Yoon Haerin's monitor flickered for the twelfth time that night.
She ignored it, rubbing her eyes as the final lines of code blurred into nonsense. The clock on her phone glowed 3:47 a.m., which in game developer time meant "maybe two more hours before you pass out."
Her tiny apartment in Seoul looked like a mini tech graveyard. Empty instant noodle cups stacked on top of programming textbooks, half-finished sketches taped to the walls, and a sticky note that read:
> "Deadline = Friday. Don't cry."
Haerin groaned. "Why do I even do this to myself…"
Her current project, a class assignment called Project Moondrop, was supposed to be a simple 2D platformer. Instead, she'd somehow decided to make a story-based puzzle game with dynamic lighting and memory-triggered cutscenes—because why not destroy your GPA for art?
Her laptop hummed like it was ready to explode.
Haerin hit save one last time, stretched her stiff fingers, and collapsed onto the desk.
"I'll just rest my eyes… for five minutes…"
That was the last thing she remembered.
When Haerin opened her eyes again, something was wrong.
First, the hum of her old laptop was gone.
Second, the ceiling wasn't the peeling white of her dorm room—it shimmered with moving light panels like liquid glass.
"...What the—?"
She sat up sharply. Her chair was gone. Her desk, gone. Her entire apartment, gone.
In its place stretched a massive open space with transparent walls overlooking a skyline that didn't belong to Earth. Towering structures pierced the clouds, floating digital billboards flickered with ads written in sleek hangul, and sleek maglev lines zipped through the air like silver ribbons.
Her heartbeat quickened. "Is this… a VR prank?"
Then a soft chime echoed near her ear.
> [SYSTEM INITIALIZATION COMPLETE]
User: Yoon Haerin (Age: 21)
Occupation: Student (Game Development Major)
Temporal Shift: +800 years
Current Era: 28th Century – Interstellar Republic of Korea
She froze. "...Excuse me?"
> [Congratulations, Player Yoon Haerin.]
You have been selected as the next "Game Architect."
System synchronization in progress.
"What 'player'? What synchronization?" Haerin stood, looking around frantically.
The space was so realistic she could see her reflection in the glass—her disheveled hair, oversized hoodie, and dark circles all intact. No headset. No console. Nothing that explained any of this.
Then, in front of her, a translucent blue window materialized.
> [Tutorial Mode Activated]
Welcome, Game Architect. Your mission is simple:
→ Revive the forgotten art of creative game design.
→ Reintroduce fun to a stagnant gaming era.
→ Build, publish, and expand.
Haerin blinked. "Revive creative design? What does that even mean? People still make games—"
> [Correction: Current entertainment market = 99.3% Combat Simulation VR.]
[Creativity Index = Critically Low.]
"...Huh. So basically everyone just fights each other in 800 years."
Her voice echoed faintly in the empty space. "That actually sounds depressing."
The system ignored her commentary.
> [Reward System Activated.]
For completing the tutorial, you will receive your Newbie Package.
A holographic cube appeared midair and unfolded like petals.
Inside floated several shining cards, each labeled with neat white text:
> • Studio License (Registered under user's name)
• 500,000 credits (starter funds)
• Official Company Website (auto-generated)
• Basic Game Engine (Core Engine v0.9)
• Compact Office (Capital Planet – Seoul Sector 01)
Haerin just stared. "You're kidding."
The system wasn't.
> [All items have been issued.]
Please confirm studio creation and choose a name.
Haerin rubbed her temples. "Okay, okay, let's pretend this isn't insane. If this is a hallucination, at least it's a productive one."
A smaller window popped up, waiting for her input.
→ Studio Name: [__________]
She thought for a moment.
Back in college, she'd always joked about starting her own indie studio. She even had a list of names in her phone—"Firebyte," "8th Dream," "Paper Galaxy"—each one sounding either too edgy or too poetic at the time.
Now, one name resurfaced.
Something simple. Nostalgic.
She typed: "Studio Haeniverse."
The system processed for a few seconds.
> ["Studio Haeniverse" registered.]
Legal entity established under Interstellar Republic Digital Business Law.
