"Your 'Codename: Aegis' proposal is unacceptable."
Leo's voice carried not a shred of warmth, sounding as detached as if he were reading an obituary for a stranger.
Inside the office, the frigid blast from the central air conditioning made Grant's fingertips feel numb. The hundred-page game design document in his hands—a project that had consumed six months of his blood, sweat, and tears—now felt as heavy as a tombstone.
He had once believed this would be a groundbreaking masterpiece, the game that would revive the dying mecha genre in the domestic market. Now, it seemed, it was just a stack of waste paper destined for the shredder. A grave for a dream.
"Why?" Grant's voice was hoarse. He had anticipated countless excuses, yet he still couldn't calmly accept this outcome.
Leo looked up from behind his expensive rosewood desk, his soft, rounded face twisted into a look of undisguised contempt. "Why? Grant, you've been at this company for three years, and you're still this naive."
"Mechas? That's outdated garbage. It's a relic of a bygone era, not a cash cow for this one." He snatched a data report from his desk, waving it like a royal decree. "Do you know what the market wants? Cultivation epics, gacha card games, and heavy social features—fast-paced loops that let whales drop ten thousand dollars in a minute!"
"Look at 'Sword of Immortality' made by Fatty Bill in the next department. Outsourced art, copied gameplay, and twelve million in monthly revenue! That is what a good game looks like!" Leo's spit nearly sprayed onto Grant's face.
"And your 'Aegis'? Long development cycles, high technical bars, and no guaranteed market. Why should I gamble the company's capital on your ridiculous sentimentality?"
Each word was like a scalpel, meticulously dismantling the statue of "passion" in Grant's heart. He finally understood. In this assembly line factory called "Xunyou Network," games weren't art or dreams; they were merely cold financial products. Creativity and talent were worthless compared to "cash flow."
Staying here would only wear down his soul until he was eventually forced to churn out the same reskinned, hollow shells.
Enough. I'm done.
Just as he turned to pack his things and leave this suffocating place, a ghostly blue screen—visible only to him—abruptly unfolded before his eyes.
[Host detected: Extreme disillusionment with the current gaming environment. Gaming soul purity: Standard Met.]
[Game Vault System: Activating...]
[Activation Successful!]
Grant's footsteps froze. His pupils contracted in shock. What is this? An illusion?
[This system encompasses all classic games from Earth's civilization, from retro consoles to next-gen masterpieces, forming a vast 'Vault.']
[This system does not provide superpowers or money. It produces virtual assets: 'Game Design Documents,' 'Core Source Code,' 'Concept Art Collections,' and 'Player Emotional Analytics.']
[Player shock, praise, and purchases will be converted into 'Reputation Points,' which can be used to unlock higher-tier games or key technologies.]
In an instant, Grant felt as if a bolt of lightning had cleared his mind.
Earth! That was it. He wasn't originally from this world! He was a transmigrator, a veteran game designer from Earth, where the gaming industry had reached incredible heights.
This parallel world's technology tree was skewed. The hardware was there, but game design concepts were barren—tightly controlled by a few giants pushing "pay-to-win" models. And now, he held the entire history of Earth's gaming in his head.
The epic scale of World of Warcraft, the intricate narrative of Dark Souls, the immersive world of Red Dead Redemption, the sheer freedom of The Legend of Zelda... These were dimension-shattering weapons, and they were all his.
He possessed the power to overturn the entire industry.
Grant smiled.
"If you've finally come to your senses," Leo barked, "go help Fatty Bill dissect the numerical models for 'Sword of Immortality.' We're using them for our next project."
Grant's laughter stopped abruptly. He walked back to his desk under the sympathetic or mocking gazes of his colleagues and turned on his computer. But he didn't touch that disgusting cultivation project.
He opened a blank document and typed two words in a massive font: RESIGNATION LETTER.
Leo's face darkened instantly. He strode over, saw the screen, and let out a sharp, angry laugh. "Resigning? Grant, do you realize where you are? Without the Xunyou platform, you are nothing!"
"You still want to make that mecha junk? What are you going to build it with? Thin air?"
Grant didn't even look back. He spoke softly, his voice ringing with a confidence he had never felt before. "Director Leo, don't speak too soon. The platform is important, sure. But sometimes... the product is the platform."
Smack.
He printed the letter, signed it, and slapped the warm paper onto Leo's desk. Simultaneously, his consciousness dove into the system.
[Starter Gift Pack Distributed: 10,000 Reputation Points.]
[C-Rank Vault Unlocked: Access to Indie and Mid-Sized Titles.]
A massive list of legends scrolled through his mind. Hollow Knight, This War of Mine, To the Moon, Inside... every name was a masterpiece.
But he needed something specific right now. He needed a game that could monetize quickly, ignite the market, and showcase his "dimension-reducing" advantage. His gaze settled on one name.
Outlast.
A horror game with zero combat, relying entirely on atmosphere and psychological pressure to send adrenaline soaring. In a world of "Tank-Healer-DPS" clones and "One-Hit-999" mobile trash, this pure survival horror experience would be a nuclear bomb.
[Exchange initiated: 'Outlast' Core Gameplay Framework, Concept Art, and Sound Design Outline.]
[Reputation Points consumed: 9,000. Exchange successful!]
A flood of data and design genius surged into Grant's brain.
Leo was shaking with rage. Being publicly defied by a "low-level" employee made him lose all composure. "Fine! Very good! Grant, I'll remember this!"
He pointed a trembling finger at Grant's nose. "I want to see how you'll make your 'platform' without us. I'm having HR send the strictest non-compete agreement to your email. You won't find another job in this city!"
It was a blatant threat—an industry blacklist. In the past, Grant might have felt despair. Now, it was just hilarious.
Picking up his cardboard box of belongings, Grant stopped at the door and looked back with a playful smirk. "Director Leo, don't worry about the non-compete."
"I won't be looking for a job. I'm starting my own company."
He paused, letting the silence hang. "I'll see you at next year's 'Vanguard Awards.' I just hope by then, your twelve-million-dollar 'Sword of Immortality' can at least win an award for 'Best Monetization Design.' Because it certainly won't win for being a game."
It was pure, vitriolic sarcasm.
"You—!" Leo choked on his rage, unable to form words.
Grant ignored him and strode out of the office, stepping into the sunlight. He had never felt so free.
That Night.
Grant sat in his cramped apartment, the adrenaline finally fading into a calm focus. He pulled up the blue system panel.
[Game Vault System]
Host: Grant
Company: Not Established
Reputation Points: 1,000
Unlocked Tier: C-Rank
Exchanged: Outlast (Core Assets)
He closed his eyes, already visualizing the eerie, rain-soaked corridors of Mount Massive Asylum. He felt the helplessness of the protagonist, Miles, surviving in the dark with nothing but a camcorder. The "see but be afraid" mechanic of the night vision, the sheer terror of being hunted with no way to fight back...
It was a revolution waiting to happen.
His goal was clear: develop the Outlast demo as fast as possible and upload it to "Spark," the largest indie platform in the country.
Once it went viral, he'd have his first bit of capital and, more importantly, the Reputation Points needed to build his empire.