By October 20th, the results of Cyberpunk 2077 had already reached a level that even Ethan Reed had not expected.
Overseas sales had passed 8 million copies.
In China alone, total sales had already exceeded 11 million copies.
Combined, the game was now rushing toward the terrifying mark of 20 million copies sold worldwide.
And the most shocking part was not just the number itself.
It was the speed.
It had not taken one month.
It had not even taken two.
Cyberpunk 2077 had nearly reached 20 million sales in just half a month.
Even Ethan, who had always believed in the game's potential, found that result hard to accept at first. He had expected success, of course. He knew the game was special. He knew the market response would be strong. But this kind of explosion was on another level entirely.
In his memory, the old version of Cyberpunk 2077 from another life had also sold impressively, with total sales around twenty-five million copies. But that version had a different market structure. The Asian market had only been one piece of the overall success.
This time, however, the situation was completely different.
The version made by Northstar Games had practically conquered Asia.
The Asian market accounted for nearly 60% of total sales, while China alone made up more than half of that.
That was not just a success.
That was a phenomenon.
And Ethan understood clearly that such a result could not be separated from the massive support of Chinese players.
Because of that, the pressure in the company finally began to ease.
For days, Daniel had been running under intense stress, watching numbers, reports, and overseas reactions without stopping. But now, after seeing the sales stabilize at such a terrifying height, even he could finally breathe.
Still, one problem remained.
And it was a problem every successful game in China eventually had to face.
Piracy.
Starting around October 10th, pirated copies of Cyberpunk 2077 had already begun circulating online. Some forums, private groups, and file-sharing communities were spreading cracked versions. Some people sold them at low prices to make quick money, while others uploaded them for free, pretending they were "helping the public."
Ethan was not surprised.
In fact, he had expected it.
What surprised him was not the piracy itself, but the attitude of some of the people using it.
To Ethan, piracy was not a simple black-and-white issue.
He knew very well that 300 yuan was not a small amount of money.
For students, especially high school students, that could mean saving for a long time just to buy one game.
For adults, it could mean giving up other daily expenses.
Not everyone had the spare money to support a full-price release, no matter how much they liked it.
Because Ethan understood that reality, he had never wanted to treat poor players like criminals.
In fact, deep down, he was fairly open-minded about it.
When he was young, he had played pirated games too.
He knew what it meant to love games while not having the money to buy them.
So from a personal point of view—not from the point of view of a businessman—he could understand why some players chose that route.
But understanding did not mean approval of everything that came with it.
What truly drove him crazy was something else.
Some pirated players were not quietly enjoying the game in private.
No.
They were going into the Northstar Games community forums, loudly announcing that pirated copies were available, posting links, mocking paying players, and openly calling legitimate buyers idiots for spending so much money on something they could get for free.
That was where Ethan lost patience.
If legitimate players had gone around insulting pirated players, that would have been ugly enough.
But now it was the opposite.
The people who got the game through theft were insulting the people who had supported the developers.
What kind of logic was that?
Even Ethan, who had always tried to stay calm, found the whole thing ridiculous.
When Vivian Frost found out about it, she was furious.
She was not angry because people were poor.
She was not even angry because some people chose to pirate the game.
What hurt her was the arrogance.
If someone could not support Northstar Games financially, fine. No company could demand everyone's money.
But to take the studio's years of hard work for free, then turn around and insult the people who actually paid for it—that felt shameless.
Vivian was so upset that Ethan had to spend several days calming her down.
He reminded her that this kind of thing was impossible to fully stop. If they tried to launch a heavy crackdown, it could even damage the company's growing reputation and make them look hostile toward players.
In the end, Vivian forced herself to swallow the anger.
But she did not forget the bitterness.
Because she understood one very simple truth.
If everyone behaved that way, then Northstar Games would not survive.
A studio could be generous.
A studio could be understanding.
But a studio could not run on goodwill alone.
Even charity did not work like that.
In the end, the company chose a middle path.
They contacted forum administrators and only asked them to remove the worst flame wars and irrational arguments. As for pirated content itself, their internal response was intentionally vague.
