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Eriri sat in her room, her eyes glued to the download bar on her screen. When it hit 100%, she didn't just open the file; she dragged the .PSD directly into Photoshop with a mixture of anticipation and dread.
The layers populated the sidebar. She hid the "Correction" folder Leo had created to compare it with her original. Then, she toggled it back on.
"Unbelievable..." Eriri murmured, slumping back in her chair.
The difference wasn't subtle. It was a chasm.
Her original painting was technically sound—the perspective was correct, the trees were anatomical—but it felt flat. It was a digital painting trying too hard to look like oil.
Leo's version? It breathed. He had adjusted the color temperature, shifting the gloomy afternoon to a crisp, golden morning. He had added atmospheric depth that made the forest feel vast. And the hunter... that simple silhouette added a narrative weight that she hadn't even considered.
This was supposed to be a difficult assignment from her university lecturer: Simulate traditional oil techniques using digital media. She had struggled with it for days. Leo had fixed it in ten minutes while eating snacks.
He's not just a writer, Eriri realized, biting her lip. He's a monster. I have to catch up.
Meanwhile, in his apartment in Shibuya, Leo remained blissfully unaware of the existential crisis he had just induced in the Spencer heiress.
He pushed his keyboard back and headed to the kitchen. He grabbed a bento box—Teriyaki Chicken—and tossed it into the microwave. While it hummed and spun, he retrieved a two-liter bottle of Coca-Cola from the fridge, the plastic sweating in the cool air. He grabbed a family-sized bag of potato chips and a box of Oreos from his snack cabinet.
He set up his feast at his computer desk.
Leo had the typical habit of introverted men: turning every meal into a multimedia experience. However, unlike the stereotype of the messy gamer with a keyboard full of crumbs and Cheeto dust, Leo was fastidious.
He wiped his hands with a wet wipe before touching his peripherals. Every three days, he would pull the keycaps off his mechanical keyboard to clean the switches with compressed air and a brush. He respected his tools. This keyboard had been his companion for two years, and he intended to keep it clicking for two more.
The microwave dinged.
Leo retrieved his steaming bento, cracked open the Coke, and settled into his ergonomic chair. But instead of cuing up another anime, he opened a folder labeled "Classics."
He clicked on a file: "Mr. Vampire: The Saga."
On the screen appeared the unibrowed, stoic face of Lam Ching-ying—known affectionately to fans across Asia as "Uncle Nine."
Leo grinned. This was one of the best perks of this parallel world.
In his previous life, Lam Ching-ying had passed away too young, leaving a void in the genre of Jiangshi (Hopping Vampire) horror-comedy. But in this timeline? Uncle Nine had lived longer. The Mr. Vampire series didn't fizzle out; it expanded into a nine-film epic. He had directed and starred in masterpieces that Leo had never seen before.
For a fan of old Hong Kong cinema, this was better than winning the lottery.
In this world, Uncle Nine's influence was massive. His films had shaped the metaphysical folklore of Southeast Asia. People joked that whenever a ghost appeared on screen, as long as Uncle Nine was there with his peach wood sword and yellow paper talismans, the audience felt safe. He was the ultimate security blanket against the supernatural.
Leo watched with rapt attention, refusing to speed up the playback. Disrespecting Uncle Nine's comedic timing with 1.5x speed was heresy.
He ate his chicken, laughed at the slapstick, and marveled at the practical effects.
Internal Monologue: I need to archive these. All of them. Just because I can't share them with my old world doesn't mean I can't enjoy them. Sharing happiness is overrated; solitary enjoyment is pure.
Just as the credits were rolling on the first film, his computer chimed.
Leo paused the media player. He opened the LINE desktop client—a cleaner, bloat-free version compared to the one in his old world.
[Kasumigaoka Utaha]: (Leo-kun, are you there?)
[Leo]: (I'm here. Ready to sink some ships?)
[Kasumigaoka Utaha]: (Not yet. Before we play... I need a favor. I want you to review my manuscript. It's the opening for the new series.)
Leo raised an eyebrow. Utaha asking for a review was rare. She usually guarded her drafts like state secrets until they were polished.
[Leo]: (I'd be happy to. Send it over.)
A moment later, a .TXT file appeared in the chat.
Utaha had started using the "Black Room" software Leo had recommended—a distraction-free writing environment. He had even modified the code for her, stripping out the bloatware and leaving only the core features and the satisfying typewriter sound effects she loved.
Leo opened the file.
His eyes scanned the text, his enhanced brain processing the 30,000 words at a speed that would make a normal reader dizzy.
It wasn't a romance. It wasn't Love Metronome.
It was an Urban Fantasy.
The prose was sharp, darker than her usual style. The protagonist wasn't the typical indecisive harem lead. He was a high-schooler with a terrifying intellect, a calm demeanor, and a ruthless streak. He wielded a supernatural power not for justice, but for his own ambition.
Leo stopped scrolling. A sense of familiarity washed over him.
Internal Monologue: This character... he's not a hero. He's a Gang-Star.
Utaha had accidentally (or perhaps subconsciously) channeled the energy of Giorno Giovanna from JoJo's Bizarre Adventure: Golden Wind. The protagonist possessed a "Golden Spirit"—a resolve that burned bright—but his methods were morally grey.
It was a massive departure from the current market trends of "dense protagonists" and "accidental heroes."
[Leo]: (Senior... this is interesting. It's brutal. It's rational. It's completely different from the market standard.)
[Kasumigaoka Utaha]: (Is that a bad thing?)
[Leo]: (No. It's fantastic. The protagonist has charisma. He reminds me of a certain Italian gangster with a dream. If you can maintain this tension... this is going to be a hit.)
[Kasumigaoka Utaha]: (Italian gangster? I don't follow the reference, but I'll take the compliment. Alright, I feel better now. Let's play.)
Leo closed the document, a smile playing on his lips. Utaha was evolving. Eriri was evolving.
Now, he thought, switching windows back to World of Warships, if only Tomoya would catch up.