Veridia City.
Night had settled heavy and suffocating over the metropolis. Outside, the distant hum of traffic and the occasional siren cut through the darkness, but inside the cramped rental unit on the city's outskirts, the only sound was the whirring of an overworked computer fan.
The room smelled of stale air and cheap instant noodles. In the corner, illuminated only by the harsh blue light of the monitor, a handsome young man with messy black hair sat hunched over his desk. Liam Vance stared intently at a folder icon on his desktop labeled [Colorful Eevee Match-3].
His finger hovered over the mouse button, trembling slightly. The plastic felt slick with sweat under his palm.
"This time," Liam muttered, his voice raspy from disuse. "It has to work."
He took a deep, shaky breath, filling his lungs with the musty air of the apartment. With a decisive click, he dragged the folder to the upload area of the website and hit confirm. The progress bar appeared.
One percent... five percent...
Liam leaned in, his heart thumping against his ribs.
Ninety-nine percent...
Ping.
A large, jagged red cross slashed across the screen, followed by a harsh error tone that seemed to mock him in the silence. The folder on the desktop flickered and vanished into thin air.
[Unknown Error: 404, File Corrupted.]
"Damn it! Again!"
Liam slammed his palm against the cheap laminate desk. The impact stung his skin, vibrating up his forearm. He shot to his feet, the chair screeching against the floorboards.
He paced the small room, running a hand through his hair. His name was Liam Vance, and he had transmigrated to this world exactly one week ago.
The good news? This was a world he loved, a world he knew down to its very code—the world of Pokémon.
The bad news? The identity he had slipped into was that of a destitute orphan. No money. No status. He was renting a temporary shoe-box room on the fringes of Veridia City, barely scraping by on odd jobs that paid pennies.
When he first opened his eyes in this world, Liam hadn't harbored any grand ambitions of becoming a Champion Trainer. He would have been content to just partner with one or two Pokémon, maybe a Growlithe or a Pidgey, and live out a quiet, peaceful life.
But reality was far crueler than his imagination.
He patted his pockets; they were empty. He was currently penniless, unable to even feed himself, let alone a partner. If he were to capture a Pokémon now, they'd both end up on the street.
The image flashed through his mind: him sitting on a curb with a begging bowl, crying his eyes out, while a starving Pokémon shouted for food beside him. It was a bleak future.
To change this, Liam—who had been a top-tier game producer in his previous life—had immediately scoured the internet to understand this world's entertainment industry.
What he found had shocked him.
Although everyone in this world possessed smartphones and high-tech computers, and the internet network was lightning-fast, the entertainment industry was a blank slate. It was a cultural desert. Movies, TV series, novels, and especially games were in a primitive, almost laughable stage.
He clicked open a browser window to look at the "Alliance Game Popular Chart" again.
The number one ranked game, priced at a staggering 99 alliance dollars, was called Angry Stone.
It was a racing game where the player controlled a character named "Little Rock." The gameplay consisted of rolling down a road. That was it. No multiplayer. No story.
If a player was lucky enough to grind to the later stages, "Little Rock" would evolve into Roggenrola... becoming a fully insured, semi-trailer, hundred-ton king of the road, letting passersby experience what it meant to "live with effort."
The graphics were jagged, the physics were floaty, and the concept was boring.
When Liam first saw it, joy had surged in his chest. With his skillset, in a world so starving for game culture, he could casually port a few masterpieces from his previous life and ensure a life of luxury. He wouldn't just have food; he'd have a feast.
But then, the problem arose.
When Liam spent two days coding a crude but functional game called [Pac-Man Starters] and tried to upload it, the upload failed. The file didn't just error out; it vanished from his hard drive.
At first, he thought his computer was faulty. He remade the game, put it on a USB drive, and ran to the internet café downstairs. The damp smell of cigarette smoke and the clacking of mechanical keyboards surrounded him as he tried again.
Same result. The file disappeared.
Stubbornly, he pulled an all-nighter to make a new mini-game, [Lucario Gold Miner].
Deleted.
Including the attempt he just made with the Eevee game, this was the fifth project that had failed to upload and subsequently vanished into the digital void.
Liam pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, feeling a migraine pulsing behind his temples.
What to do?
