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Just as Maverick's livestream of the Holy Grail War was reaching a fever pitch, the popularity of the game itself was skyrocketing like a Falcon 9 rocket.
One hour after release, the discussion on social media was a whisper. A few confused posts on Reddit. A couple of tweets asking about the massive file size.
Four hours after release, the whispers turned into a murmur. Screenshots of the realistic snow physics began to circulate. Clips of players getting "spawn-camped" at the airport started trending on TikTok.
Eight hours after release, the murmur became a roar. The hashtag #HolyGrailWar entered the global top ten.
Sixteen hours after release, pop star Taylor Swift—who was preparing to drop a surprise album—was bewildered to find her trending spot hijacked by a game about King Arthur in a swimsuit.
Twenty-four hours after release, the dam broke.
The Holy Grail War exploded. It wasn't just a game anymore; it was a cultural phenomenon.
On InstaTok (the Western equivalent of the "Pink App"), the algorithm went berserk. If you watched a single 15-second clip of Artoria eating a burger, your entire feed was suddenly flooded with Holy Grail War content.
"Top 10 Hidden Mechanics in Fuyuki City."
"Lore Deep Dive: Why Did Lancelot Do It?"
"Gacha Guide: How to Summon Summer Artoria (100% Real No Clickbait)."
"Emotional Damage Compilation: The Battle of Camlann."
Videos sprouted like mushrooms after a rainstorm. Cosplayers were already rushing to sew blue dresses and silver armor. Fan artists were churning out high-quality illustrations of Lancer Alter.
But where there is joy, there is also sorrow.
Minor celebrities who had paid thousands of dollars to boost their posts were furious. They were stomping their feet in their mansions, watching their engagement numbers tank.
The trending topics told the story:
#HolyGrailWar
#SaberVsLancer
#MaverickPlays
#KingArthurIsAGirl
#JusticeForMordred
"Can a role-playing game from an indie studio really be this good?" one tech journalist tweeted. "What are the AAA studios doing with their billions of dollars? This game has soul."
"Did Gilgamesh break the meta?" a pro gamer asked. "His 'Gate of Babylon' is unbeatable. Pls nerf."
"Why is my boyfriend screaming 'EXCALIBUR' at 3 AM?" a confused girlfriend posted on a relationship advice forum.
Undoubtedly, the uncrowned king of the internet was the Holy Grail War.
In just one day, it went from zero to hero. The download count soared from a few thousand to 34 million.
In an era where massive marketing campaigns drove downloads, this was unheard of. Holy Grail War had no ads. No billboards. No Super Bowl commercials.
It was pure word-of-mouth. Good wine fears no dark alley.
The player retention rate was a staggering 97%. People weren't just downloading it; they were staying. They were obsessed.
The game shot up the leaderboard of the Global Indie Developer Showdown. It bypassed games that had been out for months. It climbed from rank #10,000 to rank #6 in a single afternoon.
Such explosive growth naturally attracted sharks.
Vanguard Games HQ. Silicon Valley.
The conference room was cold, sleek, and silent. The air conditioning hummed, masking the nervous breathing of twenty high-level executives.
At the head of the long glass table sat Mark Sterling, the CEO of Vanguard Games (the Western equivalent of the "Goose Factory"). He was a man who didn't like losing.
He stared at the projection on the wall. It showed the growth chart of Holy Grail War. It looked like a vertical line.
"I have one question," Sterling said. His voice was quiet, dangerous. "If we wanted to make this game... how long would it take?"
There was no long-winded speech. Just a simple question.
But it was a question that made the room freeze.
The executives looked at each other. They looked at their tablets. They looked at the floor.
Sterling waited. He leaned forward, placing his palms flat on the glass. The silence stretched until it became suffocating.
Finally, the Head of Development, a man named Johnson, cleared his throat. He stood up, adjusting his tie, looking like a man marching to the gallows.
"Mr. Sterling," Johnson began, his voice shaky. "If it's just replicating the graphics... we could do it in a year. Maybe less with crunch time."
He paused, swallowing hard.
"But the AI... that's the problem. Our analysis team has been dissecting the NPCs. They aren't scripted. They react organically. They have... moods. Memories. You can insult an NPC, and they'll remember it three hours later."
Johnson gestured helplessly at the screen.
"And the sensory feedback. Our testers report feeling temperature changes. Wind. Wetness. The haptic code is decades ahead of anything we have. It's not just code; it's practically magic."
Johnson took a breath. "Unless we get the source code... we can't replicate it."
Sterling's eyes narrowed. "So, you're telling me you can't make it?"
"Yes... yes, sir."
If it weren't for the millions of players verifying it, Johnson would have sworn the game was a hoax. Maybe the developer hired thousands of actors to roleplay as NPCs. But that was impossible. The scale was too big.
The truth was simpler and more terrifying: Silverwood Studios had technology that Vanguard Games didn't.
Johnson knew the reality of the industry. Vanguard had the money to develop this AI, theoretically. But it would cost billions. It would take years of R&D.
And the shareholders? They didn't want R&D. They didn't want to burn money on "experimental AI." They wanted quarterly profits. They wanted loot boxes and battle passes.
They didn't want to innovate; they wanted to print money.
So, Johnson had to say "no."
Sterling stared at him. The vein in his temple throbbed.
Suddenly, Sterling exploded.
CRASH.
He swept his arm across the table, sending expensive crystal water pitchers and tablets flying. Glass shattered against the wall.
"ARE YOU ALL USELESS?!" Sterling roared.
He grabbed a report from his secretary and slammed it onto the table.
"I pay you millions! I give you unlimited resources! And you tell me you can't match a single guy in a basement?!"
He pointed a shaking finger at the screen.
"Look at this! Silverwood Studios! It's a one-man operation! One guy built a game that makes our triple-A titles look like garbage! And you tell me you can't do it?!"
The executives flinched. Johnson looked down, ashamed.
"Mr. Sterling," a VP from the Acquisitions department spoke up, her voice calm and soothing. "Please, calm down. Johnson is right. We can't make it."
She smiled, a predatory shark-like smile.
"But we don't have to make it. We can just buy it."
Sterling paused. He straightened his suit jacket. The anger in his eyes was replaced by cold calculation.
"Acquire it?" Sterling asked.
"Silverwood Studios is small," the VP continued. "One man. Max. He's probably overwhelmed. He doesn't have servers. He doesn't have legal teams. He's vulnerable."
She tapped her tablet.
"We offer him a buyout. A number so big he can't refuse. We take the IP, we take the code, and we put the Vanguard logo on it. We monetize the hell out of the gacha system."
Sterling sat back down. He picked up a shard of glass and turned it over in his hand.
"Do it," Sterling said. "Find this Max. Offer him fifty million. If he says no... crush him."
[Chat]:[Insider_Leak]: Vanguard is moving. [Indie_Dev]: Protect Max at all costs! [Gamer]: If Vanguard buys this, they'll ruin it. $20 for a loot box? No thanks.
Meanwhile, in his small apartment, Max sneezed.
"Someone's talking about me," he muttered, rubbing his nose. "Probably just Maverick complaining about the difficulty."
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