The silence in the tiny apartment was heavy, broken only by the faint hum of the building's ventilation system. Zhong Ming sat motionless, staring at the faint afterimage of the holographic screen that had just faded away.
"Universal Search Tool..." he muttered, testing the weight of the words.
He tapped his bracelet again, bringing up the strange, pixelated controller icon. The interface was sparse, almost aggressively minimalist. It didn't look like a product of this high-tech era; it looked like something from the 8-bit generation of his childhood, a relic of a simpler time.
He focused on the tool's description. *Retrieve any desired information... displayed in your field of vision.*
A bold idea struck him. He didn't need to test it on trivial things. If this truly connected to the "Akashic Records" of his old world—effectively, the internet and database of 21st-century Earth—then he held a key to infinite cultural wealth.
But a glance at the remaining "Culture Points" balance of 20 gave him pause. The tool had cost 50 points for a single use. It was expensive. He couldn't waste it on trivial curiosity. He had to be strategic.
"For now, let's rely on what's already in my head," he decided, closing the interface.
Before his transmigration, Zhong Ming hadn't just been an artist. In the fiercely competitive gaming industry of the 21st century, being a "master artist" wasn't enough to survive. He had served as the lead artist for core projects at top-tier multinational game companies. He had directed visual teams, argued with engine programmers, and sat in on design meetings where million-dollar decisions were made. Later, he had founded his own studio, wearing every hat from CEO to janitor.
He knew the industry inside out. He knew the sweat, the crunch, the burnout, and the sheer, unadulterated joy of a launch day success.
His fame in his previous life had been significant. Art students studied his brushwork; industry veterans sought his critique. But fate was a cruel editor. Just as his studio released its breakout hit, the cancer diagnosis had come. Stage 4. Three months to live.
He remembered the hospital bed, the smell of disinfectant masking the scent of decay, the tubes in his arms. He had spent his final days sketching on a tablet, drawing characters and worlds he would never get to build, his hand growing shakier with each passing hour. He had died with a stylus in his hand and a dream in his heart, filled with an unwillingness that burned brighter than the pain.
And now, that fire was stoked again.
"I didn't cross over just to be a painter," Zhong Ming whispered to the empty room. "Painters paint a single moment. I want to create entire worlds. I want to build a stage where people can live, fight, and dream."
In this world, however, the term "Game Producer" or "World Architect" carried a weight it hadn't in his previous life.
Due to the Omnic Crisis, the concept of "interactive entertainment" was viewed with suspicion by the older generation. The AI that had tried to exterminate humanity had learned from human data. It had learned strategy, tactics, and cruelty from simulations. Many conservatives believed that "games" were the precursor to the machine uprising—the training grounds for the enemy.
Because of this stigma, the entertainment industry was heavily regulated and socially polarized. But the younger generation, those born after the war, craved an escape from the harsh reality of reconstruction. They didn't want just movies or music; they wanted agency. They wanted to be the hero.
That was the opportunity.
Zhong Ming stood up and walked to the small bathroom mirror. The face looking back was pale, thin, and youthful. Dark circles hung under his eyes, a testament to the original owner's malnutrition and sleepless nights.
"You need food," he told his reflection. "And a job."
He returned to the main room and rummaged through the pantry. It was bare, save for a few more compressed biscuits and a bottle of vitamin supplements.
"Eat first. Then work."
He sat back at the desk, the biscuit tasting like drywall, but he forced it down. He needed the calories. As he ate, he activated the high-tech drawing tablet again. He needed to familiarize himself with the tools of this era.
The tablet was a marvel. In his old world, Wacom and iPad Pros were the standards. Here, the screen was a flexible, transparent polymer that could be folded into the size of a wallet or opened up to the size of a drafting table. The pressure sensitivity was microscopic; it detected not just pressure, but the angle of the pen and seemingly the intent of the user. The color gamut was wider than the human eye could perceive.
"Technology hasn't regressed," Zhong Ming muttered. "It's just that the *art* has."
