In Ethan's original timeline, computers had long since become everyday tools. Concepts like electrostatic protection were largely unnecessary—only used when handling high-end servers or advanced computing environments like supercomputers.
But in this era, computers were still seen as mythical machines.
There was a kind of reverence surrounding them. Reverence for technology. Reverence for progress.
Ethan remembered hearing old-timers in his past life recount stories of having to wear full-body anti-static suits just to step into a computer lab. Back then, he'd laughed, thinking it was a bit over-the-top—like something out of a sci-fi movie.
But now, standing in the middle of one of these labs, he finally understood.
It wasn't the computer that demanded respect.
It was the dream. The vision of the future. The idea that machines could elevate humanity into a new era. That belief made people careful. Methodical.
Still… these machines were ancient.
While video game consoles were using 8-bit processors, these computers were just beginning to support 16-bit architecture. RAM was measured in kilobytes. All they could really do was display text and maybe process the simplest of spreadsheets.
Graphics? Technically possible. But painfully limited—low resolution, low color depth. Most displays were still black-and-white. Color displays existed, but they were a luxury.
Using these machines for something like modern video editing would've been a joke.
Ethan figured it would take at least another ten years—maybe the early '90s—before computers saw a proper leap in performance.
For now, even making a basic game meant stretching every byte. Memory had to be treated like gold dust. Every sprite, every line of code, every sound file had to be crammed into ridiculously small storage.
Game developers from this era? Absolute wizards of compression.
Ethan thought they deserved a new title: Spatial Artists.
The computer lab floor was raised—an anti-static design—so every footstep echoed with a hollow thump. The lab itself spanned over 500 square meters, with about a hundred machines spread out in neat rows.
But not all computers were created equal.
Some were so outdated they looked like glorified typewriters—barely able to handle basic arithmetic.
Ethan could easily imagine them someday being museum pieces. He even smiled at the idea: "I should open a retro-tech museum someday."
After surveying the room, he located a cluster of newer-looking machines positioned at the center of the lab. "New" being relative, of course.
They were still slow by modern standards, but he recognized the model. It was one he'd come across during a retro computing phase in his past life. Enough horsepower to get a game running—barely.
Booting up the system wasn't as simple as pressing a button. These old computers ran a POST (power-on self-test), checking all hardware before prompting the user to insert a boot disk.
Only then would the system load—and even then, it was a text-based interface. No desktop. No windows. No mouse.
Just lines of monochrome text.
Luckily, Ethan had dabbled with retro machines before. He knew his way around.
"This'll do."
He sat down, inserted a boot disk, and waited for the command prompt to appear. Then he opened a basic programming environment and typed his first line.
PRINT "Hello, world"
The words slowly appeared on the screen.
"Still got it."
This machine could definitely handle basic game logic, maybe even some primitive animations. And, to his relief, it had a color screen—a rare treat.
He cracked his knuckles.
"Alright… let's build something great."
Soon, the quiet computer lab was filled with the rhythmic tapping of keys. His fingers danced across the board, fast and precise. In a space like this, that sound carried.
A group of students in the corner paused their discussion.
"Do you hear that?" one of them whispered.
They were second-year computer science students—part of the university's early intake. They'd come to the lab to work on a class assignment: developing a calculator program that could handle complex equations.
But they'd hit a wall. Their code was full of bugs, and nothing seemed to work properly.
Now, something—or rather, someone—had captured their attention.
Click-clack. Click-clack.
"Who is that guy?" a student asked, frowning. "He's not one of us, right?"
"No way. Our whole cohort's like fifty people. I'd recognize him."
"Then how'd he get in?"
Their curiosity got the better of them. Frustrated by their own stalled project, they stood up and quietly walked over to the center of the lab, peeking at Ethan's screen from behind.
"Is he… programming?" one muttered.
"Looks like it. But I can't tell what the hell he's building…"
Only a few of them had a faint idea of what was going on—those who'd spent extra time studying programming logic or tinkering at home. Even so, Ethan's work was moving at a pace they couldn't follow.
One leaned closer.
"Wait… is that a room? And… apples? Boxes?"
Another added, puzzled, "Squirrels? A cat? What kind of weird calculator needs cats?"
Now they were just confused.
"Maybe we should stop him," someone suggested. "What if he crashes the machine? That's the best one in the lab."
"Come on. Does he look like he doesn't know what he's doing? He's typing like a damn machine!"
Truth was, Ethan was completely immersed.
He was building the framework for a new game from scratch—establishing the rules, defining assets, writing the logic. Resolution, memory mapping, object states—every detail planned in advance.
He hadn't noticed the crowd forming behind him.
Not yet.