Chapter 180
Chapter 180
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 180
Chapter Title: An Expected Variable (2)
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To be honest, a part of me always had a feeling something like this would happen.
The biggest reason, after all, was that I had snatched away Han Seo-rim—the one who had perfected the phenomenal art of *Lost Kingdom*—more than ten years ago.
Yet, the reason I found myself wrestling with this was simple.
Deep down, I thought, ‘But it’s Rousseau.’
He was the idol I had always admired, the one I strived to reach. Because of that, a vague optimism lingered in my heart that he would find a way, no matter what.
I tried not to feel guilty or sorry about it.
Separate from my admiration as a fan, it was something I had to do for the completion of my own game.
I couldn't afford to miss my chance under the guise of being considerate to others.
But still, if *Lost Kingdom* never saw the light of day, it would be my responsibility.
If the game came out in a form lesser than the one I knew, that too would be my responsibility.
Many thoughts crossed my mind.
And with those thoughts came even more worries.
After navigating through all of that, I arrived at the present.
Is *Lost Kingdom* really not coming out?
Did the butterfly effect I caused erase a masterpiece of an era?
Unable to identify this feeling—whether it was worry or guilt—I felt I couldn't move forward, so I boarded a plane.
“It's been a while.”
And so I arrived at Studio Valhalla.
Before Rousseau.
***
He was still as sharp as ever.
Now over sixty, his appearance was undeniably that of an old man, yet the impression he gave was of ‘a man still burning with passion.’
His dry hair and stooped back couldn't hide the piercing intensity of his gaze.
Was there anyone who fit the description ‘eyes gleaming with brilliance’ so perfectly?
The moment I faced him, I found myself unconsciously relieved by that look in his eyes.
“Coffee? Or lemonade? Tea?”
“Coffee, please.”
“Very well. I'll have tea. Getting old makes you mindful of your health. This damn body can't even handle whiskey properly anymore.”
*Tsk.* Rousseau clicked his tongue briefly and gave an order. A woman who appeared to be his secretary entered the room and served a cup of Earl Grey and a coffee.
Rousseau lifted his teacup and savored the aroma of the tea.
His demeanor was relaxed; in other words, he was still a man living with unwavering confidence in himself.
He suddenly spoke.
“Congratulations. Ten million. You've achieved something historic.”
So he had been keeping up with the news.
He had ceased all public activities and hadn't even extended any private invitations for some time, so hearing him speak like this felt strangely unfamiliar.
I gave a slight bow.
“It's a path you've already walked. I'm humbled.”
I meant it.
Ten million in a year.
Of the fewer than ten records of that caliber in the entire industry, two belonged to Alid Rousseau.
Considering one of those was set in the 90s, his standing in the industry needed no further explanation.
The man before me was such a man.
A living legend of the game industry, and an immortal name destined to become even greater.
A name that turned what the media portrayed as arrogance into confidence in an undeniable fact.
Embarrassingly, a sense of pride swelled within me at having received his acknowledgment.
No, actually, he had always acknowledged me, but it felt like I had only now become someone worthy of that recognition.
My lips parted slightly.
The words wouldn't come out.
Because I was still hesitating.
The question about the fate of *Lost Kingdom* just wouldn't form into words.
In the end, we drifted into small talk.
“This damn pandemic has turned the world upside down. It's truly strange.”
“It is an unprecedented event.”
“It's a funny thing. Everyone's screaming that they're going to die, yet our industry is booming. I can't remember the last time I saw this much growth. The irony is staggering. Well, you seem to have ridden the wave quite well.”
“…It was luck.”
“Luck is a skill. No, luck is the *real* skill.”
The scents of tea and coffee mingled, drifting through the room.
As I recalled, Rousseau was a smoker, but there was no ashtray in his room.
Considering he wasn't the type to go out of his way to smoke outside just to follow a no-smoking rule, he must have quit.
It wasn't a pleasant thought.
Because I could feel he was becoming a different person from the one I remembered from this era.
For some reason, a tightening sensation in my chest.
It was the moment that feeling spread throughout my entire rib cage.
“Ah, I've been playing all your games. Lately, I've been thinking that youth is a wonderful thing. As I get older, my mind closes up, and I rarely have those flashes of brilliance. I tend to handle things out of habit.”
“I know that's not true.”
“I'm trying not to be. Because I must.”
He chuckled.
I lifted my head.
And so I could see it.
“You have to be new. You can't survive by being dull. That's true for everything in the world, and especially for us.”
That his gaze, after a brief pause, was fixed on something far, far away.
He suddenly spoke.
“Thank you.”
“…Pardon?”
“You've been an inspiration.”
Our eyes met.
His gaze was so intense it felt hot enough to burn my skin.
A sharp pang went through me.
What was he thanking me for?
I was the one who had snatched up the talent that would have perfected his game.
*Lost Kingdom* would never be able to see the light of day now.
‘Ah.’
I get it now.
This is guilt, after all.
It's because I loved and admired Rousseau's games so much that I'm feeling this strange guilt.
The game that was my goal is now gone.
The person who would have directed it has changed so much that the same result could never be produced.
My fists clenched for no reason.
The words finally came out.
“The game.”
“Hm?”
“…Are you not making any more games?”
