Abel the Third (3)
A dinner had been laid out on the long table as usual.
Freshly baked bread, thinly sliced fruit, a lightly fragrant tea, and a salad portioned precisely as the physician had ordered.
The placement of each plate, the angle of every piece of cutlery, even the order in which the servants would withdraw—all of it was decided.
The king gazed at his daughter across the table.
She wore the same neat attire as always. Her golden hair, once brushed by the servants’ hands, had been arranged with flawless precision.
The familiar sight of his royal princess. Yet something was different.
“Did you spend the entire night there?”
In the past, Abel would never have answered.
She would have feared punishment, disappointment, and the certainty that she would never again leave her room.
“Yes. I was there. It was fun.”
Abel said this with perfect calm and popped a bite of salad into her mouth.
The king could not hide his astonishment. He knew all too well how she used to converse with dolls.
In truth, that had been good. No—actually, he had believed it to be good.
To protect his daughter from countless battles and plagues, he had thought it the correct path.
He had only realized later, when he saw her vitality fading, when he saw her desperately seeking something.
She had been like a fragile glass sphere he dared not touch.
But now?
The weak girl he remembered—always lowering her head, avoiding his eyes—was no longer the one before him.
Abel’s eyes met his own directly.
“How is your body?”
“It’s bad. I can’t sleep.”
The king swallowed hard.
The food he had always eaten would not go down his throat.
“Was today’s lesson difficult?”
“It was boring.”
The king’s hand trembled ever so slightly.
The silverware on the table made a faint sound.
The waiting stewardess and physician both parted their lips as if they wanted to speak.
“The physician told me not to overwork you.”
“Aha, no way.”
The king’s pupils shook violently. He tried desperately to hide his agitation, but it was impossible.
As dinner drew to a close, the king always asked the same question.
“…Do you have something you want?”
Abel answered without hesitation.
“I want to make a game.”
He had already known Abel wanted something. No—had hidden how long he had watched for it.
This was impossible. He would not allow it.
He had to say so.
“Abel.”
The child who had slipped away from her room all night. Avoiding the guards’ eyes, hiding in the manager’s office, collapsing asleep before the computer.
No. Her body could not handle it.
The Blue Magic Tower was no palace. No corridor without even a speck of dust. No one to hand out medicine at set times.
Speak. Say no.
As her father and king, he had to.
Even if she had something she wanted. Even if she truly wished for it.
It could not be. Please, stay here.
The words piled up in his throat. But…
He could not.
“…Very well. Let us do that.”
Abel smiled as if to say, “See?” It was a smile he had not seen in a long time—vicious, even.
“Thank you, Dad.”
That single word sounded like the voice of a daughter he had lost long ago.
When he discovered the girl asleep in front of the computer in the manager’s office beside the archive, after hearing the report that the princess had vanished.
He had been unable to wake her. All he could do was cover her with a blanket and wait.
He stared at her for a long time.
She was sleeping soundly, curled over. Her eyelids were red, yet her fingertips still held strength.
Even so, the corners of her mouth held a faint smile.
When had she last slept so peacefully?
The king leaned against the wall and spent the night retracing memories.
The girl who had run through the garden until her dress was covered in dirt, fled under the bed to avoid her medicine, hid behind the curtains to escape etiquette lessons.
The girl who would flash a mischievous smile and flee the moment she was caught.
Behind the hazy vision, the face of his daughter—who once resembled a tomboy—overlapped.
“Dad, dummy~!”
What remained was no longer a king and princess of a nation.
Just…
One father and one daughter. ***
People were needed.
People to extend their fists, swing their arms, get hit and knocked back, stand up again and again.
To bring living, breathing characters to life, countless sprites were required.
In other words, pictures. And lots of them.
I was finished. No—actually, it had been a long time since I had been.
In the current state of development, I felt it painfully.
Anyone can draw pictures? This world is…
Ask them to draw a tree, and they give mushrooms or parasols. Ask for clouds, and they plaster cotton candy onto the sky.