Congratulations on founding your company!
"Wait—you're telling me this is official? As in, I actually own a company now?"
> [Affirmative.]
Business data uploaded to planetary registry. You may begin operations immediately.
Haerin felt light-headed. "I went from broke college student to CEO in five minutes."
A door suddenly materialized behind her—a sleek black panel glowing faintly blue.
> [Teleport Point: Studio Haeniverse HQ]
Proceed?
She hesitated for half a second, then shrugged. "If this is a dream, might as well see how far it goes."
She stepped through the door.
Her studio wasn't huge, but it was real—painfully real.
A compact office with panoramic windows overlooking the futuristic city, modular desks, holographic projectors, and a soft blue glow that made everything feel almost unreal.
A console on the main desk blinked to life as she approached.
> [Welcome, CEO Yoon Haerin.]
You may now configure your studio.
"Configure?" she murmured, scanning the interface.
A sleek UI popped up—studio settings, financial balance, company logo slot, and "first project" creation tab.
> [Tip: A strong brand inspires recognition.]
→ Please design a company logo.
Haerin sat down in the desk chair, staring at the blank holographic canvas.
A stylus floated out from a nearby holder automatically.
"Logo, huh…"
She chuckled under her breath. "In college, we couldn't even agree on a team name, and now I'm branding a company."
She doodled a few ideas—a pixel planet, a small game controller orbiting it, a stylized "H."
Nothing looked right.
Then she drew a small spark inside a ring. A star being born.
It clicked.
She finalized the design: a white glowing star within a circular orbit, simple but bright. The system instantly polished the lines into a professional-looking logo.
> [Logo accepted.]
Company profile updated.
Studio Haeniverse — "Where imagination begins."
Haerin grinned. "Okay, that tagline was unplanned, but I'll take it."
She explored the rest of the interface. Her company website was already live, featuring the logo, a contact page, and a blank "Projects" section. The credits—half a million, apparently—were safely stored in a digital account linked to her ID.
"Alright, system. You've given me money, an office, and a dream. What's the catch?"
> [Primary Tutorial Mission Unlocked.]
Mission: Develop and release one playable game prototype within 30 days.
Reward: Skill Upgrade – Game Design Lv.2 + 300,000 Credits.
Haerin's eyebrows shot up. "Thirty days? For one person?"
> [Assistance Available: Basic Game Engine (Core Engine v0.9).]
Estimated complexity: Beginner Level.
"...Still, thirty days in a completely new era. No pressure."
She walked toward the window, gazing down at the glittering streets below. Neon signs scrolled across skyscrapers—ads for "Galaxy Warfare V14," "Titan Arena: Ultimate," and "ChronoBlitz 3000."
All combat simulators. No art games, no story-based titles, no indies.
She exhaled softly. "So that's what the system meant. Everyone's just… fighting."
Her reflection stared back at her in the glass—familiar, tired, but with a spark in her eyes that hadn't been there for a while.
"Well then."
She smiled faintly. "If this era's forgotten what fun feels like, I'll remind them."
The system responded with a soft chime.
> [Acknowledged.]
Initiating Creative Mode.
Developer environment online.
A wave of blue light expanded from her console, transforming the empty office into a holographic workspace. Floating windows displayed tools—code editors, art templates, sound libraries, and simulation renderers.
Haerin took a deep breath. "Alright, Haerin. Time to build the future."
And for the first time since she'd started college, the thought of making a game didn't feel like an assignment.
It felt like destiny.
The first thing Haerin learned about the 28th century was that game development still started the same way — with a blank screen and mild panic.
> [Development Workspace Initialized.]
Basic Game Engine: Core Engine v0.9 – Ready
The holographic workspace flickered to life around her. Floating panels hovered in a perfect circle, each labeled: Art Assets, Storyboard, Code, Music, Gameplay, Marketing.
Haerin spun in her chair, staring at the empty templates.
"Well," she said, tapping the "New Project" tab, "time to make something weird."
A window appeared.
> [New Project Name: ________ ]
She didn't even have to think about it this time.
