Chapter 1

I became a genius father in the game - Chapter 1 (1/109)

I became the black curtain in the game.

When I returned home from work, it was close to midnight.

Ding.

I opened the door lock and collapsed in front of the shoe cabinet without even taking off my shoes.

“Ugh… This is home…”

The thought of watching the drama I had decided to watch today, no matter what, disappeared as I climbed the villa stairs.

I also forgot about the worry of a week's worth of laundry that I needed to do soon, or I wouldn't have anything to wear tomorrow. I couldn't even run the washing machine at this hour anyway.

“I want to just sleep like this…”

After working overtime and spending two hours on the commute, it was time to sleep. Or rather, it was already morning.

I was tired, exhausted, and wanted to rest.

That was all I could think about.

“Damn company…”

The company I work for is a game company located in the heart of Seoul.

Living nearby would mean half my salary goes to rent, so I have no choice but to commute from the outskirts of the metropolitan area, which is a two-hour journey.

I have to wake up at the crack of dawn tomorrow to avoid being late.

Honestly, shouldn't commuting time count as work hours? If you include that, I'm not even making minimum wage.

“Or at least let me work from home…”

Since I draw on a tablet, asking for remote work should be reasonable, but it doesn't make any difference.

What did they say? Working from home makes people lazy.

“Then at least provide rent support for a closer commute…”

I groaned and lay on the floor fiercely. Lying there doing nothing made me feel a bit better.

Ding.

Until my phone's company messenger rang.

“Ah, life…”

It was obviously work-related.

I only have about an hour to rest at home after subtracting sleep time. Why do they have to contact me like this? I felt a mix of disappointment and depression.

‘Did I start drawing to live like this?’

My original dream was to be a webtoon artist.

Until high school, I wanted to live drawing the pictures I wanted to draw and telling the stories I wanted to tell, even if it meant being poor.

In college, I wanted to be an illustrator. I hoped to live comfortably by drawing pictures others asked for.

But somehow, as an adult, I live a poor life drawing only what others ask for.

‘There must be people out there who live comfortably drawing what they want. I hope they all die.’

After venting my meaningless frustration at the world, I felt a bit better.

Ding.

Until the company messenger rang again.

I groaned deeply and fumbled in my pocket for my phone.

+++

Since we decided to go with option 2, think of ways to further develop it and come to work.

+++

Acknowledge if you've seen this.

+++

Develop.

The word made me almost curse reflexively.

“…Still, this is better than nothing.”

At least I didn't have to pick up a pen right away, and the fact that a decision was made meant progress in the work.

‘Option 2…’

I sent a confirmation and scrolled up the messenger log to check the images I had sent during the day.

The message thread with the art director showed dozens of images exchanged throughout the day.

My position is 'Concept Artist,' responsible for character settings and illustrations under the art director's guidance.

It might sound like a prestigious position, but I'm just one of many artists doing the same job. The large game company has over a dozen concept artists.

‘Option 2… Seymour Mausoleum Option 2. That’s it.’

The company is developing a new AAA game.

One of the mid-bosses, called the 'Black Curtain of the System,' is 'Seymour Mausoleum.' One of my tasks since last week has been to complete the concept art for introducing Seymour Mausoleum.

I submitted several concept designs, and Option 2 emphasized Seymour's role as a father.

A handsome man with black hair and golden eyes, exuding a cold and lazy aura.

His eyes, filled with a firm sense of ego, are arrogant.

In his arms, a pure white baby is cradled.

Despite his arrogant expression, his arms holding his young daughter are as firm as if he's holding an irreplaceable treasure.

‘Before buying the game, seeing this scene would make you think of a villain with a dual nature.’

A hypocritical character who only cares for his own child while killing others.

Or perhaps a mafia boss from a famous movie series, who carries a cat lovingly.

‘But after seeing the ending and looking at this concept art again, you'll get chills.’

The child in his arms is killed by Seymour in the mid-game.

She is dissected, her body 'unfolded' to death. In simpler terms, she is dissected.

To obtain the powerful magic contained in the heart of the dragon-born girl, the dragon heart.

In response to the player character's shocked denunciation, Seymour replies:

– Did you not love her? What a ridiculous question. Do you show affection to pigs you raise for slaughter?

Seymour sees his young daughter only as a tool for himself.

He carried her lovingly not because he loved her, but to prevent this precious tool from escaping.

A psychopath and sociopath, a viscount and a high-level mage, he is a villain who lives beyond the bounds of law and humanity.

The best device to show this is the adopted daughter.

My eyes briefly met the child's innocent eyes.