Draw people, and their limbs turn grotesque. Draw a fist extending, and they produce rectangles.
…Actually, that was my story. Rose and Iria were no different.
I had hoped they could be patched over with local flavor.
Knights with swords casting magic while fighting. Knights mounted on dragons performing aerial combos.
It did not feel right.
What I wanted to make was a game filled with the emotions of that era.
A background that felt philosophical, characters with clear personalities.
I wanted to create that. Not some derivative work.
“What are you doing?”
My sister approached the makeshift bed in the research lab and sat on the edge.
“Not making one? A game.”
“I want to make it… but…”
Rose already knew my situation. Since we could talk about games, she had helped me develop them.
We had created countless attempts at backgrounds, but the lively feel of the characters was impossible to replicate.
We had somehow built the hardware.
A joystick, control panel, colorful buttons.
It worked normally. The screen turned on.
But there were no characters inside to move.
“Eh? How can you see Reven’s creations? This… this won’t work… If we brainwash someone and make them draw nonstop for twenty-four hours, one person could at least…”
Iria was going further crazy than me.
Iria had worked with the most passion in game development. Perhaps because of her slave mentality as a magic tower researcher—she claimed she would follow Reven’s every step and handled countless tedious tasks.
“Heehee…! Yes, that works… Making people slaves one by one… For Reven’s great creation…!”
…To correct: Iria was definitely crazy.
“There she goes again.”
Rose was feeding Iria homemade fruit jelly to calm her down.
Urgent footsteps came from beyond the corridor, and the research lab door slammed open.
A researcher panted, “I’m here!”
“…?”
“It’s a job posting! You said you were hiring artists!”
It had been two months since the ad. Why now?
But it was not over.
“Hurry. The person who said they would come is the princess!”
…The princess?
Why? ***
Golden hair flowing like sunlight, eyes carrying a faint purple.
The palace people spoke of her as a princess who had walked out of an old painting.
…How had someone like that ended up sitting in front of me?
How had this happened?
A small four-person table inside the research lab.
“What is your name?”
“Yah.”
My sister poked my side.
…Right. This was treason, wasn’t it? I was barely a baron.
“Abel de Direv.”
She smiled as if it did not concern her and looked up at me.
For a moment, the word “cute” crossed my mind. She really was of royal blood.
“I… I find it difficult to say this, but why are you here?”
“I… I wanted to make a game too.”
She lowered her gaze for a moment, then continued carefully.
“Tetris was really fun.”
The moment she said it, Rose’s face lit up as if she had found a long-lost relative.
“Um… And I brought some drawings.”
Abel handed over a rolled-up sheet of paper. I unfolded it without thinking.
“…What is this?”
In the picture stood a woman. Backlit, hands clasped neatly, head slightly bowed.
Even someone who knew nothing about art felt the urge to be amazed.
A masterpiece, the word came to mind.
But that was not what we needed.
“Abel. You draw beautifully, but it is very different from what we imagined.”
“Really? Eh? Name…”
I had slipped up again.
My sister pinched my side.
“Ouch! I’m sorry, Your Highness.”
“Oh, it’s fine… You may call me by name.”
This was the first time Abel had been called by name by a man who was not family. She tucked her long hair behind her ear.
“I’m sorry, but this differs greatly from the game characters we want.”
“Is that so?”
“You draw too beautifully. That is the problem.”
This was beyond photorealism—photographic.
“The game we are making is about people fighting each other.”
Abel’s pupils trembled faintly. The sparkle that had been praising her drawing a moment ago had gone dim, as if lost.
“So it is a fighting game?”
“Yes. The background is a street fight.”
“Streets… fighting…?”
Abel had left the palace, yet she was still a hothouse flower. Imagining such a thing was difficult.
“May I draw the scene you described?”
Short hair, thick arms, worn robes, a slight raise of the arm.
I explained the features of the character I remembered with all my might.
Scribble, scribble.
Even while I spoke, the pen moved quickly.
At first I thought she was only outlining. Then lines began to stack rapidly, shoulders appeared, arms attached, folds of cloth formed, positions of feet locked in.