Her fingers hovered over the holographic keyboard, then she typed slowly:
"The Last Ukiyo."
The title shimmered, projecting itself in soft ink-brush font. The letters themselves looked painted — elegant, nostalgic, and lonely.
> [Project registered.]
Genre: Undefined. Would you like to specify?
"Artistic sandbox-slash-narrative builder," she muttered, entering it manually.
> [Acknowledged.]
The interface adjusted immediately. The blank grid behind her morphed into a hazy backdrop of Edo-period Japan — paper walls, candlelight, and the faint sound of a bamboo flute.
Haerin blinked. "Whoa… immersive."
A tiny note blinked at the corner of her vision:
> [Tip: Visualization Mode can be toggled for immersion testing.]
She reached out and tapped it. The entire workspace deepened, textures forming, air thickening. Now, when she looked down, she stood in a traditional studio — wooden floors, brushes, pigments, half-finished prints drying on a line.
Her heart skipped. "It's… beautiful."
It wasn't real, but it felt real.
Haerin pulled up the Concept Design tab.
A massive blank scroll appeared, floating horizontally in the air. She could draw directly on it, or type. Her thoughts poured out.
> Concept:
A game set in the twilight of the Edo era. Players manage a small ukiyo-e art studio, creating works that capture fleeting beauty before modernization sweeps it away.
Gameplay focuses on creation, storytelling, and balance — between art, money, and ideals.
She paused, then smiled faintly.
"Yeah," she murmured. "That's exactly what I want."
Because that was the struggle she'd always felt, even back in college — make something beautiful, or make something that sells?
The system hadn't asked her to make a bestseller. It told her to revive creativity. And that meant she could finally do both.
She switched to Gameplay Design.
> [Create Primary Loop? Y/N]
"Yes."
The system brought up a simple structure:
Sketch → Carve → Print → Sell → Reflect
Each stage unfolded with its own little animation. It was simple, elegant — almost meditative.
"Okay, that's good. But I want the art itself to tell a story," Haerin said thoughtfully. "Not just be for money."
She opened Player Progression and began coding basic emotion metrics:
— Inspiration
— Stress
— Reputation
— Creativity
Every decision the player made — the type of patrons accepted, the subjects chosen, even how long they worked at night — would affect these stats.
Too much inspiration without rest? Burnout.
Too much focus on reputation? Hollow art.
Too much profit-chasing? Loss of meaning.
Haerin leaned back, satisfied. "This isn't a game about winning. It's about expression."
> [Skill: Conceptual Design Lv.1 → Lv.2]
[Reward: "Narrative Linker" Tool Unlocked.]
A new tool icon flashed — a thin red thread. When she clicked it, it connected two design elements, creating automatic story transitions.
She laughed softly. "Okay, system, you're growing on me."
Next came the visuals.
The system offered a base art generator — minimal, AI-assisted — but Haerin refused to rely on it too much. She still wanted her fingerprints on the canvas.
She switched to Manual Mode and picked up the stylus.
Lines flowed like water.
A wooden studio under moonlight.
A young apprentice washing brushes.
Sheets of paper drying in the wind.
Outside, the city slowly turning to steam and glass.
Her strokes were unsteady at first, but soon the system recognized her patterns and began to mirror her style — turning rough sketches into brushwork that mimicked ukiyo-e prints.
"Whoa," she whispered. "You're… learning from me?"
> [Core Engine's Adaptive Art Filter synchronizes with user's drawing habits.]
[Efficiency Boost: +15%.]
"That's actually incredible."
Her fingers hovered over the air, tracing faint outlines of lanterns and rooftops. The scene responded instantly, glowing softly with virtual ink.
Every time she looked around, the workspace felt warmer — more alive.
Not sterile, not digital. Just… art.
Haerin moved to the Narrative Builder tab.
> [Would you like to generate a base scenario?]
"No, I'll write it myself."
The story, she decided, would follow a small family of artists trying to survive as the world changed. Each generation would add to the same studio — the player's actions shaping their legacy.