‘A one-time character created to justify the villain's punishment.’

A child born to die. A child who would have been happier not being born.

Is it appropriate to say that being born was a mistake in such a situation?

‘The story writers would make even Satan shake his head and say, “This is a bit much.”’

But I, too, am part of this horrific story.

The father and daughter I drew were created by my own hands.

“…”

Was it the sensitivity of the early morning that made me feel this way?

I swiped the child's cheek on the phone screen, feeling a strange tightness in my chest.

“…Sorry.”

In college, a professor said:

Creative works are like children born from the creator's heart. You must take responsibility for them until the end.

If a world comes where no one takes responsibility for their creations, their children, it would be a very irresponsible and bleak world.

“But I can barely take responsibility for my own stomach.”

My throat feels like it's coated in grape juice.

Yet I don't even have the energy to eat.

I want to eat, wash, and play, but more than anything, I just want to rest.

Telling a busy office worker to maintain their conscience sounds like a professor's whimsical idea.

“…I'll wash tomorrow and just sleep today.”

I slowly got up. Then, for a moment, the world spun and I fell back to the floor.

Bang!

A loud noise, but I didn't feel any pain.

‘Ah, this is not good.’

News about the lack of exercise among 20-30-year-olds and the increase in overwork deaths flashed through my mind.

Could I be dying like this?

The tightness in my chest wasn't just morning sensitivity; it might have been a major blood vessel bursting.

I tried to get up again, but my body wouldn't listen. My thoughts became gradually dull.

‘Ah… Damn. Is it too late already?’

I felt my strength draining from my body. I didn't think I could get up without help.

But as an orphan who has lived alone from birth to this moment, there was no one to help me.

‘Dying alone after working all my life is the worst. I haven't even traveled abroad…’

I closed my eyes, which were gradually blurring, and prayed silently.

God, please let me be born as a righteous landlord in my next life. Let me live without doing anything.

That was my last memory in this body.

* * *

– …The contract is established.

Boom!

Pushed by a massive force, I rolled pitifully on the ground.

“Cough, cough!”

What's happening all of a sudden?

I… I collapsed at home, didn't I? So this is a hospital?

Looking around with my blurry vision, it didn't look like a hospital.

There was only a massive building that looked like a temple.

Rumble, boom!

The massive doors of the temple closed with a rough sound.

It seems I was just ejected from there.

‘Where am I?’

Suddenly, I heard footsteps approaching. As I tried to get up, someone grabbed my shoulder.

“Brother Seymour! What have you done?!”

Someone grabbed my shoulder and shouted.

“Entering the mausoleum without the permission of the family elders or the Black Dragon Council! How will you take responsibility for this…?”

The woman gasped and stopped speaking, then scanned my body with a searching gaze.

She stared at my chest for a long time and muttered in disbelief.

“Surely… You didn't make a contract with Mausoleum, did you?”

“Contract?”

I remembered that the first thing I heard when I opened my eyes was talk about a contract.

The woman's face crumpled as if my expression was enough of an answer.

“Surely you didn't make a contract to gain magic power?! What did you offer in return? What did you offer?!”

I was already dizzy, and her shouting made me feel like I was about to collapse.

I tried to steady myself by touching the ground, but realized it was impossible.

There was something in my arms.

“…”

The woman and I looked down at the same time. There was a white child, about four or five years old.

“Wow…”

The woman, who had been stomping her feet as if something terrible was about to happen, forgot and let out a dazed exclamation.

The child was so cute and noble.

The child's hand, gripping my shirt, was like a plump maple leaf, and the chubby cheeks looked softer than any marshmallow.

The golden eyes looking at me shone more brilliantly than the sun, and the white hair looked like a pouring galaxy.

‘An angel…?’

Most importantly, the child had wings.

Not angelic feather wings, but leather wings.

The woman asked in a daze.

“Is that… a dragon?”

It was a dragon.

I knew the identity of this child. Even its name.

“…Luce.”

When I called the name, the child's eyes formed a half-moon.

A faint smile and half-moon eyes, an expression that seemed too simple for a child, but it suited the child's noble image even more.

‘Exactly as I designed it.’

Seymour Mausoleum's daughter.

Luce.

The child I designed to be born to die was in my arms.

‘What is this…?’

Then, I saw my face reflected in the child's large eyes.

A handsome man with black hair and golden eyes.

A face I had seen more often than my own in the past few weeks, so familiar it felt natural.

Seymour Mausoleum's face.

“…Ah.”

It seems I have fallen into the game world.

And into the body of a mid-boss I designed myself.