Prologue
Sayaka Tsukishiro’s reality had shrunk to the four walls of her studio. Her computer screen flooded with emails from her furious editor and adoring fans. Seated at her table, G-Pen in her hand, each stroke forged a new world into being. Every character’s birth or death is all under her control.
Her best-known work, The Foreign Daughter: Painting a New Life in a Foreign Land, had earned her fans around the world, as had smaller titles like In This World, I Met You.
She could draw for hours without rest. Days, sometimes. Her assistants begged her to stop, to sleep, to eat something other than convenience store onigiri and energy drinks.
She would pause, stretching her cramped fingers, and whispered the words that had become her mantra, the phrase she'd taped above her desk years ago, the one she repeated whenever doubt crept in:
"True art comes from the soul."
A reminder. A promise. A truth she'd learned from the artist who'd inspired her to pick up a pen in the first place. She didn't remember where she'd first read it, some interview, maybe, or an author's note in a worn manga volume, but the words had stayed with her through every deadline, every all-nighter, every moment she'd wanted to quit.
When deadlines loomed, the studio’s single window would go from black to blue to gold, the empty cup of coffee and the empty cans of energy drinks piling up like monuments to her sleeplessness.
Sometimes, in those quiet hours, a faint, clean scent of damp earth and pine cut through the staleness of coffee and ink, so vivid it made her pause. She glanced around the empty room, shook her head, and blamed another sleepless night. Then the feeling would vanish, leaving only the hum of her computer.
One night, after too many sleepless hours and too many cups of coffee, pain speared through her chest. Sayaka gasped, her hand locked on the tablet. The stylus slipped from her grasp. It wasn’t sharp and fleeting but deep. A rupture that sucked the air and light from the room. Her head hit the desk, and the last thing she heard wasn’t the clicking clock but the terrifying absolute silence that follows a stopped heart.
***
When I open my eyes, I don't recognize the sensation. My heart is beating again, but it feels wrong. Too fast. Too loud.
“Oh no! I fell asleep… my deadline! My manuscript…”
The words die in my throat. My room, my desk, my monitor, and my empty coffee cup are all gone.
I’m standing in an endless white space. It’s quiet, but not empty. Light pulses softly all around me.
And then, a calm voice calls out:
“Sayaka…”
I whirl around. A robed man standing there, his shape shimmering like sunlight through dust. And behind him, just for a moment, another figure stands in green-golden light—watching. Then it fades back into the brightness, leaving only questions.
"Where..." My voice sounds small in this vast space. "Where am I? And who are you?"
"Welcome, Sayaka." His voice is gentle, tinged with old sorrow. "I'm sorry we meet under such circumstances. But your story doesn't end here."
The words hit me like a physical blow.
Dead. I'm... I'm dead.
My manuscript. My assistants. My apartment full of reference books and half-finished character sheets. My editor, still waiting for those revisions. All of it—gone. Just... gone.
The panic rises sharp and cold, but then something else cuts through it. Something that feels dangerously like laughter.
"Excuse me?" My voice comes out strangled, hovering between hysteria and disbelief. "Is this some kind of joke?"
"I'm afraid not. You died from overwork."
"Wait, hold on… dead? As in dead dead? No pulse, no 'see you on the other side'? Just… final chapter. The end?"
“Yes.” His smile doesn't even flicker. "We have been watching over you. Your talent for creation is precisely what is needed to succeed where our last candidate failed."
I blink at him. My talent? I draw manga for a living. Drew. Past tense. I fail to see how pretty pictures are going to...”
“That’s precisely what is needed,” the voice says, smooth as silk. “But your priority mission is to defeat the Demon Lord.”
I give a dry, skeptical chuckle. "The Demon Lord, huh?" To be honest, meeting with my editor once a week is more difficult. Tell me, does this Demon Lord send you frantic emails at 2 a.m. demanding that you rework an entire chapter after spending a week on the final inks? Does he use 'lackluster reader survey data' as his justification for destroying your entire plotline?"
He chuckles, a warm, amused sound. “I think you’ll do just fine. Before I send you to Oikoumen, do you have any requests?”
“Oiku… what?”
“Oikoumen. The world you’ll be reborn into.”
“Oh.” I tapped my chin. What would I even need? Money? Magic? Then it clicked, and I couldn’t help but grin. “In that case, I want my G-pen and ink!”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all I need to survive in any world.”
"Very well." The god's voice echoes with approval. "I will grant your G-pen, and something more. A gift that will reveal itself when you need it most."
"That's... incredibly vague. Can you be more specific?"
"Where would be the fun in that?" There's a smile in his voice. "Trust in your craft, Sayaka. That's all you've ever needed."
I want to argue, to demand a proper explanation, but light is already gathering around me. Typical. Even divine beings love a dramatic exit.
When I open my eyes, I see… a ceiling.
A strange ceiling.
I try to move, but my arms are tiny. My hands wave helplessly in the air. These useless small hands…
I try to speak, but “Waaah! Waaaah!”
“What the…? Where’s that god? Is this really a gift or a cosmic torture? Cosmic idiots.”
“I’ve been reincarnated… as a baby? What kind of shoddy reincarnation is this? Where’s the manager…? I demand to see the manager.”
Panic claws at my chest. I was an adult. A professional. I had deadlines, well, had had deadlines, past tense, but still! I had a career, an apartment, assistants who depended on me!
Now I'm... this. Small. Helpless. Trapped in a body that won't obey.
Okay, Sayaka. Breathe. You've handled worse. Remember that time your editor demanded a complete character redesign three days before print?
You can handle being a baby.
Probably.
Every frantic thought slammed against the inside of my skull. Terror and anger tangled until I could hardly breathe. I am definitely going to have words with that shimmering jerk in the robe.
A soft voice hums nearby. A woman leans over me, brown hair loosely tied, blue eyes gentle and kind. She cradles me in her arms and sings a lullaby that feels warm and strangely nostalgic.
My panic fades. My eyelids become heavy.
Maybe… this isn’t so bad.
As I drift off, I hear faint voices, muffled, soothing, almost like a dream. I can’t make out the words, only the feelings behind them.
Warmth. Worry. Hope.
Even without understanding, I can sense it; they’re waiting for something from me. Something I don’t yet have.
Well. They're going to have to wait a little longer.
And for now, I’ll take my beauty sleep
Trapped in a tiny, helpless body! And with an incredible mission! What kind of wonder and terror await her in the world of Oikoumen? Will our heroine survive in this cruel world? Look forward to next time! Same time, same place!