She wrote in quiet bursts, sometimes deleting whole paragraphs, sometimes leaving one perfect line untouched:
> "When the city begins to glow, I will paint it before it disappears."
The system quietly saved each word, no lag, no crashes — a miracle in itself.
Haerin's focus deepened. Hours might have passed, or maybe minutes. The city outside her window brightened into dawn, but she didn't notice.
All she saw was the beauty forming in front of her — ink, story, sound, and light weaving together.
After setting up a base storyline, she switched to Audio Design.
She wasn't a musician, but the system provided a procedural music generator. She typed a few keywords: "Koto, soft wind, rain, nostalgia."
The resulting track played softly in the background — slow strings, faint percussion, the hiss of paper.
She smiled. "Perfect."
> [Skill: Sound Direction Lv.1 acquired.]
A small notification blinked: "You have been in creative mode for 8 hours. Would you like to rest?"
Haerin blinked, startled. "Eight hours?! Already?"
The sun — or whatever counted as the sun in this timeline — was rising beyond the glass.
She yawned, stretched, and glanced at her progress bar.
> Project Progress: 28% Complete
Estimated Size: Small-Scale Indie (Prototype)
Deadline: 30 days remaining
"Not bad," she said. "For my first day in the future."
She saved her work, and the engine projected a miniature model of the game world on the desk — a delicate diorama of Edo rooftops, tiny NPCs painting and selling prints.
Even unfinished, it had soul.
Then, another system message appeared.
> [Tutorial Reminder: Include at least one innovative feature to qualify for release reward.]
"Innovative feature…" Haerin tapped her chin. "Something that'll make people feel."
She stared at the virtual city diorama, then snapped her fingers. "Got it."
She created a mechanic called The Passing Seasons.
Every in-game month, the weather, colors, and world changed — and players could only paint what existed at that time.
If they missed a season, it was gone forever.
It wasn't about collecting everything.
It was about letting go.
She coded quickly, fingers gliding over virtual keys, the logic flowing like she'd done this a thousand times.
> [Feature Added: Dynamic Time Cycle – "Passing Seasons"]
[Effect: Player immersion and emotional attachment increased by 42%.]
The system chimed softly.
> [Creativity Index: +300%]
[Bonus Skill Unlocked: Artistic Insight Lv.1]
A faint pulse of light traveled through her workspace, and suddenly, her game's world looked alive — not just graphically, but emotionally.
Lanterns flickered, shadows swayed, and faint rain fell across the screen.
Haerin watched, silent.
It wasn't real.
But it was beautiful.
She uploaded a simple UI and placeholder dialogue, testing movement and interaction. Her avatar, a young painter, picked up a brush, mixed colors, and painted a single stroke across the canvas.
The screen rippled.
The brushstroke became a print.
And the print transformed into a small memory — a snippet of a festival, laughter, music.
The system recorded it as a "Story Fragment."
> [Core Mechanic Added: Memory Prints.]
Players may capture moments of daily life through art, turning them into collectible stories.]
Haerin laughed softly. "You know what? I'd play this."
After another few hours of debugging, the prototype finally ran smoothly. She leaned back, exhausted but proud.
Her first line of code in a new century.
Her first piece of art in a world that had forgotten beauty.
And all of it under a name she'd thought of half-asleep one night: The Last Ukiyo.
> [Progress: Prototype 80% Complete]
[Mission Goal: Submit playable build for approval.]
"Just need a bit of polish tomorrow," she said, standing to stretch. "Then I'll release it."
The studio lights dimmed automatically, shifting to night mode. The system hummed quietly in standby.
For the first time since arriving, Haerin let herself breathe. She walked to the window, looking down at the neon-lit streets of future Seoul. Holograms and aircars glided past — sterile, efficient, perfect.
But somehow, none of it felt alive.
She smiled faintly. "Maybe that's why I'm here."
> [Auto-save complete.]
[Reminder: You have 29 days remaining.]
Haerin turned off the interface and sat cross-legged on the floor, the faint music of her own game still playing in the background.
Gentle, nostalgic, full of rain.
"Welcome to the future, Haerin," she murmured. "Now let's teach it how to dream."