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April 7th was already destined to become a landmark date.
From that moment on, Neon Blade: Echoes of Lumen was guaranteed to be a hit.
Sales surged. Discussions exploded. Player emotions ran wild.
But success never comes alone.
Almost simultaneously, a storm of public opinion crashed directly into Northstar Games—loud, chaotic, and impossible to ignore.
---
Success… and the Price of Standing Out
When Daniel and the other veteran employees returned to the office, they didn't get a break.
Their first task wasn't celebration. It was expansion.
New hires.
New departments.
New teams.
Everyone inside the company knew what was happening online, yet there was a deep sense of helplessness about it.
One rumor, in particular, refused to die:
> "Neon Blade: Echoes of Lumen cost over 100 million to make."
Daniel nearly laughed when he heard it.
As one of the core executives at Northstar Games, how could he not know the real number?
They only spent forty million.
Not a cent more.
Half a month after release, sales had already surpassed 600,000 copies, completely covering costs. And momentum hadn't slowed down at all.
One million copies within the month was practically guaranteed.
On top of that, there were plans to release the game internationally through major digital platforms. Sure, cultural barriers meant overseas sales wouldn't be explosive—but even modest numbers were still profit.
Money, at this point, was no longer the problem.
---
Where the Money Actually Went
Daniel understood perfectly why outsiders believed the budget was astronomical.
The game felt too polished.
Too smooth.
Too complete.
But internally, everyone knew the truth.
Yes, money was spent—but not where outsiders thought.
A significant portion went to outsourcing:
High-quality animation studios
Professional special-effects teams
External environment artists
But internally?
The development team was shockingly small.
Around twenty people.
After promotions, each employee earned roughly the equivalent of a mid-range industry salary. Even combined, manpower costs were trivial compared to standard AAA development.
Six months of work.
That was it.
If any other studio attempted a project of this scale, it would've taken two to three years—minimum.
Because everything at Northstar ran so smoothly, Daniel caught himself thinking something dangerous:
> "Making games is… absurdly easy."
Then he remembered—
This illusion came at a cost borne by two people.
---
The Silence of Leadership
Both Ethan Reed and Vivian Frost were absorbing pressure without complaint.
Could Vivian stand up and announce publicly:
> "Everyone, we only spent forty million because development went unusually smoothly. It just looks expensive."
Absolutely not.
If that truth leaked, every game company in the country would be knocking on their door the next day.
That wouldn't be transparency.
That would be provocation.
Pure, unfiltered corporate humiliation.
So Daniel and the veteran employees did what professionals do best:
They said nothing.
---
Why Small Studios Were Furious
Large corporations didn't care.
They focused on online games, live-service revenue, and monetization ecosystems. Northstar Games hadn't touched their territory.
But small studios were furious.
Absolutely furious.
> "Your game is this good—and you sell it this cheap?!
Do you want us all to die?"
Everyone was struggling. Everyone needed profit margins. And then Northstar Games showed up, selling quality at a price that shattered expectations.
From the players' perspective, it was a blessing.
From the industry's perspective?
A disaster.
If this happened once or twice, maybe it could be ignored.
But if it continued?
Small studios would collapse.
The market would rot.
And the domestic game environment would deteriorate.
That concern wasn't baseless.
And Daniel knew it.
---
A Necessary Conversation
Because of this, Daniel went directly to Ethan Reed and Vivian Frost.
"Boss. Ethan. I need to say something."
Ethan looked up from planning the new internal structure and nodded calmly.
"Go ahead."
Daniel didn't hesitate.
"We need a real marketing department. One that understands pricing strategy and industry balance."
Until now, pricing decisions had been made almost entirely by Ethan himself.
And to be fair—internally, his pricing made perfect sense.
But Ethan didn't have time to track external market volatility, competitor sentiment, or industry psychology.
And that gap was starting to hurt.
Ethan nodded without defensiveness.
"Already handled. We've brought in a team. Office assignments are being finalized."
That answer surprised Daniel.
After the chaos of recent weeks, Ethan had finally understood something crucial:
A company can't run on passion alone.
---
The Strange Logic of the Market
Vivian sighed deeply.
"Selling cheap isn't enough anymore. Now players complain unless prices go up. What kind of twisted logic is this?"
She wasn't exaggerating.
Many players were now saying that Neon Blade: Echoes of Lumen was too cheap.
Some insisted it should've launched at a higher price. Others claimed they'd gladly pay more just to feel "respected."
Foreign big-budget titles launched at two or three times the price.
And yet—
Neon Blade wasn't a flawless masterpiece.
It was a turn-based game.
Roughly twenty hours of content.
Solid—but not revolutionary.
Still, Ethan simply smiled and clapped his hands.
"Relax. We'll let the marketing team handle future pricing after proper research."
---
A Quiet Restructuring
Then Ethan turned to Daniel again.
"The company's going to split into more project groups.
Animal Party and Nightfall Moon both need long-term operations."
Daniel nodded.
But then he shook his head.
"Let someone else handle them. I want to work on the next project—with you."
That answer came without hesitation.
Maintenance work was stable. Safe. Comfortable.
But creating a new world?
That was irreplaceable.
Ethan thought for a moment, then agreed.
"Alright.
Animal Party goes to the sixth floor—add more animals, create a new map.
Nightfall Moon goes to Blake Liang's team."
Daniel smiled.
---
The Question That Mattered
After half a month of rest, Daniel finally asked:
"So… what's the next game?"
The room went quiet.
A new game.
Northstar Games was already financially secure. No funding pressure. No survival anxiety.
Vivian's personal account was overflowing.
The company's reserves were strong.
They didn't need to rush.
Which meant—
This next project had to be special.
They couldn't repeat themselves.
They'd already explored:
Party games
Roguelikes
Card mechanics
Turn-based fantasy
Action elements
Ethan leaned back, eyes drifting toward the internal project archive.
He smiled faintly.
> "I have more than enough points."
But this game—
This one required 150,000 points.
Enough to fund two full Neon Blade–level projects.
And yet—
It was worth it.
---
The Question Everyone Missed
Ethan looked up.
"Do you know what people love most?"
Vivian blinked.
Daniel hesitated.
"Black stockings and white hair?"
Ethan stared.
"I wasn't asking anything inappropriate."
"Then… martial arts? Myth-Arc worlds?"
Vivian elbowed Ethan's side impatiently.
"Just say it."
Ethan sighed, almost offended.
"How is this not obvious?"
---
The Answer Etched in the Bloodline
He raised a finger.
"Farming."
Silence.
"Yes. Farming."
This wasn't a joke.
This was a romance embedded deep in the cultural memory—a quiet joy passed down through generations.
Planting.
Harvesting.
Building something slowly.
A life.
Daniel frowned.
"Isn't that… outdated?"
Farming games had peaked a decade ago. Back when technology was limited and action games were clumsy.
Why now?
Ethan didn't explain further.
Vivian, however, slammed the table.
"Done! Let's farm!"
"I love farming!"
She turned to Ethan, eyes shining.
"So—what are we planting?"
Ethan smiled.
And said nothing.
You already know what the new game is, don't you?