Blazing Teens, Officially Serialized

Aisha had not slept this comfortably in a long time.

Although the Dragon's Lair had good conditions too, it was not a human city after all, and she always lacked a sense of security there.

There were no Goblins or ghosts around her either. It was not discrimination—they just looked too unsettling.

She stretched contentedly.

Warm sunlight spilled across the blanket from the left, lifting her spirits.

To the right, a brownish-green old face grinned viciously...

What am I looking at?

Aisha shook her head and woke up. This was not a dream.

A sharp nose, narrow pupils, and a split mouth full of saw-like teeth. Was this a Goblin?

Ren 82!

"When did you get here?"

"Arrived at night. Renovate toy store. Cannot appear during day."

Twin Towers City ostensibly welcomed all races equally, but if a group of Goblins appeared on the commercial street in broad daylight, any shop they entered might as well close for business.

Prejudice was never openly displayed, but it always existed.

"Then why didn't I hear anything at all?"

"Undead cursed you. Hearing gone."

"..."

It was hard to say how she felt about being cursed for the first time just so she could sleep. Forget it—at least the intention had been good.

"Help me thank the undead."

Aisha walked out of the bedroom. The building had already been completely transformed, and her subordinates' efficiency was as high as ever.

The first-floor walls had been painted pure white. Apart from several long wooden tables, there was no other furniture.

A Yo-yo stood every thirty centimeters along the tables, displayed on exquisite stands. Small white cards beneath them listed each Yo-yo's name and price.

Most cost between several and several dozen copper coins. In Drogo's plan, new Yo-yo designs would be released alongside the comic's plot. They would first use cheap models to open the market, then, once Yo-yos became part of popular culture, sell certain models at luxury prices.

In Taser language, the word "popular" was used to describe infectious diseases. It seemed rather fitting when attached to culture.

Drogo often came out with strange yet oddly appropriate descriptions like that.

Rows of wooden shelves stood against both walls, filled with Yo-yo strings, gloves, and storage bags sorted by color like a rainbow.

It felt less like they were selling toys and more like high-end magical equipment.

The second floor had been divided into several private rooms, offering custom paintwork and special effects services, with prices measured in gold coins.

Aisha had never imagined that the illusions she used to confuse Kobolds could be worth this much money.

In one of the second-floor rooms, she saw someone unexpected.

It was the Half-Elf guide from yesterday.

The dark circles beneath Toto's eyes were so heavy that she looked ready to drop dead at any moment. She stood weakly in the middle of the room, clutching a Firepower Warrior.

She simply could not understand it. Had forcing people to play with toys become some new hobby for bored nobles?

She had heard that the jobs like this involved a different kind of toy, didn't they?

Two Drow stood behind her, a Sub-dragon was in front of her, and a Goblin in formal attire stood beside her. She had never seen such a bizarre group. This was not a toy store—it was clearly a den of bandits!

"Magic Ball."

She understood now. That dragon was the leader, and the Goblin beside it was the translator.

She recalled the moves.

Sleep, kick the ball with her index finger, loop the string with her other hand, bring both hands together, catch the ball, then release it.

"Not bad. Cradle."

"Iron Tower."

"Launch."

The tricks grew increasingly complicated.

Fine beads of sweat appeared on Toto's forehead. She did not know many more moves.

"Cross Bounce."

Raise the string, set the string, loop around, bounce, switch hands, catch the ball, then bounce again...

Oh no!

Toto's hand trembled, throwing off the ball's descent. The ball brushed against the string as it fell, and she failed to catch it.

"Click."

She heard the sound of a hand crossbow being cocked behind her.

The room fell silent.

I'm done for. I really won't see tomorrow's sun this time.

A few seconds later, a contract was slapped down in front of her.

"Getting to this level after only one night with a Firepower Warrior is already impressive. From now on, you're a clerk at the toy store. Your base salary is three silver coins a month, and you'll receive five silver coins for every move you develop that isn't on that paper."