If a post appeared, it could stay up for half an hour before being deleted.
What players managed to find within that time depended on their own luck.
That should have been the end of the matter.
But unexpectedly, one of the forum sub-moderators leaked this internal arrangement.
And as soon as that happened, Northstar Games gained another huge wave of praise.
Players said the company was unusually considerate.
They said Northstar actually understood ordinary gamers.
Some who had first played the cracked version later went back and bought the official version anyway, following the idea of "play first, pay later."
To many people, this felt like the first time a Chinese developer had openly shown such a tolerant attitude.
But Ethan was not happy about the praise.
If anything, it made him uneasy.
Because he knew something many players did not.
Neither he nor Vivian was a saint.
Northstar Games was still a company.
It was not a temple, and it was not a charity house.
The more people praised them as noble and perfect, the more dangerous the situation became. Ethan could already imagine the future. Today the company was being praised into the sky. Tomorrow, if it made even one decision players disliked, that same crowd would tear it down twice as hard.
Being worshipped too much could become a curse.
It felt like being lifted onto a pedestal so high that even the smallest mistake would become a public execution.
Ethan hated that feeling.
He did not want Northstar Games to become a symbol people used for moral fantasies.
He just wanted the company to make great games.
That alone was already exhausting enough.
Fortunately, he still had one thing no one else did.
A way forward.
---
By early November, the year was already approaching its end.
Time had moved frighteningly fast.
Without even realizing it, Ethan had already spent three full years with Northstar Games.
In only three years, the company had grown from a tiny studio with just two people into the brightest name in the domestic gaming industry.
From two people, to twenty.
From twenty, to two hundred.
From two hundred, to four hundred employees.
The speed of that growth was almost absurd.
And naturally, both Ethan and Vivian had gained a great deal from it.
Money, of course, was the most obvious result.
But Ethan barely cared about that anymore.
With his lifestyle, the amount of money he had already earned was enough for him to live comfortably for centuries, provided he did not suddenly develop a gambling problem.
And Ethan was not that kind of person.
He had few material desires.
Even now, he still did not have a driver's license. The most expensive thing he personally owned was a watch Vivian had given him. She had told him it was extremely valuable and warned him to take good care of it.
Ethan did take care of it.
But not because of the price.
He did not even know the brand.
He treasured it because it was the first gift from his girlfriend.
That mattered far more than money.
Over time, as he spent more years living as Lead Planner Ethan Reed, he had slowly become the sort of person who truly did not care much about luxury at all.
And so, the man with almost no desires, along with the company's boss, boarded a plane to North America.
It was Ethan's first time leaving the country.
It was also Vivian's first time going abroad.
Traveling with them were Daniel and several other team members. Normally Rachel Quinn, Northstar's diplomatic representative, would have joined such an important overseas trip, but this time she unusually remained at the company.
The reason for Ethan and Vivian's trip was simple.
Cyberpunk 2077 was going to receive an award.
The result had already been confirmed by Steam.
The Game of the Year title was practically settled, and no one in the industry could seriously argue against it.
As many players were already saying online:
"You might not play 2077, but you absolutely cannot say 2077 is not a great game."
That was the kind of reputation the game had reached.
It was no longer just a commercial success.
It had become a true global phenomenon.
Winning awards now felt natural.
If Steam had refused to recognize it, then Steam would have needed to explain itself.
After all, a game with tens of thousands of reviews and a 98% positive rating was not exactly easy to ignore.
When Ethan and the others landed, it was already evening.
Steam had arranged hotel accommodations for them, and they planned to visit the company the next day.
When Ethan finally stood on Steam's huge campus, he could not help feeling emotional.
This was what a true industry giant looked like.
The scale, the buildings, the confidence in every detail—it all carried the weight of a company that had already shaped gaming history.
Vivian looked around for a while, then quietly said, "Ethan, shouldn't we buy land too?"
Ethan thought for a moment and nodded.
"We probably should."
That was all Vivian needed to hear.
The moment he agreed, she made the decision in her heart. Once they returned, she would immediately start asking around and see whether there was suitable land available for purchase.