Next week was rent day. The landlord, a burly man with a Machoke that stared daggers at tenants, wouldn't accept excuses. Liam had spent the last of his meager savings keeping the electricity on for his computer. He didn't even have enough for a bottle of Moomoo Milk from the convenience store downstairs.
Just as he was spiraling into a fierce mental struggle, staring blankly at the wall, the air in front of him shimmered.
Zzzzt.
A golden-yellow panel materialized out of thin air, hovering right before his eyes!
Along with it came a crisp, synthesized electronic voice that seemed to echo directly inside his skull:
[Seven-day buffer period has ended! Shielding function is operating normally!]
[Ding! Congratulations, Host, the "Strongest Pokémon Game Creation System" has been activated!]
[This system can provide you with efficient game creation technology to help the Host become the strongest Pokémon game creator!]
[Newbie Reward Technology Module has been activated! Please check the panel!]
Liam froze, his eyes scanning the glowing text. His breath caught in his throat.
So, the problem with the games I made this past week was all because of this system?
As if reading his thoughts, the electronic voice sounded again, this time with a hint of arrogant pride:
[Ding! Host, please note, since you are a transmigrator, to prevent spacetime disruption from leading to your erasure, you can temporarily only create games with Pokémon as their core content. Non-Pokémon games have been automatically shielded by the system. You don't need to thank this system.]
Liam stared at the floating text, his eyebrow twitching.
"...I really thank your whole family."
He silently recited every swear word he had ever learned, letting the frustration vent internally before taking a deep breath to steady himself. He needed to sort out the situation.
Simply put, this system was a cheat code to help him create games quickly. But there was a catch: they had to be games with Pokémon as the core content.
His gaze drifted to the panel, where two blue glowing cubes shimmered enticingly.
[Pixel Game Module (Low-level) — Can quickly create pixel-based content.]
[Low-level Programming Module (Low-level) — Can quickly create small-scale, simple program content.]
[Unlocking other modules or upgrading existing modules requires Emotion Points. You can obtain these when others feel emotions such as anger, shock, moved, admiration, etc., towards the games you create or yourself.]
[Current Balance: 0]
Quickly create content?
Liam rubbed his chin, intrigued. He sat back down, the cheap leather of his chair creaking. He opened the game creation software on his computer and mentally conceived a pixel pattern. He focused on the image of a specific electric mouse.
The next moment, a "Pikachu" composed of crisp yellow pixels instantly materialized on the screen!
"This isn't bad."
Liam's eyes lit up, the reflection of the yellow pixels dancing in his pupils.
Even as a top-tier producer, creating a game solo was a monumental task requiring hundreds of hours of asset creation. This was why he had stuck to simple match-3 or mining games this week—he simply didn't have the manpower for anything else.
Moreover, his profession was a producer, not a programmer. While he knew the basics, there was a vast canyon between understanding code and writing a complex engine from scratch. In his old life, he proposed the vision; the code monkeys in the basement made it work.
But this system bridged that gap.
Not only that, as long as his games provoked emotional reactions, he could unlock more powerful tools.
Liam leaned back, crossing his arms. Only games with Pokémon as the core. Low-level programming. Pixel limitations...
A specific title surfaced in his memory. A classic.
[Pokémon: Ruby/Sapphire/Emerald Series]
This was a pure heavyweight. The Pokémon enlightenment for countless fans in his previous world. The Game Boy Advance era. The trumpets. The water. It was the most classic entry in handheld gaming.
With the current system conditions—pixels and simple mechanics—creating this game seemed just right!
But as his hand reached for the mouse, a brand new, darker idea suddenly emerged in Liam's mind.
To unlock more modules, he needed Emotion Points. Not just money, but feelings.
If he made a completely faithful Emerald, it would be loved, sure. It would bring joy. But joy was a steady burn.
He smiled, a slow, meaningful expression that didn't quite reach his eyes.
If there was one emotion that game players felt most intensely, most explosively... it was definitely rage. The feeling of being utterly broken by a game.
And even Emerald could achieve this, with the right tweaks.
Liam clicked his mouse, the sound sharp in the quiet room. He began to type furiously on his keyboard, the clacking sound accelerating like gunfire. A brand new folder immediately appeared on his desktop—
[Pokémon: Ultimate Emerald (Lunatic Mode Exclusive Edition)!]