A week later, Willow finally shut down his "personal computer" with visible reluctance, and the remaining thirty-nine testers followed suit one after another. No one complained. No one rushed to leave. Instead, there was a quiet sense of loss hanging in the room.
They had just lived through the most comfortable week they had experienced in years.
Inside the world of Stardew Valley, these young people—exhausted by deadlines, expectations, and the constant grind of real life—had found something they rarely touched anymore: peace. In that pixelated valley, they fished beside calm rivers, planted crops under warm sunlight, raised animals, chatted with neighbors, and lived a slow, gentle life that demanded nothing from them except presence.
It was the most relaxing week Willow could remember.
For him, it felt like rediscovering something he had lost long ago—the pure joy of sandbox games. Games without pressure. Games without rigid objectives. Games that didn't care how fast you progressed or how "efficient" you were.
Sandbox games were freedom itself.
There was no right or wrong way to play. No ranking system breathing down your neck. No voice telling you that you were falling behind others. You didn't need approval. You didn't need validation. You simply followed your own rhythm and did what made you happy.
That kind of freedom didn't exist in real life.
Even the strongest people eventually bent under the weight of responsibility. Bills, expectations, comparisons, survival. Everyone cracked sooner or later.
So what was wrong with returning to Stardew Valley?
What was wrong with hiding inside a peaceful world where time moved slowly and nothing demanded your soul?
Nothing at all.
Forty people now sat quietly, each with a sheet of paper handed out by Daniel, writing down their impressions of the past seven days. Smiles appeared naturally as pens moved across the page.
Of course, the game wasn't perfect.
Some people admitted that early farming was tiring. Others mentioned that movement felt slow at first, or that certain items were frustrating to obtain during the opening hours. A few even noted that farming games, by nature, could become repetitive over time.
Anything repeated long enough could become a burden.
But none of those flaws mattered.
Because despite everything, Stardew Valley was still the best farming game they had ever played.
So they wrote honestly. They praised its atmosphere, its freedom, its gentle pacing, and its ability to heal stress rather than create it. In their hearts, it had already surpassed Party Animals and even Neon Blade: Echoes of Lumen, becoming another undeniable milestone for Northstar Games.
Willow wrote more seriously than he ever had in school.
He didn't just write feedback—he wrote understanding. He wrote about emotional connection. He wrote about what it felt like to wake up in that quiet pixel town and feel calm for the first time in years.
Some testers finished in an hour. Some took two.
Willow and Xiaotiantang wrote for more than four hours.
Their handwriting became so dense that a single sheet couldn't hold everything. They asked for more paper. Then more again.
They probably hadn't even treated their graduation theses with this much sincerity.
When the time came to leave, everyone dragged their luggage slowly. Northstar Games employees escorted them to the airport, and not a single person wanted to say goodbye.
Someone muttered softly, "I want to tell the whole world how good this game is."
Another added, "If someone can play it seriously for two hours, they'll fall in love with it. I guarantee it."
At first, the game felt slow. Maybe boring. Maybe confusing.
But after two hours, something changed. Anxiety faded. Thoughts quieted. The player stopped rushing—and finally started living inside the game.
Those who were bound by confidentiality agreements, forced into silence until the official release, felt like ants were crawling under their skin.
Inside the large truck rented by Northstar Games, the discussion was endless.
"This game will prove so many studios wrong."
"A good game doesn't need flashy effects or massive budgets."
"A game that makes people genuinely happy—that's the real masterpiece."
"If this launches overseas, it'll rank high. No doubt."
"If foreign charts don't acknowledge it, that's their problem."
"Northstar is incredible. I'm a lifelong fan now."
One voice hesitated.
"My only worry is… what if this is the final version? Even with a lot of content, everything runs out eventually."
Another laughed.
"I don't think so. This game feels like it still has endless possibilities."
Meanwhile, back at the office…
Ethan Reed stood quietly, watching Vivian Frost sit in front of her computer. She was fully immersed—planting seeds, watering crops, completely lost in Stardew Valley.
He sighed deeply.
Yes, the game was incredible. Even in his previous life as a musician, Ethan had sunk sixty or seventy hours into Stardew Valley without realizing it.
But he never got addicted.
Vivian Frost, on the other hand?
If there were a visible timer floating above her head, her playtime would already have surpassed his.
This woman didn't start a game company for players.
She started it for herself.
That shameless woman.
"Boss."
No response.
"Boss?"
Still nothing.
"Boss!"
"Huh?" Vivian finally pulled off her pink headphones, blinking groggily. "Is it lunchtime? Wait, I'll order takeout."
"No," Ethan said flatly. "We need to talk."
Her expression instantly sharpened. She sniffed the air suspiciously.
Whenever Ethan said "we need to talk," it was never good news.
Especially now that development was nearly finished—and she no longer had to raise funds herself.
"So?" she asked warily. "What are we talking about?"
"Stardew Valley is basically complete," Ethan said. "We just need to add background music and polish some missed details. Which means it's time to talk about pricing."
"Isn't that what the research department is for?" Vivian tilted her head. "Even if there are only three of them, they're professionals."
"I already consulted them," Ethan replied calmly. "That's why I came to you."
Vivian finally removed her headphones completely and sat upright.
"Well? What's the range?"
"Between thirty-five and forty-five. Personally, I think forty is perfect."
She nodded once. "Then make it forty."
And immediately reached for her headphones again.
Ethan snapped.
He lunged forward, grabbed her wrist mid-motion, and smiled dangerously.
"Do you believe I'll uninstall the game for you?"
Vivian froze like a startled rabbit.
"Do you have any sense of responsibility as a boss?" Ethan continued. "Ever since I gave you the demo, you've been playing nonstop. You even call me in the middle of the night to fix bugs. Don't you think that's excessive?"
She struggled helplessly. "What do you expect me to do?"
Ethan thought seriously.
Coding? She couldn't.
Art? Abstract chaos didn't count.
Logistics? She ordered takeout daily.
After a long pause, he hesitated.
"…Patrol?"
Silence.
Vivian suddenly spun her chair toward him, forcing him to step back. Her fair legs slid forward, trapping him awkwardly. Her almond eyes locked onto his.
She sneered.
"So in your heart, I'm not even the boss?"
"Boss?" she scoffed. "Security guard!"
Ethan coughed weakly. "When you transfer money, you look very boss-like. Super cool."
She yanked her wrist free and waved him away. "Get lost."
"Yes, boss," Ethan bowed instantly. "I'll order dinner. Enjoy your game."
He turned to leave.
At the same time, Vivian shifted her chair back.
Then disaster struck.
Ethan's raised leg was intercepted. He lost balance, spun back, and fell straight toward Vivian.
The next moment, a soul-piercing scream echoed through the office.
"Aaaaaah! Ethan Reed, you bastard! It hurts—so much!"
"Ugh—Boss! Are you okay?!"
Outside the door, Daniel, holding a water cup and ready to leave work, froze.
He stared at the closed office door in confusion.
"…When did Northstar start raising groundhogs?"
----------------------------------------
Extra chapters available on patreon
patreon.com/Samurai492 🔥🔥🔥
__________________________________