If given enough time, the lecturer figured he could make a similar platformer demo within a day.
After all, it wasn't technically difficult. The game interface hadn't even been properly optimized yet—just simple lines, dots, and placeholders forming the level layout.
Eventually, of course, the game would need a proper skin—a visual polish to bring it to life.
But even producing this barebones demo required having a solution to follow.
If he had to design the whole thing from scratch, he'd burn through millions of brain cells just trying to structure it.
"What's that student's name? Which university is he from—Oxford? Imperial?" the lecturer asked, brows furrowed.
Like the other students, his first assumption was that the guy had to be from a top-tier university. There was no way an average student could put something like this together in just thirty minutes.
That kind of fluency with code was near unthinkable.
The only person he'd ever seen work at that level was a computer savant he met during an academic exchange in the US—an IBM engineer who'd helped design the first personal computer.
But one of the students piped up. "He's not from any of the top schools. He's actually in our university—studying Japanese."
"…Excuse me?" The lecturer's mind ground to a halt.
"You're joking, right?"
"No joke, sir. He said so himself—his name's Ethan Ward. You can look it up."
The lecturer opened his mouth, thought better of it, and said nothing. He stared at the screen again, taking in the crude yet functional game scene. Countless thoughts surged through his head.
Then, as if coming to a decision, he abruptly stood up.
This kind of talent does not belong in a language program.
He had to find this Ethan immediately. Even if it meant shaking the whole system, he would convince the boy to transfer into Computer Science.
In the UK at this time, switching majors was next to impossible. But… not entirely impossible.
If a faculty member vouched for it—especially someone with rank—it could be arranged.
"Sir, where are you going?" one of the students asked.
"To see the department head."
"What about the machine?"
"Handle it yourselves. In fact, use this chance to study the code. This is a rare hands-on opportunity."
And with that, the lecturer strode out of the lab without looking back.
The students stared at one another, bewildered.
"…So, what do we do now?"
"Didn't the teacher say to study it properly? Come on—this is a gift."
Everyone's eyes lit up.
"Yeah, he's right. Let's get into it!"
"Wait, I hadn't finished the level earlier. Let me try again!"
"Oi, don't hog it. One lap per person, then swap!"
Though the lecturer meant for them to analyze the program, it was the gameplay that had them hooked.
Crude and unfinished as it was, Ethan's prototype had something magical. It was just a demo—a test—but they were playing it like it was an arcade hit.
Ethan had no idea all this was happening back in the computer lab.
Right now, he was dealing with something else.
Damien had taken him out of the university gates, walking about half a kilometer down the road to a small diner. A wooden sign over the door read:
"For the People Café"
The two of them sat down and ordered three dishes with rice—meat and veg balanced, all for £5.30. As they waited, Damien couldn't help but start chatting again, eager to update Ethan on what he'd missed.
"You weren't around, but some angry bloke came asking for you. Big guy. Looked furious. Said you owed his family over £300. None of us knew what it was about, so we just told him to leave. That true? You in that much debt?"
Ethan nodded. "Yeah. It's true. I was seriously ill when I was young. My family borrowed a lot to keep me alive. They never managed to pay it all back."
"…Damn. Wish I'd known. We could've pooled together and helped you cover it. You could just pay us back later."
Ethan waved it off. "Nah. I appreciate it, but it's my responsibility. Don't want to trouble you guys."
"Trouble? We're dorm mates—it's what we do. Once you're working, you can pay us back. That debt's nothing for a future graduate."
Damien said it like it was obvious. And honestly, he wasn't wrong—university students were hot property these days. Guaranteed career, decent wages. In his mind, £300 was barely a speed bump.
"Actually, I've been working on a way to earn some money myself," Ethan said with a half-smile.
"Oho? You getting into business? The economy's red hot right now—plenty of people making bank. I'd jump in too, but my old man would beat me senseless if I dropped school for a sales gig."
Damien's comment reminded Ethan—he still hadn't figured out how to monetize Famine World yet.
The debt wasn't even his—well, not originally. The real Ethan, the one from this timeline, had racked it up. When he was a kid, a life-threatening illness had forced the family to borrow heavily from everyone within walking distance. Over a thousand pounds, in total.
It was that extreme thrift—borderline starvation—that led to Ethan's predecessor eating spoiled food and eventually dying. Which, incidentally, made room for him to cross over.
Still, the debt was real. And now people were coming to collect.
Problem was, his game wouldn't turn a profit for another two or three months. At best.
Not fast enough.
He needed another income stream—fast. He couldn't just wait for the Contra project to pay out. That was too far down the road.
After lunch, Ethan and Damien returned to the dorm. The other six roommates had all returned from classes and gave Ethan a warm welcome. Their friendliness felt genuine—simple, straightforward kindness that defined the era.
Later that evening, Damien headed next door for another poker showdown, vowing to win more ration coupons before bedtime.
The others enjoyed the rare peace—no guitar howling tonight.
One guy buried himself in poetry. Another dove into textbooks.
As for Ethan, he sat at the edge of his bunk, sorting through his mental assets.
Step one: pay off the debt.
He hadn't lived in this era before, but he'd heard stories from his parents. Back in the late '80s, opportunities were everywhere. The economy was expanding, and anyone with a bit of savvy could make a fortune.
But for Ethan, the clear path was still video games.
Everything else was too uncertain. He didn't know how to run a shop, or invest, or flip land.
But games?
That he understood.
And he had absolute confidence that video games could take root here—even in Britain's conservative, analog-laced tech culture.
The only question now… was how to plant that seed
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