Robben and Ribery shakily followed Lady Furin into the publishing house.

It wasn’t because they were scared. They didn’t know Furin was a Dragon, and there was nothing to fear from a somewhat reckless-seeming older sister and a Sub-Dragon, shorter than a man, wearing a bow tie and reading comics.

The main reason was that Lady Furin had thoughtfully given them a ride on her bicycle—and who would have thought a bike could be ridden so wildly!

They couldn’t stay on their feet. They were dizzy, nauseous, and felt like they were about to throw up.

"When you said you had a submission... you meant these two?" Zog asked, sounding uncertain.

It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in two kids who looked even younger than Elsa; it was mainly that he had no faith in the quality of this Otherworld’s comics.

He had clearly provided *Firepower Young King* as a template, yet no one could even manage a simple re-skin. It seemed they were all clinging to some artistic pretension, always trying to inject profound themes and ideological depth into their work.

They completely failed to grasp that comics are, first and foremost, a commercial product. They’re meant to be printed on the cheapest paper, sold for a few Copper Coins per thick volume, and disposable enough that you wouldn’t mind tossing them after one read. Their primary function should be entertainment.

What this world needed was its own Tezuka Osamu to teach these Painters how art and entertainment could flourish side-by-side.

So far, aside from a few decent comic adaptations of old legends and one artist who’d transitioned from satirical cartoons to a promising episodic comedy, everything else he’d seen was an instant failure.

But he was still missing a long-running serial that could keep readers hooked for the long haul. He needed a classic battle shonen, the kind that runs for over a decade, letting shipping fans go wild and power-level debaters argue endlessly, but ultimately gets everyone fired up with a cry of "friendship and bonds!"—a reliable money-printing machine.

"That’s right, it’s these two," Furin replied. "One writes the stories, and the other does the art. Their work is a lot like those *Light Country Warriors* stories you used to tell when you were little, so I thought you’d definitely like it."

’Well, what do you know. A real-life pair of Dream Eaters.’

"Let’s see what you’ve got."

Robben and Ribery sheepishly handed over their drafts. There was an old version of *Mechanical Warrior*, new line art for character and monster designs, and storyboard sketches that were little more than stick figures with large blocks of text—and they weren’t even sequential.

"I said I accept rough drafts, but isn’t this... a little *too* rough?"

"I’m sorry! I just didn’t expect to be dragged here to submit anything. We were just on our way to an art exhibition..."

Zog looked at the character and monster designs first. As long as the designs were good, there would always be an audience, no matter how ridiculous the plot got—like a certain magic series that had gone completely off the rails.

The drafts were actually pretty good. Even as just line art, they showed style and imagination. The influence from Mira was clear, but it wasn’t a blatant copy; they had their own ideas. The designs were far more striking than the typical monster illustrations found in the epic poems of the day.

’Putting Mira’s art in the exhibition was just chumming the waters,’ Zog thought. ’I didn’t expect a fish to leap right onto the hook so fast.’

He then opened the manuscript pages. The artwork was up to par. The real strength was an emerging sense of cinematic paneling. Even though the concept of "camera shots" wasn’t widespread yet, the images already had a dynamic and sequential flow, making them perfectly suited for an animated or live-action adaptation.

’This is a god-given talent!’

Even his own *Firepower Young King* didn’t have a strong logical flow between panels, since Zog himself hadn’t been a professional artist when he’d created the initial draft.

The mainstream style was much closer to the picture storybooks of the last century: one or two illustrations accompanied by a long block of explanatory text.

Unfortunately, the story itself was merely serviceable. It was coherent, which already put it miles ahead of a lot of other submissions that couldn’t even tell a clear story, but it wasn’t anything special. It was a bit cliché. Still, *Zog Comics* had plenty of page space; he could probably find a spot for it as filler.

Finally, without much hope, he glanced at the stick-figure storyboards.

"Hsss—"

’Something’s not right. Let me look again.’

