I became a father with a genius face in the game

It was close to midnight by the time I returned home from work.

Beep—.

Opening the door lock, I collapsed face-first in front of the shoe rack, not even bothering to take off my shoes.

“Ugh… Home…”

The thought of watching the drama I had planned to start today—the one I’d been looking forward to—vanished as soon as I began climbing the stairs to my apartment.

I also shoved aside the worry about the week’s worth of laundry piling up, even though I’d run out of clothes to wear tomorrow. Anyway, it was too late to run the washing machine at this hour.

“I just want to sleep like this…”

After working overtime and enduring a two-hour commute, it was already time to go to bed. No, it was already the early hours of the morning.

I was tired. Exhausted. All I wanted was to rest.

That was the only thought in my mind.

“Damn this company…”

I work for a game company located right in the middle of Seoul.

If I lived nearby, half my salary would go toward rent, so I had no choice but to commute from the outskirts of the metropolitan area, two hours away.

Tomorrow, I’d have to wake up at the crack of dawn again just to avoid being late.

Honestly, shouldn’t commuting time count as work hours too? If you include that in the calculation, wouldn’t my pay fall below minimum wage?

“Or at least let us work from home…”

As an artist who draws on a tablet anyway, I’d asked for remote work, but the request had been flatly denied.

What was the reasoning again? Something about how remote work makes people lazy.

“Then at least subsidize rent so I can live closer…”

Groaning, I lay on the floor, sprawled out in frustration. Oddly enough, doing absolutely nothing so fiercely made me feel a little better.

Ding—.

Until the company messenger app on my phone chimed.

“Ugh, life…”

It was obviously going to be something work-related.

The time I had to rest at home, minus sleeping, was barely an hour. Did they really need to bother me with work even now? I couldn’t help but feel disappointed and dejected.

‘Did I start drawing to end up living like this?’

My original dream was to become a webtoon artist.

Back in high school, I thought I’d live a modest life, drawing the pictures I wanted and telling the stories I wanted to tell.

When I got to college, I aspired to be an illustrator. I thought it would be enough to draw whatever people wanted and live comfortably.

But for some reason, as an adult, I ended up living a poor life, drawing only what other people asked for.

‘Somewhere in this world, there must be people drawing what they want while living wealthy lives, right? I hope they all drop dead.’

Venturing this meaningless anger toward the world, I started to feel a little better again.

Ding—.

The company messenger chimed again.

With a deep sigh, I sluggishly pulled my phone out of my pocket.

+++

[Art Director]
We’re going with concept two for Seymour’s Mausoleum, so think of ways to develop it further and be prepared when you come in.

+++

Reply once you’ve read this.

+++

Develop further.

The word almost made me reflexively curse out loud.

“…Well, at least it’s manageable.”

At least I didn’t have to pick up a pen immediately, and in any case, a decision had been made, which meant progress on the project.

“Concept two, huh…”

I sent a reply confirming I understood and scrolled up the messenger log to check the images I’d sent earlier in the day.

The chat history with the art director showed dozens of images exchanged just today.

My position was “concept artist.” I was responsible for character design and illustration under the guidance of the art director.

It might sound like an impressive title, but I was just one of many artists doing the same job. As befitting a major game company, there were dozens of concept artists alone.

“Concept two for Seymour’s Mausoleum… This is the one.”

The new AAA-grade game the company was developing.

One of the mid-bosses, “Seymour’s Mausoleum,” also known as the “Shadow Power of the System,” had been assigned to me for final concept art completion since last week.

I’d submitted various concepts for it, and among them, concept two focused on Seymour’s role as a father.

A cold yet languid-looking black-haired, gold-eyed handsome man.

Arrogant eyes that betrayed a firm sense of self-importance.

In his arms was a pristine, snow-white infant.

Despite his haughty face that looked down on the world, his arms, cradling his young daughter, were solid and protective, as if he held a treasure beyond compare.

“If players see this scene before purchasing the game, they’ll think he’s a complex villain.”

The kind of person who mercilessly harms others but cherishes his child.

A hypocrite who wants to remain a good father in front of his daughter.

Or perhaps he’d remind them of a famous mafia boss from a certain movie series.

You know, the one who tenderly holds a cat?

“But once they finish the game and revisit this concept art, they’ll get chills.”

The baby in his arms meets her end in the middle of the story, at Seymour’s hands.

And it’s not a simple death—she is dissected. To put it plainly, she is brutally dismembered.

This is to extract the immense magic embedded in her heart—the Dragon Heart—since she was a foster daughter born of dragons.

When the player character, shocked, confronts Seymour about it, he responds coldly:

“Love her? Don’t be absurd. Do you give affection to the pigs you raise for slaughter?”

Seymour didn’t see his young daughter as anything more than a tool for his own purposes.

The reason he held her so tenderly wasn’t because he loved her but because he was afraid that his precious tool might run away.

A psychopath, a sociopath, a count, and a high-ranking mage—he was literally a villain living beyond the bounds of law and humanity.

The adopted daughter was the perfect device to demonstrate this aspect of his character.

My eyes briefly rested on the pure gaze of the child.

“A disposable character created solely to justify the villain’s punishment.”

She was, quite literally, born to die. A child who would have been happier not being born at all.