He browsed the local "Culture Net," the district's repository for art and media. The popular games on the market were, as expected, sterile. They were mostly high-fidelity simulations—driving sims, shooting sims, strategy sims. Technically impressive, visually realistic, but devoid of soul. The characters looked like mannequins. The stories were non-existent or propagandistic.
"Gamification of duty," Zhong Ming sneered. "No wonder people are starving for entertainment. They aren't playing; they're working a second job in a digital world."
He looked at the unfinished file of "Resistance Soldiers." The original Zhong Ming had the technical skill to copy reality, but he lacked the spark of imagination. He painted what he saw: ruin.
Zhong Ming picked up the stylus.
"I'll finish this," he decided. "Not just as a portfolio piece, but as a manifesto."
He didn't just want to paint a soldier; he wanted to paint the *idea* of resistance.
He switched the brush settings to a textured oil brush, a style rarely used in this era of clean, vector-based digital art. He began to layer colors—deep crimsons, sooty blacks, and a piercing, electric blue for the soldier's energy weapon.
The magic of his previous life's experience flowed through his arm. He understood lighting, composition, and focal points. He knew how to guide the eye. The blank space in the center was his canvas.
He didn't draw a detailed face. He drew a silhouette. A lone figure, standing amidst the wreckage, cloak tattered, holding a standard that fluttered violently in the wind. The figure wasn't looking at the army; they were looking *forward*, towards the viewer, breaking the fourth wall.
It was a challenge. *Will you fight?*
An hour passed. The digital canvas now pulsed with life. It was gritty, emotional, and undeniably powerful. It stood out like a sore thumb against the sterile, polished art of the current industry.
"Done."
Zhong Ming saved the file. He prepared to send it to Guangyi Interactive Entertainment. This company was a mid-tier player in District 9. They weren't the biggest, but they were known for taking risks on new talent. They were currently hiring for their "Project A" team.
The original Zhong Ming had applied for "Illustrator." It was safe. It was secure. It was boring.
Zhong Ming opened the application form.
**Name:** Zhong Ming
**Age:** 20
**Education:** District 9 Public Arts Institute (Self-taught/Graduated)
**Desired Position:**
His finger hovered over the "Illustrator" button. He hesitated.
If he applied as an illustrator, he would be a tool. A hand for someone else's vision. He would spend years drawing assets for other people's games, slowly climbing a ladder that might lead nowhere.
He deleted the entry and typed manually.
**Desired Position: World Architect.**
In the gaming industry of the 21st century, this was a role often synonymous with Lead Designer or Creative Director. It meant someone who didn't just draw the world, but defined its laws, its history, its physics, and its soul.
It was an audacious claim for a fresh graduate.
He attached the file "Resistance Soldiers" and clicked send.
The moment the "Sent" confirmation pinged, the bracelet on his wrist vibrated violently.
Zhong Ming looked down. The pixelated controller icon was glowing brighter. A stream of light, like digital confetti, drifted from the bracelet and merged into his skin, a sensation of warmth spreading up his arm.
A notification popped up in his vision, overlaid onto reality.
**[Cultural Impact Detected.]**
**[Work: "Resistance Soldiers" (Digital Painting)]**
**[Evaluation: Though crude in technique by pre-war standards, the emotional resonance and thematic depth exceed current cultural averages. It carries the spark of 'Heroism' lost to this world.]**
**[Reward: 50 Culture Points.]**
**[Current Balance: 70 Culture Points.]**
Zhong Ming blinked. He had earned points just by sending it? Or was it the act of creation?
"Wait," he muttered. "I spent 50 points on the search tool, and I earned 50 back? That means I'm net positive? No... I earned 70 earlier, spent 50, left with 20. Now I have 70. So this painting gave me 50 points."
It was a cycle. Create -> Impact -> Reward.
He stared at the [Lottery] button again. It was taunting him.
"No," he told himself firmly. "I need to save points. 70 isn't enough for another high-level tool. And I can't rely on luck."
He stood up, pacing the small room. He needed to prepare for the interview. If they actually granted him an interview for a "World Architect" position, they would grill him. He needed to prove he wasn't just an arrogant kid.
He walked to the window. The sun was setting, casting long shadows over the district. In the distance, the skyline of the central city glittered like a jewel.
