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In the corporate world, there is an old saying, modernized for the boardroom: "Treat them to dinner, cut off their head, or accept them as a dog."
Mark Sterling, CEO of Vanguard Games, lived by this philosophy.
When facing a talented, ambitious young developer, Sterling considered himself a benevolent king. He would offer them a seat at the table. He would offer them a check—not too big, not too small, but enough to make a starving artist weep with gratitude.
But if the young developer refused the toast? If they had the audacity to say "no"?
Then they chose the forfeit.
Sterling wouldn't hesitate. He would crush them. He would bury them under legal fees, clone their game with a hundred times the marketing budget, and ruin their reputation with a smear campaign so vicious they'd never work in the industry again.
And if they came crawling back later? The price would be different.
"Oh, you want to sell now? After your servers were DDOS'd and the media called your game a 'scam'? We'll take it off your hands for pennies. Consider it a favor."
This was the Vanguard Strategy.
Acquisition: Buy them out.
Imitation: Clone their product faster and louder.
Suppression: Litigate and slander them into oblivion.
After all, this was the digital age. Good wine fears the deep alley. Without marketing, without platform support, without the algorithm... quality meant nothing.
Most indie developers folded at Step 1. The resilient ones broke at Step 2.
The ones who tried to fight back? Sterling would just laugh. "You say we copied you? Look at the market share. We have 90%. Clearly, you copied us and did a bad job of it."
In the Vanguard conference room, the executives smiled knowingly. The Acquisition Team was already drafting the email to Silverwood Studios.
"Offer him five million upfront," Sterling said, checking his watch. "If he hesitates, tell him we have a similar project in development and we'd hate to 'split the market'."
The threat was implicit. Sell to us, or we will release a clone next week and bury you.
Sterling leaned back. "And get the PR team ready. If he refuses, I want articles about how Holy Grail War is dangerous for children. Realistic violence. Gambling mechanics. The usual scare tactics. Parents in this country are terrified of everything; let's use that."
While the corporate sharks circled, the target of their hunger was currently unconscious.
Max, the developer of Holy Grail War, was snoring.
Loudly.
He lay sprawled on a cheap mattress in a dimly lit apartment, surrounded by empty energy drink cans and instant noodle cups. He looked less like a tech genius and more like a crime scene victim.
There was a reason for this. The "Omniverse Game System" was stingy. It had given him 10,000 Emotion Points to start.
That was nothing. That was pocket change.
To build Holy Grail War, Max had to work. Hard.
He had four weeks to build a masterpiece. He had used every tool the system gave him.
Noble Phantasm: Wait and Hope. (Effect: Revives the user from death/exhaustion. Cooldown: 4 Days).
Skill: Iron Will (EX). (Effect: Allows the user to work for 7 days without sleep).
Max had abused these skills. He had worked himself to death—literally—and then revived to keep coding. He was a nuclear-powered workhorse running on caffeine and spite.
He had finished the game, uploaded it, and promptly collapsed. He had been asleep for four days. He had actually died of dehydration in his sleep once, but the Noble Phantasm auto-revived him, so he just kept sleeping.
RIIING. RIIING.
His phone buzzed on the floor. The ringtone was an obnoxious trap remix of a chicken clucking.
Max groaned. He cracked one eye open. He slapped the phone, accepting the call, and put it on speaker.
"Speak," he croaked, his voice sounding like gravel in a blender.
"Hello? Is this Mr. Max, the founder of Silverwood Studios?" a professional female voice asked.
"Mmhmm."
"I am Sarah from the Global Indie Developer Showdown committee. I'm calling to inform you that Holy Grail War has reached the #1 spot on the Newcomer List."
Max blinked. His brain, still rebooting, tried to process the words.
"We are very impressed," Sarah continued. "We plan to feature your game on the front page of the official contest website. However, we need a promotional trailer. Can you provide one?"
"Trailer?" Max mumbled. Then it clicked.
Front page.
He shot up in bed. "Yes! Yes, absolutely. Thank you. I'll upload it ASAP."
"Please hurry. The first round of voting starts next Thursday. The top ten finalists get a booth at the Phoenix Nest Expo in the capital."
"Got it. Thank you."
Max hung up. He sat there for a moment, staring at the wall.
Then, a wide, manic grin spread across his face.
"I did it," he whispered.
He scrambled to his PC. He logged into the contest dashboard.
Downloads: 47,382,102
"Holy..." Max's heart hammered against his ribs. Forty-seven million. In two days.
But the real prize wasn't the download count. It was the System.
He opened the interface.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION][You surprised Player 'Maverick'. Emotion Points +1][You surprised Player 'Ryu'. Emotion Points +1][You caused Player 'Simp_Lord' to feel Lust. Emotion Points +1][You caused Player 'Lore_Master' to feel Grief. Emotion Points +5] ... [CURRENT EMOTION POINTS: 178,610,000]
Max stared at the number. One hundred and seventy-eight million.
He wasn't just rich. He was a god.
He had released the game for free to maximize reach. He had lived on ramen and tap water. He had risked actual death by overwork.
And it had paid off.
"I can buy anything," Max laughed, scrolling through the System Store. "Better servers. Advanced AI modules. New game engines. I can build the next game instantly."
But first... he needed to secure his legacy. He needed that trailer.
And more importantly...
GRRRRRRR.
His stomach let out a roar that shook the room.
"Food," Max realized. "I need food. Real food. Not noodles."
He checked his bank account. $12.42.
"Okay," Max sighed. "I'm a digital god, but a real-world pauper. Time to fix that."
He showered, scrubbing off four days of grime. He looked in the mirror. His hair, once black, was now stark white—a side effect of the Edmond Dantès template. He looked sharper. More dangerous.
He put on a clean hoodie and walked out into the sunlight.
The sun hit him like a physical blow. "The graphics out here are great," he muttered, "but the glare is terrible."
He walked to the street food vendor on the corner—a place known for its "Mystery Box" meals.
"Boss," Max said, slapping a crumpled ten-dollar bill on the counter. "Give me the deluxe. Extra meat."
The vendor eyed him. "Ten bucks? You sure, kid? That's a lot of food."
"I'm celebrating," Max said, grinning. "Just pile it on."
As he waited for his mountain of greasy, delicious barbecue, Max felt good. He felt invincible. He had 178 million points in his pocket and a game that was taking over the world.
"Hey!"
A sharp female voice cut through his thoughts.
Max turned around.
Standing there was a girl he recognized from his college days. She looked surprised, her eyes widening as she took in his new appearance.
"Max?" she asked, tilting her head. "Is that you? Long time no see. And... whoa. Why is your hair white? Did you dye it? Going through an emo phase?"
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