Drogo's Yo-yo skills were only around elementary school level, and he did not know many tricks. He badly needed someone who could develop new ones, or the comic's plot would not be able to continue.

Still, Toto's performance really was impressive. It was very difficult to make Firepower Warriors, with their spherical shape, ride the string.

He was very curious what absurdly powerful tricks could eventually be developed in a world with supernatural powers.

"You're here." After dealing with the Half-Elf, Drogo noticed Aisha outside the door as well. "It's time to find an artist."

Drogo actually knew several other languages, but the structure of a dragon's body did not allow him to produce those sounds, so he had no choice but to bring Aisha along as his mouthpiece.

He was not looking for some famous artist. The most ordinary illustrator would do.

They came to a street where portrait painters gathered and chose the quietest shop.

Being able to open a shop proved that the artist had basic skills. Poor business probably meant his standards were not too high, which would make it easier to bargain down the price.

In truth, since the Camera had been invented, portrait painters had all been doing poorly lately.

The Camera was a product jointly developed by the Technological Society and the Mages Association.

The scientists provided the mechanical structure and optical components, while the mages refined the photosensitive materials.

Everyone was excited by the birth of this new invention, except for the artists.

The most common job for artists here was painting portraits, and they were not allowed any artistic expression. The more closely the painting resembled the client, the happier the client would be.

Now that job had been completely replaced by photography.

Of course, some people would casually say that artists who did not know how to adapt deserved to be eliminated by society.

But for an individual, change had never been easy.

Drogo and Aisha entered the shop.

"Ding—"

The bell hanging from the door rang. The painter, who had been hunched over in front of his easel, suddenly stood up. His bloodshot eyes flew wide open, making him look like a dying patient having a final burst of life.

"Hello! What kind of portrait do you need? I specialize in oil paintings, and I'm skilled at all kinds of angles..."

"No need."

At Aisha's words, the painter's back instantly slumped again. In a hoarse voice, he asked, "Won't you take another look? The wall is covered with my sample works."

"I don't need a portrait. I want comics."

"Comics?"

The painter's expression twisted. He knew what comics were, but he was a painter. Painters could not draw comics—or at least, that was what he believed.

"Yes, comics. I have draft material here, and I'll give you new material every week. This will be long-term work."

The painter rubbed his hands uncertainly. Long-term work was very appealing to him. His peers were all having a hard time now, and artistic ideals could not put food on the table.

But if he really went to draw comics, his teachers and friends would surely look down on him in the future. And if the industry ever recovered, he would no longer be able to squeeze back into his old circle.

"You're already eating black bread."

"What?"

Aisha's sudden remark left the painter somewhat bewildered.

She pointed at a half-eaten piece of black bread on the table.

It was not anything tasty. It had no texture to speak of, carried a sour fermented flavor, and clogged the throat after being eaten. Swallowing it alone took considerable effort.

"I remember that painters used black bread to erase their drawings. Yet now you're eating it."

The painter looked somewhat embarrassed and regretted not putting his food away.

Aisha continued pressing the point. "So you have no choice. Either accept my offer, or I'll find another painter on this street who doesn't want to keep eating black bread."

The painter ultimately agreed. Drawing comics was better than going to a factory and breathing coal dust.

He also requested that his name not be credited. Drogo sincerely hoped he would not regret it in the future.

It turned out that hungry painters were astonishingly efficient.

In only three days, he completed the first chapter, faster than even the manga artists of a certain island nation on Earth who had assistants.

Powerful. Truly powerful.

After checking it over and finding no problems, Drogo sent it directly to every newspaper in the city, declaring that he wanted no manuscript fee and allowing reprints and derivative works.

The whole point was to promote Yo-yos, so naturally, the more newspapers that carried it, the better. Every additional person who saw it was another potential Yo-yo player.

Two days later, the Feilin Continent's first long-running comic, Blazing Teens, officially began serialization.