’What is this? Underdog turning the tables, face-slapping, building anticipation, manipulating emotions... it’s all here. If it weren’t for the pictures and the slightly slower pacing, I’d think I was reading a novel from a certain popular webnovel site.’

’So he had an epiphany, huh? It’s like he jumped straight from *Demon Beast Sword Saint* to *Breaking the Heavens*.’

"Did you two write this yourselves?"

"Yes, we did."

"Well, I can tell you right now that you’ve been selected for the Zog Comics Grand Prix. Your final ranking, however, will depend on reader votes."

"Really?" Robben was stunned. He never thought the story he’d reworked on the fly, which wasn’t even fully drawn, would be chosen.

"Are you two drawing comics full-time, or do you have other jobs?"

"I’m an apprentice at a Painter’s studio, and he works at a restau—"

"I work in the service industry. That’s right. My main job is providing convenience for the general public," Ribery suddenly cut in, interrupting Robben.

’Excellent,’ Zog thought. ’Another one who’s a natural at spouting bullshit with a straight face. The restaurant’s logo is right there on his chest. He’s a perfect fit for the Zog talent pool. Nobody normal ever ends up here.’

"Whatever jobs you have now, you can quit. Your top priority is to finish this comic. It has to be ready for the debut issue of *Zog Comics*. I want your series on the cover. You have two weeks."

"That’s such a short amount of time, I’m afraid..." Robben said, lacking confidence. He had never worked on a serialized comic before, only ever drawing a bit in his spare time.

"No ’afraids.’ Starting today, you’ll have your own dedicated studio. Do you know any Painters you’d like to work with? If so, they can be your assistants. If not, I’ll assign some to you. Work hard, kid. The pressure will be a lot worse once the series actually starts."

"Is all of this free?" Ribery asked.

"In your dreams. Do I look like a charitable Dragon to you?"

The two of them shook their heads frantically.

"These expenses will all be deducted from your future earnings. I’ll give you two options. The first is a guaranteed contract: you get paid per Chapter. It’s a stable income, but it won’t be a huge amount. The second is a profit-sharing contract, where how much you make depends entirely on your own success."

"Um, could you give us some time to think about it?" Robben, who had always lived a conventional, by-the-book life, had never made such a major decision about his own future before.

"Of course. You can give me your answer when you turn in the final draft. However, as a Dragon who’s been around and still possesses a shred of a conscience, I suggest you take the profit-sharing deal. C’mon, you’re young. If you don’t have confidence in your own work, why are you even drawing comics?"

Zog’s words were rousing, and he genuinely had the two young men’s best interests at heart. However, the moment he mentioned having a conscience, both Elsa and Furin shot him identical looks that clearly said, ’How do you have the nerve?’

"Also, one more revision. The Mechanical Armors you designed for the main characters are too big. You should make them more form-fitting, like actual suits of armor."

The Mechanical Armors in *Mechanical Warrior* were very realistic, closer to the bulky form of a Golem. A person could fit inside, but it felt more like piloting a vehicle than a transformation sequence.

"But all the Mechanical Armors we’ve ever seen look like that."

"I know. But why bother with realism in a work of fiction? The rule of cool is all that matters."

Zog casually sketched a diagram on a piece of paper.

"You need to design a special Summoner to call forth the Mechanical Armor. A belt, a bracelet, anything works. The flashier, the better." Zog pointed to the ridiculously oversized belt in his sketch. "You also need to come up with a special phrase for the summoning. It needs to be shouted with passion. And each Mechanical Armor needs multiple forms, with each form corresponding to a different accessory for the Summoner."

"And what’s all this for?" Robben asked, not quite understanding the point of these designs.

"To sell toys, obviously! What else? What do you think my business is?"

In the end, after being bombarded with a mountain of feedback, the two were led away to their new studio in a daze.

"I could understand you selling Yo-Yos and spinning tops before," Furin, who had been watching the whole exchange, asked in confusion. "But a belt that just makes sounds and lights up? What’s so fun about that? It’s so childish."

Zog shot her a contemptuous look. "Hmph! You old she-dragon. You have no soul."

"What?!"