The Seventh floor of the Arc Building looked less like an office and more like the nerve center of something waiting to be born. Brushed steel walls reflected the cold glow of server racks that stretched across the floor like rows of silent sentinels. Frosted glass partitions divided the space into quiet chambers where technicians moved like shadows, their voices hushed beneath the constant mechanical hum. Blue and green indicator lights blinked in rhythmic pulses, artificial heartbeats echoing through the sterile expanse. Beyond the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, the city spread endlessly into the night, a living constellation of amber streetlights and neon signs. Traffic flowed through the dark avenues like glowing rivers, but inside the building the air carried a different energy—sharp, electric, anticipatory. Tonight, millions of eyes across the world were waiting.
At the center of the top floor's green room, Tang Yuze sat calmly beneath warm vanity lights that softened the angles of his face. The room itself was designed for visiting dignitaries—velvet couches, marble counters, and carefully balanced lighting meant for televised appearances. Tonight, however, it had been transformed into a command hub. Screens on the walls streamed live data: server loads, international traffic, social media spikes. His stylist adjusted the collar of his deep charcoal hoodie, the fabric deceptively simple yet woven from rare fibers that shimmered faintly when they caught the light. Tang Yuze barely moved, his posture relaxed, his presence effortlessly commanding. Beside him, Sister Wen paced with nervous energy, her tablet glowing in the dim room as her fingers moved rapidly across the screen.
"The waiting room just crossed four million," she whispered, glancing up at him with barely concealed anxiety. "Yuze… this isn't just a launch anymore. It's turning into a cultural event." The numbers climbing on her screen made even a veteran manager uneasy. Four million viewers waiting before the broadcast had even begun meant the internet itself was preparing for impact. She swallowed softly. "Are you really going to do the full deep-dive demo?"
Tang Yuze did not answer right away. Instead, he stared at his reflection in the mirror before him. The man looking back was the same face the world adored—sharp jawline, dark expressive eyes, a calm expression that seemed permanently touched with confidence. Yet his thoughts were far away, drifting back to a mist-covered mountain trail where the air had smelled of wet earth and pine needles. Qingyuan Mountain. He could still remember the strange quiet there, broken only by wind brushing through trees. And he remembered something else more vividly than he expected—a young man carrying his sister down a steep trail, his grip firm and unyielding, as though letting go would allow the entire world to collapse. The image had stayed with him.
A sharp knock broke the silence.
The door opened slowly, and Xie Zihan stepped inside.
Behind him hovered Xu Feng, clutching a thick stack of technical printouts as if they were armor. The moment Xu Feng saw Tang Yuze in person, his brain nearly short-circuited. Posters, movies, interviews—none of them prepared him for the real thing. Tang Yuze's presence filled the room with quiet gravity.
Tang Yuze rose smoothly from his chair, tall and composed. When his gaze met Zihan's, a flicker of recognition flashed through his eyes.
"You," he said slowly, his voice deep and resonant. "Qingyuan Mountain."
Zihan paused, equally surprised. For a brief moment, the two men simply looked at each other—the star who commanded global screens and the quiet architect who built worlds behind them.
"Brother Yuze," Zihan replied calmly, the honorific respectful but slightly unfamiliar. "I didn't realize the Ambassador was someone I had already met."
Tang Yuze tilted his head, studying him more carefully now. On the mountain, Zihan had looked like nothing more than an exhausted student. Standing here under the lights of the Arc Building, however, he looked completely different. His black shirt was sharply tailored, his posture steady, his eyes calm with the quiet confidence of someone who shaped ideas into reality. Tang Yuze's gaze sharpened subtly. So this was the person Meilin had been protecting. The one she spoke of softly.
"Small world, Xie Zihan," Tang Yuze said at last, gesturing toward the demo terminal set up nearby. "I've heard the rumors about this game." His lips curved slightly. "Now show me the reality."
Zihan walked toward the workstation, his fingers settling naturally on the mechanical keyboard. The moment he began speaking, the reserved aura around him shifted. The quiet scholarship student disappeared, replaced by the creator.
"Immortal Mythfall runs on a neural-link latency engine," he explained, his voice steady and focused. "It doesn't just process player input. It adapts to combat rhythm in real time."
He tapped a key.
The monitor came alive.
A character materialized on the screen—The Obsidian Wraith. Dark armor clung to the figure like liquid shadow, every movement sharp and dangerous.
"The Wraith is our primary DPS class," Zihan continued. "High mobility. Frame-perfect combat."
The character dashed forward.
A flash of steel.
CLANG.
A perfectly timed parry.
"If the player misses by even a millisecond," Zihan said, "the recoil shatters the stamina bar."
The display switched again.
This time a graceful figure appeared, draped in flowing silver robes that shimmered softly like moonlight.
"The Lunar Weaver," he said.
Tang Yuze leaned forward slightly, intrigued.
"A healer," Zihan continued, "but not a passive one."
The character stepped into the middle of a battlefield. Energy rippled through the environment, gathering like glowing petals around wounded allies.
"Her healing power depends on proximity to danger. The closer she stands to the fight, the stronger the recovery effects."
Tang Yuze watched the animation carefully, his cinematic instincts recognizing something rare.
"It's visceral," he murmured. "It doesn't feel like a game."
"It's not just rendering," Zihan replied quietly. "The engine uses derived logic gates."
For a fleeting moment his mind drifted elsewhere—to a quiet pond reflecting silver moonlight, to a girl sitting beside him insisting he eat, insisting he survive.
The door opened again.
Qin He entered briskly, glancing at his Patek Philippe watch.
"Ten minutes," he announced. "The studio is ready. Weibo servers are already at eighty-five percent capacity. Global nodes are stable." His eyes turned to Tang Yuze. "Mr. Tang, they're waiting."
Assistants immediately began preparing to escort the star to the broadcast studio. Bright lights spilled from the hallway ahead—camera rigs, sound technicians, and production crews moving with urgent precision.
Behind them, Zihan remained still for a moment.
He pulled his phone from his pocket.
The screen lit up.
System notifications. Work messages.
But not the one he wanted.
No "Good luck."
No "I'm watching."
Nothing.
The excitement filling the building suddenly felt strangely distant. Millions of people were waiting for the world he had built, yet the one person he wanted to see it most was absent.
"Zihan?" Xu Feng whispered nervously. "We have to go. The control room is waiting."
"I know," Zihan said quietly.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket and followed the others down the hallway. The server lights flickered behind him like fading stars as he walked toward the studio, where blinding lights and millions of viewers waited for the birth of his digital empire. Yet somewhere deep inside his chest lingered a quiet emptiness, a silent space that still waited for a girl who had not appeared.