The game had become a nationwide topic.
Even the giants of the gaming industry were watching closely. To everyone's disbelief, Spore Evolution seemed to achieve the impossible—perfect five-sense immersion and a fully simulated second life.
Just its graphics and physics engine alone already shattered conventional limits. Industry experts estimated that sustaining such a detailed, constantly evolving world would require multiple supercomputers running simultaneously.
According to professional analysis, supporting a server with only a hundred players would demand three supercomputers operating in parallel.
That meant roughly one supercomputer for every thirty players.
At current prices, a single supercomputer cost no less than twenty million dollars. Most AAA online games couldn't even afford one—after all, a supercomputer could easily support dozens of traditional games at once.
And yet this mysterious project was pouring three of them into a server with barely a hundred users.
That was over sixty million dollars in infrastructure.
In other words, every single player was consuming more than six hundred thousand dollars' worth of computing power—nearly half of what a large MMORPG spent on its entire player base.
Absurd. Almost inhuman.
Naturally, everyone assumed monetization was inevitable.
With such cutting-edge technology and terrifying operating costs, people were certain this would become an elite-only game. Some speculated monthly subscriptions of fifty thousand yuan or more—nothing to whales who spent millions on mobile games, but completely unattainable for normal players.
And yet—
There were no fees.
No subscriptions. No paywalls.
Instead, Spore Evolution announced fifty additional beta slots—essentially adding two more supercomputers and burning another forty million yuan without hesitation.
Utter extravagance.
Gamers were stunned. And deeply loyal.
The generosity won over even the most cynical players. Of course, the game itself showed no mercy—it remained ruthlessly hardcore.
Soon, a detailed analysis post went viral.
> "Yo, it's me again! Don't ask how I'm so fast—I'm Akina's Speedster!"
> "Let's break down this update. This might be the most hardcore patch in gaming history."
> "First—those new beta slots. Absolute madness. Experts estimate each player uses over $600,000 in computing resources. Other games charge you money—this game burns money for you. Respect."
> "Second—want a slot? Write a biology thesis. An actual essay on evolution. For a game."
> "This is peak hardcore. Did the dev make this game just to raise the nation's education level?"
> "Third—the elimination system. As a current beta tester, I'm sweating. If I want to keep playing, I actually need to study."
> "Finally—the achievement system. No idea what counts as a 'unique species' yet, but if the devs stay this generous, the rewards are going to be insane."
> "Anyway, I'm off to grind—and read biology textbooks. No way I'm losing my beta slot!"
The post exploded.
What truly shook everyone was the thesis requirement.
Some players were ecstatic. Others despaired. But no one complained.
After all, with that level of resource investment per player, wasn't it fair to raise the bar? There wasn't even a paywall—it was just hard.
> "Learning makes me happy!"
> "My mom always said studying hard would help me play games. Turns out she was right."
Across the country, hardcore gamers buried themselves in biology textbooks. Bookstores and libraries saw an unusual surge as people quietly studied natural selection, mutation theory, and evolutionary paths.
> "Relax," one player bragged. "I'm grinding knowledge now. That slot's mine."
Others took a different route.
> "You nerds study. I'll pay someone to write my essay. Can't just copy off CNKI though—I'll hire a university tutor. Ten thousand should do it."
> "Ten thousand? Please. Beta slots are selling for over a hundred thousand on the black market. You really don't get it. Rich people will drop millions just to play a game."
Spore Evolution had gone from obscure niche title to a full-blown national phenomenon.
Libraries in major cities were packed. People pored over advanced texts—the Cambrian explosion, the origin of species, the mass extinctions of the Triassic and Cretaceous.
Even if you didn't plan to play, landing a beta slot and reselling it could earn you a small fortune.
Local TV stations picked up the trend. Footage of crowded libraries went viral. Sociology experts—completely unaware of the game behind it all—spoke proudly on camera:
> "As living standards improve, people naturally turn toward knowledge for fulfillment. This is wonderful! And their choice of such a complex subject shows a strong desire for self-improvement."
Those words aged poorly.
The truth soon came out.
All of it—every last bit—was because of a game called Spore Evolution.
The experts were left speechless.
> "All this… just for a game?"
Games had always been labeled as distractions—time-wasters, addictive traps.
But Spore Evolution flipped the narrative entirely.
Its slogan, unspoken but unmistakable, was simple:
Learning makes me happy.
Parents across the country nodded in approval.
Even gold-farming workshops shut down their usual operations. Workers abandoned keyboards and began cramming scientific papers instead.
Felix watched the chaos unfold with quiet amusement. The scale of the reaction had far exceeded his expectations.
The next day, his inbox was flooded.
More than a thousand essays arrived.
His mailbox practically exploded.
Every submission was serious—detailed species concepts, evolutionary routes, survival strategies. Some even cited international research papers to justify their designs.
Each one carried the same message:
Great and mighty developer—just give me a spore.
And I'll show you what evolution can really do.