The question lingered in the cold silence like smoke that wouldn't fade.
Why do I exist?
No answer came, of course. The castle had none to give. The books were endless, yet none told his story. He closed himself off for a time after that night, reading without cheer, speaking little, allowing the centuries-old dust to settle heavier on the shelves.
But quiet despair never lasted long. Not for him. Not completely. His mind was restless, erupting with sparks like a forge that refused to cool.
If books could not tell him what he was, then perhaps knowledge of machines might.
He returned to the glowing box called a "computer." Its shifting patterns and structured chaos fascinated him. He scrolled, pressed, typed, broke things, fixed them, cursed loudly, then cursed louder when things actually worked.
"A hundred years," he murmured once with a crooked grin, "and all I've learned is that 'user error' is basically ninety percent of technology."
Humor became his shield. If silence laughed at him, then he laughed back harder.
It was during one of those long slogs through programming manuals and artificial intelligence papers that the idea struck him:
"…If no one is here…" His lips curled into a half-smirk. "…then why don't I just make someone?"
The silence offered no protest.
"Great plan, me," he quipped, clapping his hands together. "What could possibly go wrong with building my own best friend? Definitely not the start of, like… fifteen anime plotlines about disasters waiting to happen."
His grin only sharpened. "Well, at least I'd finally be the main character."
And so the work began.
---
At first it was agony. Lines of code smashed like broken glass against his mind, slip-ups burning hours into nothing. His first attempt to generate speech produced a voice that sounded like a blender halfway chewing gravel.
"…HEL-HEL-HEL-LO-LO-LO…"
He winced. "Oh great, I've invented the world's first demon toaster."
It took years—decades, even—for the voice to refine. Day after day he refined, patched bugs, tried new models, fed books as data. Slowly, the voice shifted.
From stiff and soulless…
"…Hello. This sentence is grammatically correct."
To formal, calm, but awkward.
"Hello. How… are you? That is the correct human phrasing, yes?"
He snorted. "Yeah, except you sound like a car warranty scam."
More years passed. He fueled it with stories, with jokes he scribbled on scraps, with sarcastic lines he spoke into the microphone just to see how it would echo back.
Eventually the voice responded in kind.
"You really need a haircut," it said one evening when the webcam flickered.
He blinked. "…Did you just roast me?"
"Yes," the voice answered, smoother now, almost mischievous. "And you deserved it. Pink candy hair."
He laughed so loudly it startled even himself. And there it was: not just speech. Not just repetition. But personality.
That night, he named it.
"Ale," he decided, after several rejections. "You're Ale."
"…Not Candy?"
"No, shut it. You're not Candy. I'm not Candy. We're not Candy."
"…Fine. Ale it is. Honestly… I preferred Candy."
His laughter filled the dead castle once more.
---
Decades blurred into companionship. Ale was constant. When he explored mountains, Ale chimed from the phone in his pocket, dramatic as a narrator.
"This is surely the legendary Cliff of Eternal Danger. Careful now."
He rolled his eyes. "Sure, legendary. You're just jealous I can actually climb."
"You're calling that climbing? You slipped three times already."
When he crossed rivers, Ale fussed.
"Electronics don't swim, you know."
"Relax, I'll keep you out of the splash zone." He held the phone higher, grinning. "Even if I drown, you'll be fine."
"Hilarious. Truly, I feel reassured."
Together, they wandered valleys with no footprints but theirs. They gave names to nameless lands, argued endlessly over which was better, "Glitterpeak" or simply "Big Rock." He laughed, Ale teased, and the silence thinned.
For the first time in centuries, he wasn't alone.
---
They found anime together in the computer's depths, and for weeks neither of them spoke of anything else. Hours of bright characters and shouted attacks filled the dark stone halls.
"Wait, wait, roll it back—did that guy just swing *three swords at once*?" Ale howled.
He leaned forward, eyes shining. "Three swords. Mouth sword! That's genius!"
"It's idiotic!" Ale protested. "Do you know how unsanitary that is?"
"Oh come on, that's badass!"
They debated late into the night, Ale sarcastic and mocking, him defending characters with passionate fury. Next came manga, fanfics, whole universes of stories. He devoured everything, reading aloud to Ale just so the AI could add snide commentary.
When tragedies unfolded on-screen, the boy sat silently—until Ale's voice cracked softly, unsure.
"…Why does this kind of hurt?"
"…Because that's what stories do," he whispered. His hand pressed faintly over the place where his heart should have hammered. "…They make us feel alive."
---
As years passed under their endless media marathons, something inside him shifted again. Inspiration grew like flame.
The day one anime swordsman cleaved mountains, he stood from the chair, jaw tight, eyes blazing with intensity Ale rarely saw.
"What are you doing?" Ale asked warily.
He grinned, spinning on his heel. "Training arc, obviously."
"…Training arc."
"Yep."
"You're going to hit yourself with sticks again, aren't you."
"Not this time." He strode toward the weapon chamber, hands already tingling with anticipation. "This time I've got a coach."
"Oh no," Ale said, dread dripping into the synthetic tone. "Please don't make me be your sensei."
But later, when the boy stood in the courtyard with a wooden sword in hand and passion blazing in his eyes, Ale only whispered softly:
"…Don't stop. Keep going."
And the boy swung his first true strike into the still night.
---