Northstar Games was no longer short on money.
Cyberpunk 2077 was recovering its investment at terrifying speed. It would likely break even in less than two months and begin turning massive profit soon after.
At this point, renting office space forever no longer made sense.
A company of Northstar's size needed its own headquarters.
Its own ground.
Its own symbol.
During the visit, Ethan also met Gabe Newell.
That part amused him greatly, although the actual conversation was fairly limited. Ethan and Vivian's English was still not strong enough for deep casual discussion, so most of the exchange remained work-focused.
The main topic was an event Steam wanted to run for Cyberpunk 2077.
Because the game had won the award, Gabe wanted to push it further during a winter sales campaign. The proposal was simple: a major recommendation page and a bundled promotion for Northstar Games titles, in exchange for a one-week discount on Cyberpunk 2077.
After discussion, both sides agreed on a 35% discount for one week.
At first glance, it looked like giving up money.
But Ethan and Vivian both understood the logic.
Steam users loved historical low prices.
Many of them deliberately waited for sales before buying anything.
So while the discount would reduce the per-copy price, the huge spike in sales could more than make up for it.
After finishing the business talks, the group spent a couple of days sightseeing, eating local food, and relaxing before flying back to China on November 4th.
It was during the return flight, sitting in business class, that the conversation unexpectedly changed direction.
Vivian stared out the window for a while, then turned and said, "Why do I feel like making a platform is more profitable than making games?"
Ethan laughed softly.
"Because it is. Game developers are basically paying tribute to platform grandpas."
Vivian narrowed her eyes.
"Then should we make a platform too?"
Ethan shook his head at once.
"Don't jump that far. Making a platform needs resources, users, and timing. The market is already crowded. Starting one now without a guaranteed user base would be asking to lose money."
Then he paused and added, "Unless we're talking about online games."
That changed the conversation immediately.
Vivian turned fully toward him.
Daniel leaned forward from the seat behind them.
Online games were different.
A successful online game could become its own platform, its own ecosystem, its own long-term source of income. Unlike single-player titles, which sold in explosive bursts before gradually slowing down, online games could continue making money for years.
Ethan knew that well.
But he also knew the price.
Single-player games required huge effort in development, then relatively small teams afterward for patches and updates.
Online games were the opposite.
Once launched, they demanded endless work—customer support, live operations, content updates, balance patches, server maintenance, anti-cheat systems, event planning, new art, new features, and constant oversight.
In many cases, the team needed after release was even bigger than the team that built the game in the first place.
"It's expensive," Ethan said honestly. "And we don't have enough manpower."
"Then we hire more," Vivian replied without hesitation.
She said it so naturally that Ethan almost laughed.
She went further. They could buy another building, recruit a large batch of new graduates, and build a new division from scratch.
To her, the reasoning was obvious.
Northstar Games needed a project that could generate continuous profit, not just enormous one-time success.
And in online games, microtransactions, cosmetics, subscriptions, season systems—there were endless ways to earn money.
The business model was entirely different.
Ethan closed his eyes.
Vivian and Daniel both fell silent at once.
They knew that expression.
Whenever Ethan entered deep thought like this, it meant his mind was already digging through possibilities.
Inside his private system, he began searching through game options.
Something fresh.
Something explosive.
Something that could instantly make players' eyes light up.
Not too old-fashioned.
Not too risky in the wrong direction.
Not unclear in profit structure.
He looked past one option after another.
Then suddenly—
He found it.
And in that instant, his scalp tingled.
A memory rushed back into his mind.
The summer of 2016.
A game once hailed as the future.
A game once called the title that could replace League of Legends.
A game whose trailers had once made players feel that an entirely new era was coming.
The sound of that era almost echoed in his ears again.
A bright, grand, dramatic sound.
Like the beginning of something legendary.
Ethan slowly opened his eyes.
And then his expression turned strange.
Very strange.
Because after all the excitement, all the memory, all the glory attached to that title, only one sentence remained in his mind.
This game…
had literally been dragged to death.
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