In his previous life, he had the talent but ran out of time. In this life, he had a weak body but a world of opportunity.
"I will build an empire," he promised the setting sun. "I will bring back the joy of Mario, the adventure of Zelda, the rivalry of League of Legends, and the pain of Dark Souls. I will teach this world what it means to play."
Suddenly, his bracelet buzzed again. It wasn't a system notification. It was a real-world message.
**[Sender: Guangyi Interactive Entertainment - HR Department]**
**[Subject: Interview Invitation]**
Zhong Ming opened it. His heart skipped a beat.
*"Dear Applicant Zhong Ming,*
*We have received your application for the position of 'World Architect.' Your portfolio piece 'Resistance Soldiers' has been forwarded to our Creative Review Board. We were... intrigued by your declaration.*
*Please report to the Guangyi Building, Sector 4, tomorrow morning at 09:00 AM for a preliminary assessment.*
*Note: This is a high-stakes interview. Please bring your own concept materials for a proposed game project.*
*Sincerely,*
*Director of Human Resources."*
Zhong Ming let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
"They didn't reject me outright. They're intrigued."
But then the reality of the task hit him. "Bring your own concept materials for a proposed game project."
He had nothing. He had the memories of a thousand games in his head, but he couldn't just present them as his own without adaptation. He needed a pitch. He needed to show them he could build a world from scratch.
He looked at the [Universal Search Tool] in his inventory.
"Maybe it's time to use you," he murmured.
He activated the tool.
**[Universal Search Tool Activated.]**
**[Duration: 15 Minutes.]**
**[Query: ?]**
He thought carefully. What was the safest, most effective first step? He needed to prove his design capability.
He didn't need to search for a game to copy. He needed to search for a *methodology*.
"Search: Successful Indie Game Design Documents from the 2010s era," he commanded.
Instantly, a flood of information surged into his mind. Not just games, but the *structure* of how they were pitched. The logic. The flowcharts. The "Game Design Document" (GDD) templates that turned vague ideas into billion-dollar industries.
His eyes widened as the knowledge settled in his brain like a downloaded file.
"Got it," Zhong Ming smiled, sitting back down at his desk. He picked up the stylus, his hand no longer trembling.
"If they want a world, I'll give them one. But first... I need to design a rule that even this war-torn world can understand."
He opened a new blank canvas.
"Let's start with the basics. Simple controls. Instant feedback. Pure fun."
He began to sketch a small, round character. Then a block. Then a pipe.
"Super Mario? No," he shook his head. "That's too big of a jump for a first pitch. The hardware here is too advanced, and the culture is too cynical. They won't get the charm of a plumber jumping on turtles."
He needed something that bridged the gap. Something that used the advanced tech of this world but introduced the *soul* of the old world.
He began to sketch a tower. A defensive position.
"Plants vs. Zombies? No..."
His mind raced through the archives of his past life. Clash of Clans? Too reliant on monetization mechanics that might be seen as predatory here.
He stopped. He remembered a game. A game about light, about exploration, about connection without words. A game that proved video games were art.
"Journey?" he whispered. "No, too niche for a first commercial project."
He needed a hit. A reliable, undeniable hit that proved games were fun.
He looked at the painting of the "Resistance Soldier" he had just finished.
"What if..." he mused. "What if I take the visual severity of this world... and inject the gameplay loop of the most addictive mobile game in history?"
He thought of *Vampire Survivors*. Minimalist controls. The dopamine hit of leveling up. The chaos of enemies.
But he needed to adapt it.
He started typing on the holographic keyboard.
**[Project Title: Survivor's Dawn]**
**[Genre: Roguelite / Survival]**
**[Core Mechanic: Auto-attack, Movement-based Strategy]**
**[Theme: Post-War Reclamation]**
"The pitch isn't just about the game," Zhong Ming realized, the Search Tool's knowledge guiding his structuring of the document. "It's about the business model. I need to show them that 'fun' is profitable."
He worked through the night, the light from the tablet illuminating his determined face. The "World Architect" wasn't just applying for a job; he was preparing for war.