“Done.”
“…Eh?”
In less than three minutes she handed over the paper.
“…This is…”
The man in the picture was almost exactly the character I remembered.
“How is it…?”
Abel fidgeted nervously at her fingertips.
“Accepted.”
“Huh?”
“Starting today, you will work here.”
Please come. Without you I cannot make a game.
If you quit, the game dies.
“Really? That is an honor for me.”
Rose and Iria clapped beside Abel. I cheered inwardly.
“Welcome!”
“Wow… a person who will draw pictures…”
“Waa…”
Abel clapped along, completely bewildered.
Until that moment, I had not known.
That her purity could turn into an unexpectedly fierce obsession. ***
The research lab of the Blue Magic Tower.
It was somewhat different from the outside world I had dreamed of, yet it was full of strange people and strange things.
Complex magic-stone circuits I had never seen before.
Multiple computers and game machines humming with strange sounds.
Reports scattered carelessly on the floor.
Researchers smiling even with half-closed eyes as they moved.
It was a little scary. No—honestly, very scary.
In the palace, not even a speck of dust was allowed. No one dared to slack off.
But strangely, I did not dislike it. The feeling of being alive was strong.
A bit messy, a bit noisy, occasional explosions inside the tower…
Yet it never stopped.
Rose was kind to me. At first I thought it was because of my princess status, but over time I realized it was just her nature.
Most of all, Rose’s bento tasted like heaven!
How did she cook so well? I wanted to ask her how she did it.
Iria was kind too…
A little strange, though. When she praised Reven for an hour, I felt a chill.
But she did not seem bad. …Was there not a common point between us?
And finally, Reven Graham.
I could meet the person who made my beloved Tetris.
Black hair that did not shine easily in sunlight. Eyes as black as the night, hiding deep emotions.
Etiquette was poor for a noble, speech too casual for a scholar, and greed strangely absent for a merchant.
He looked gloomy, yet when he smiled he seemed to gaze at a distant world only he knew.
Like a man remembering a world that was not of this one.
The genius of the era, everyone said. But understanding the thoughts of geniuses was difficult.
I felt gratitude toward Reven every time. Perhaps it would last a lifetime.
Making games.
From the moment I made that decision, my heart became strangely impatient.
The task given to me was drawing pictures.
Mouse, keyboard, dots.
At first I could not understand. Drawing with dots instead of lines.
No soft lines, no paint bleeding. To create a curve, I had to place squares one by one.
Reven always told me:
“Thank you.”
Every time, something in my chest stirred. It felt different from the praise I had heard in the palace.
I was glad to be here.
Because what I drew was needed.
Because what I did had taken one step forward.
So I decided to work even harder.
There was more work than I thought, and I drew again and again.
Because when I showed my drawings to Reven, he always showed results.
“Let me see the character move.”
“Waa…!”
When I drew, the character moved.
When I stopped, the character stopped.
At first it was amazing. My drawings came alive.
But at some point it became a little frightening.
If I did not draw, the character would not move.
If I did not draw the next picture, the arm would freeze in mid-air.
If I did not continue drawing, the fallen character would not stand up again.
…Why?
The people on the screen were waiting for me.
Arms outstretched.
Fallen after being hit.
Eyes wide or closed, without blinking.
I was needed. I could not be replaced.
I had to draw. I had to move. I had to finish it.
So just one more sheet. Just one more. ***
“Abel.”
“…Yes?”
“It’s over.”
My wrist hurt. My eyes stung, my shoulders stiff.
My back ached, my stomach empty.
And I was sleepy.
“I…”
The words would not come.
Who was it? I felt as if someone quietly removed the mouse from my hand.
My hand… touched.
“Did… I do well?”
I was not sure why I asked. But she answered.
“You did.”
My body leaned sideways. Someone caught me.
It was comfortable and warm. I did not want to let go of the tightly clutched fabric.
Is this happiness?
“Ehehe… I did it.”
That was what I had wanted.
I would never let go. Forever.