Only after asking the question did I briefly think, ‘Was that a mistake?’
But it didn't last long, and I soon found myself desperately awaiting his answer.
Rousseau blinked.
It was then.
“…Care to follow me?”
He grinned.
With the same expression I remembered—arrogant, audacious, and great.
He stood up from his seat.
Startled, I stood up and followed him out of the reception room.
And then, the moment I saw what he showed me.
“What do you think?”
The guilt vanished as if washed away.
Faced with the absurd spectacle before me, all that came out was a hollow laugh.
The fine hairs on my skin stood on end.
A thrill—that's what I had to call it—tore through my entire body.
The guilt, now turning its back on me, seemed to say.
*Who were you to worry about him?*
***
A full twenty years.
That was how long it took from when Rousseau first conceived of this project, planned it, decided to proceed, and began development.
It was a project that still had no name.
No, to be precise, it was a project that could no longer use its originally planned name.
There were many reasons.
The delays from developing other games in between, starting to study at a late age to adapt to the changing times, running around to handle various internal and external minor incidents—all were reasons.
But the biggest reason was something else entirely.
‘It was you.’
Yeon-ho.
The reason he had postponed this project for so long was solely because of Yeon-ho.
He was a stimulating subject.
Brilliant, novel, and yet not frivolous, capable of raising a sturdy, giant tree.
His momentum was like a typhoon, yet he himself was as calm and stable as its eye.
A feeling that began as curiosity turned into greed.
The moment he realized Yeon-ho was someone he couldn't have with greed, it turned into a competitive spirit.
How far can he go?
Can this kid achieve the same things I have?
The moment he thought it, the answer came.
‘He can. Perhaps even more than I imagined.’
A fire was lit in his emotions.
It was a fire so hot and fierce that a careless touch would burn not just the hand, but the entire body.
Its name was impatience.
Rousseau felt the emotions of his youth, which had been worn down by the years since he was first called the best, being honed anew.
He was a man who had to be the best.
He was a man who couldn't stand the thought of someone blocking his path, a man who had to utterly crush anyone who dared to aim for the throne he had barely claimed.
In the past, he had run toward an untouchable peak for such reasons.
Only after becoming the best did he realize that ‘the moment itself was enjoyable.’
He had fallen into a rut.
How could he not cherish Yeon-ho, the one who had shattered that rut, that complacency?
How could he not be grateful to the one who made him realize he could still run, that he could still become better?
Rousseau looked at Yeon-ho.
He had only shown him a small part of the project's progress.
But Yeon-ho's gloomy expression from when he entered had changed completely.
His eyes were sparkling.
His expression was so full of life it could only be described that way, and his twitching fingertips showed the extent of his astonishment.
Rousseau knew Yeon-ho.
He knew him personally and professionally.
Though he acted humble in front of others, Yeon-ho was, in essence, the same kind of person as Rousseau.
One who had to be the best, could only be the best, and couldn't bear not being the best.
Therefore, he didn't wrap himself in humility to seek praise for his character.
That's why he was certain of one thing.
‘He's being sincere.’
He was genuinely surprised.
There wasn't a shred of falsehood in the emotion Yeon-ho was showing.
That pleased Rousseau.
The proof that what you've done wasn't wrong is always thrilling.
Yeon-ho's lips parted, and he finally asked.
“How…?”
How…
Rousseau closed his eyes and recalled the past.
As expected, the most arduous task was one thing.
“The Art Director was the problem.”
Yeon-ho flinched, but Rousseau didn't notice.
“I couldn't find anyone I liked. None of them could show me exactly what I was thinking. These incompetent fools.”
There was a scene drawn clearly in his mind.
It was a vision so vivid that if asked to describe it, he could depict everything down to the pattern on a small structure.
And yet, despite his clear explanations, no one could fully grasp and accept that vision emotionally.
The tone, the texture, even the placement of patterns—they were all expressed with mistakes, trapped within the confines of their own common sense.
What should I do?
How could I solve this difficult problem and bring the vision in my head to life?
The answer was surprisingly simple.
“So I just became the Art Director myself.”
“…?!”
“I ordered them to draw this and that, and I didn't let them go home until they produced something I liked.”
Rousseau wasn't a particularly good artist.
To be precise, he could draw just enough to qualify as a director's skill (though even that was angelic compared to Yeon-ho).
So he grabbed someone who could draw better and had them express what he had envisioned.
If the expression was wrong, he pointed out every mistake and made them do it again. If they tried to make arbitrary judgments, he crushed them all.
His behavior was befitting of a tyrant, but Rousseau didn't care.
Anyway, this was the result.
Yeon-ho had a dumbfounded expression.
It was a look Rousseau had never seen before, and soon, he asked.
“…Is that even allowed?”
A question asking if that was right.
Rousseau answered.
“If they don't like it, they should have just done it right from the start, no?”
Yeon-ho fell silent.
Not in disagreement, but with the look of someone who had just had an epiphany.
Rousseau's smile deepened, while an art team staff member from Valhalla watching from a distance had their face contort.
With dark circles under his eyes and a dead-looking face, he muttered.
“…son of a bitch.”
In the company, there was a famous nickname: ‘Rousseau the son of a bitch’.
Paired with Yeon-ho, it was birds of a feather.