival, my power, my entire existence in this world... was tied to her upload schedule.
I was doomed.