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Over the next week, Alex and the Infinite Realms team finalized the complete competitive framework for the new racing esports format.
The official championship series, branded as "Death Race," would feature Battle Royale as the core competition format, with both solo and team categories.
Team competitions would be five-player squads, with five teams competing per match. Team coordination added strategic depth—sharing resources, coordinated ambushes, tactical positioning. It would make for incredible spectator content.
Alex spent nearly a week in San Francisco hammering out every detail of the ruleset and tournament structure.
The official announcement was scheduled for July 1st.
The competition would use a points-based ranking system: open qualifiers, regional tournaments, national championships, culminating in a global grand finals.
Teams would need to register through official channels. Regional competitions would be held offline—city leagues, professional circuits, regional qualifiers building toward the international finals.
The Death Race World Championship was scheduled for May of the following year and would run for an entire month.
When Alex returned to New York from San Francisco, Infinite Realms dropped the official announcement. The gaming community absolutely exploded.
Death Race players were ecstatic. This was exactly what they'd been waiting for—legitimized competitive structure, professional production, massive prize pools, the whole package.
Esports organizations shared that enthusiasm. They understood Death Race's market potential better than anyone. Now as an officially sanctioned esports title, its popularity would only grow. The influence would reach unprecedented heights.
The revenue potential was staggering—player-item sales, sponsorships, media rights, merchandise. This was a golden opportunity.
Meanwhile, other content developers were drowning in envy and resentment. Although Death Race becoming an official esports title was expected, seeing the announcement still sparked jealousy.
They knew Death Race would maintain incredible vitality for years. The revenue from in-game items, cosmetics, and equipment would be continuous and massive—far exceeding even Fast & Furious's earning power.
But despite the jealousy, they'd keep copying the gameplay anyway. Battle Royale mechanics would remain popular for years to come, and there was money to be made on derivatives.
Ohio State Technical College – Student Housing
Kevin stared at the comments on his Twitter, feeling energized by his followers' encouragement and support.
He was pretty average in most respects—average looks, mediocre grades, middle-class family background, no particular talents, not especially charismatic or articulate.
Honestly, most people would describe him as a nerdy gamer, maybe even a broke loser without much going for him.
In the past, he'd been basically invisible. Never imagined he'd have fans one day—a community of people who actually liked him, supported him, looked forward to his content.
All of that changed because of Death Race.
When Kevin started college, he'd felt lost about his life direction. In high school, he'd had a clear goal: get into any decent university, make his parents happy, fulfill basic expectations.
But once he got to college? That purpose evaporated. Like so many students, he'd drifted without real direction.
Gaming became his refuge, his new focus. He was lucky that Infinite Realms offered incredible content like Fast & Furious, which made him fall deeply in love with racing games, bordering on obsession.
When Death Race launched, he was blown away. The gameplay clicked perfectly with his skillset.
The combination of driving mechanics and tactical strategy gave him room to truly excel. He felt like he'd found his calling, like everything suddenly made sense.
Battle Royale mode especially gave him a platform to stand out, to express himself, to demonstrate skills nobody knew he had.
Currently Kevin consistently ranked among the top players in Death Race globally. Many recent "god-tier" gameplay clips circulating online were his contributions. That had earned him a substantial following.
Today, after Infinite Realms officially announced the Death Race championship series, Kevin was incredibly hyped.
His fans were tagging him constantly on social media, encouraging him to enter the solo competition. They genuinely believed he had a shot at qualifying for nationals, maybe even contending for the championship.
That recognition gave him immense confidence and motivation.
He still didn't know exactly how his future would unfold—what kind of person he'd become, what kind of life he'd build. But at least now, he'd rediscovered a goal worth pursuing.
He wanted to do his absolute best, live up to his fans' expectations. And yeah, winning some prize money would help with tuition and living expenses, take pressure off his parents.
Kevin took a breath, composing himself, then pulled his VR headset back on and logged into Infinite Realms.
To qualify for the championship, he had to work even harder. Maintain his current ranking, push for even better results.
The dream felt achievable now. Real. Within reach.
Three Days Later – Official Tournament Details
Infinite Realms released complete tournament rules, schedules, and prize pools.
The numbers were staggering.
Solo Competition:
Champion: $1,000,000 + exclusive championship vehicle cosmetic
Runner-up: $200,000
Third place: $100,000
Regional qualifier champions: $50,000 each
Team Competition:
Champion: $10,000,000 (split among team)
Runner-up: $3,000,000
Third place: $1,000,000
Regional and professional circuit prizes at various tiers
The announcement sent shockwaves through the gaming community.
Death Race's popularity exploded even further. Battle Royale gameplay became a genuine cultural phenomenon, transcending gaming into mainstream consciousness.
The Death Race championship became a dream for ordinary people—kids from working-class families, college students with no clear career path, talented gamers who'd never had professional opportunities.
More and more previously anonymous players found their place in Battle Royale, slowly rising through the ranks, charging toward the seemingly impossible dream of championship glory.
And "Winner winner, chicken dinner" evolved from gaming slang into a mainstream catchphrase. Young people used it constantly. Major brands incorporated it into marketing campaigns. It had transcended its origins completely.
A flood of knockoff games tried to upload to Infinite Realms, attempting to cash in on Battle Royale's popularity.
They all got rejected during the approval process. Every single one.
Vanguard Games, a mid-tier American developer comparable to Titan Games, had previously won Infinite Realms' "Most Popular Content Silver Award" with their naval warfare game "Sea Fortress." They'd made a fortune from that single release.
But they couldn't resist easy money. After Death Race exploded, they'd directly copied the gameplay mechanics, quickly developed a fantasy-themed knockoff, and submitted it for approval.
Two days had passed. Still no approval.
"It's been two days. Why hasn't it been approved yet?" David Martinez asked, his brow furrowed with confusion.
He was Vanguard's founder and CEO, a prominent figure in the American gaming industry.
"Maybe the racing content competition created a huge backlog," the project manager suggested after thinking it through. "Review department's probably overwhelmed."
"Call them. Ask directly. Time is money here," David said sharply. "Currently no copycat content has hit the market yet. We need first-mover advantage."
He knew dozens of other studios were developing Battle Royale clones. This was a race against time.
"I'll have someone contact the review department immediately."
Many other developers who'd copied Death Race—including Brandon Sterling at Titan Games—shared David's confusion.
Why weren't their submissions getting approved?
What they didn't know: Infinite Realms corporate had implemented an immediate, platform-wide ban on any content flagged as Death Race derivative work.
Alex Morrison's gameplay innovation would be protected.
And every rejected developer was learning that lesson the hard way.
Plz THROW POWER STONES.