Could this be one of those situations where you could say her very birth was a mistake?

“If the story writers keep this up, even Satan would shake his head and say, ‘This is a bit much.’”

But even as I said this, I was also complicit in creating this horrific story.

It was my hand that brought this father and daughter to life.

“…”

Was it because it was so late at night that my emotions felt heightened?

Feeling an unusual weight in my chest, I ran my finger across the image of the child’s cheek on my phone screen.

“…I’m sorry.”

I remembered something a professor once said back in college:

“A creation is like a child born from the creator’s heart. You must take responsibility for it until the end.”

He said that if we ever lived in a world where no one took responsibility for their creations—for their “children”—it would be a heartless, barren world.

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

A hungry stomach knows no morals.

And yet, I didn’t even have the energy to take care of myself properly.

I wanted to eat, to wash, to play. But more than anything, I just wanted to rest.

To a busy office worker, being told to uphold artistic integrity sounds like the idealism of a privileged university professor.

“…Should I just skip washing and sleep today?”

I sluggishly pushed myself up, only to have the world suddenly spin around me. Before I knew it, I collapsed back onto the floor.

Thud!

There was a loud crash, but I didn’t feel any pain.

“Ah, this doesn’t feel right.”

Images of recent news stories flitted through my mind: “Young people in their 20s and 30s are getting less exercise,” “Overwork-related deaths on the rise.”

Could I really die like this?

The tightness in my chest wasn’t just emotional—it felt more like something important had ruptured.

I tried to push myself up again, but my body refused to cooperate. Even my thoughts began to grow sluggish.

“Ah… damn it. Is this it?”

The strength was draining from my body. Without someone’s help, it didn’t seem like I’d be able to get back up.

But from the moment I was born until this very instant, there had never been anyone by my side. As an orphan who had always been alone, there was no one who would come to help me now.

“Dying alone from overwork? This is the worst. I haven’t even been abroad yet…”

As my vision grew blurrier, I closed my eyes and silently prayed.

“God, in my next life, please let me be a righteous landlord. Let me live a life of leisure and indulgence without doing a thing.”

That was my final thought in this life.

***

“…The contract has been sealed.”

Thud!

Something immense shoved me, and I rolled helplessly across the floor.

“Cough, cough!”

What the hell was going on?

I… didn’t I collapse at home? Does that mean this is a hospital?

I glanced around with my still-wavering vision, but this didn’t look like a hospital at all.

Instead, there was an enormous structure that resembled some kind of temple.

Rumble… Thud!

The gigantic doors of the temple closed with a grating sound.

It seemed I had been thrown out from there just moments ago.

“Where the hell am I?”

Suddenly, I heard hurried footsteps approaching. Before I could fully stand up, someone grabbed my shoulder.

“Seymour, what the hell did you do?!”

A voice shouted as it gripped my shoulder tightly.

“How could you enter the Mausoleum without permission from the family elders or the Black Dragon Society? How are you planning to take responsibility for this…?”

The woman abruptly gasped, cutting herself off mid-sentence. Her eyes scanned me, searching for something.

Her gaze lingered especially long on my chest, and she murmured in disbelief.

“No way… You didn’t make a contract with the Mausoleum, did you?”

“A contract?”

Now that she mentioned it, the first thing I heard upon waking up was talk about a contract.

The look on my face must have been all the answer she needed because the woman’s expression crumpled in dismay.

“Don’t tell me you made a contract just to obtain magic power! What did you offer in return? What exactly did you sacrifice?!”

My head was already spinning, and her yelling made it feel like I was about to collapse again.

I tried to steady myself by placing my hand on the ground, but I quickly realized I couldn’t.

Something was nestled in my arms.

“…”

Both the woman and I looked down at the same time. There, in my arms, was a pure-white child who looked about three or four years old.

“Wow…”

The woman, who had been frantically stomping her feet as if the world were ending, suddenly froze and let out a stunned exclamation.

The child was so incredibly adorable yet, at the same time, noble.

The tiny hand clutching my collar perfectly resembled a plump maple leaf, and the chubby cheeks looked softer than any marshmallow.

Yet, the golden eyes staring at me sparkled more brilliantly than the sun, and the snow-white hair cascaded like a shower of stars in the galaxy.

‘An angel…?’

Most notably, the child had wings.

Not feathered angelic wings, but leathery ones.

The woman, still in a daze, asked, “Is that… a dragon?”

It was indeed a dragon.

I knew exactly who this child was. Even their name.

“…Lucis.”

As soon as I spoke the name, the child’s eyes curved into crescent moons.

That faint smile and crescent gaze, a subdued display of emotion unusual for a child, only added to the child’s noble aura.

‘Exactly as I designed.’

The daughter of Seymour Mausoleum, the Void Dragon.

Lucis.

The child I had designed—a child born only to die—was now nestled in my arms.

‘What in the world…?’

At that moment, my reflection appeared in the child’s large, golden eyes.

A handsome man with black hair and golden eyes.

A face I’d seen so frequently over the past few weeks that it felt more familiar than my own.

The face of Seymour Mausoleum.

“…Ha.”

It seemed I had fallen into the world of the game.

And not just anywhere—I was now in the body of the mid-boss I had designed myself.