The headquarters of Guangyi Interactive Entertainment was located in the heart of District 9's commercial zone, a towering monolith of glass and steel that reflected the gray sky. Unlike the chaotic, vibrant streets below, the building's interior was sterile, cold, and disturbingly quiet. The air inside smelled of ozone and sanitizer, a stark contrast to the smells of street food and exhaust fumes outside.
Zhong Ming stood in the lobby, adjusting the collar of the cheap, second-hand suit he had bought with the last of his savings. It was slightly too large in the shoulders, making him look even thinner than he was.
He looked around. The lobby was designed to impress, featuring massive holographic displays showcasing the company's latest titles. Currently looping was a trailer for *Frontline Duty*, Guangyi's flagship military simulation.
Zhong Ming watched the screen for a moment. Soldiers moved with hyper-realistic motion capture, swapping magazines and checking corners with tactical precision. The graphics were indistinguishable from reality. The sound design was immersive. Yet, as he watched the demo station in the corner where two employees were playing on their break, he saw the problem.
Their faces were blank. No smiles. No tension. Just a mechanical execution of inputs. They were working, not playing.
"Simulation without soul," Zhong Ming murmured. "This world has forgotten how to play."
"Applicant 247, Zhong Ming?"
A synthesized voice broke his thoughts. A floating drone, about the size of a basketball, hovered in front of him, its lens focusing on his face.
"Yes," Zhong Ming replied, straightening his back.
"Please follow the green light to Interview Room 304. Do not deviate from the path."
The drone zipped away, and a green holographic trail appeared on the floor. Zhong Ming followed it into the elevator.
As he ascended, his heart rate remained steady. In his previous life, he had pitched to investors who controlled billions. He had faced down boardrooms of cynics. This? This was just the starting line.
When the elevator doors opened, he stepped into a corridor lined with glass-walled offices. He saw rows of developers typing furiously, their faces illuminated by blue light. The atmosphere was oppressive. It felt less like a creative studio and more like a munitions factory.
*This is what happens when you treat games as software rather than art,* he thought.
He entered Room 304. It was a minimalist conference room. Sitting at a long metal table were three people.
In the center was a middle-aged man with thinning hair and a thick digital tablet. This was Section Chief Wang, the HR manager. To his left sat a younger woman with sharp features and glasses, typing rapidly on a holographic keyboard. This was Lin Wan, the Creative Director of the Mobile Division. To the right sat a man in a technical jacket, looking bored—likely a lead programmer or tech lead.
"Sit," Wang said without looking up. "We have twenty minutes. Your application… caught our attention."
Zhong Ming sat, placing his own tablet on the table.
"Most graduates apply for Junior Artist or Asset Creator," Wang continued, finally looking at him. His eyes were bloodshot. "You applied for 'World Architect.' Do you know what that title implies in this industry?"
"It implies a comprehensive understanding of interactive logic, narrative structure, and player psychology," Zhong Ming answered calmly. "It means not just building the scenery, but engineering the experience."
Wang scoffed, a dry, humorless sound. "Ideals. We produce entertainment software, kid. Our main revenue streams are tactical training simulations and high-fidelity social lobbies. 'World Architect' is a title reserved for department heads with ten years of experience. You're twenty. You have no credits."
"I have the work," Zhong Ming said. He tapped his tablet, projecting the image of *Resistance Soldiers* onto the main screen.
Lin Wan, the Creative Director, stopped typing. She looked up at the image.
"I saw this file when it came in," she said, her voice cool but analytical. "The art style is anachronistic. Heavy brushstrokes, emotional saturation. It doesn't fit the aesthetic of our current portfolio. We prioritize photorealism."
"Photorealism is a cage," Zhong Ming countered. "You spend millions rendering every pore on a soldier's face, but you forget to give him a reason to fight. Look at the image. The emotion isn't in the resolution; it's in the contrast. The lone figure against the swarm. That is the core of interactive entertainment—the player against the odds."
The programmer on the right smirked. "Pretty words. But can you code? Can you optimize a render pipeline? Or do you just want to draw pictures and call yourself an architect?"
"I can do what this industry has failed to do for the last fifteen years," Zhong Ming said, his voice dropping an octave, commanding the room's attention. "I can make a game that people *enjoy*."
Wang leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "Prove it. You brought a proposal? Let's hear it. But warning me, if this is another 'war simulator' pitch, you can leave now. We have ten of those in development."
Zhong Ming nodded. He swiped his hand, clearing the painting and replacing it with the Game Design Document (GDD) he had refined using the [Universal Search Tool] knowledge.
**Project Title: Survivor's Dawn**
"This isn't a simulation," Zhong Ming began. "It's a reaction to the simulation. It's a genre I call a 'Roguelite'."
The three interviewers looked at the screen. There were no complex tactical maps. Just a simple top-down view of a character surrounded by enemies.
"The current market is flooded with high-intensity, high-skill games," Zhong Ming explained. "They require hundreds of hours to master complex controls. This excludes 80% of the population. My proposal targets the 'gap market'—the tired, the stressed, the people who just want twenty minutes of pure dopamine."
He pointed to the mechanics.
"Minimal controls. The character auto-attacks. The player only controls movement. The complexity comes from the choices made during progression. You kill enemies, collect experience gems, and choose upgrades. It's the slot machine mechanic applied to combat."
The programmer frowned. "Auto-attack? That's casual trash. There's no skill ceiling."
"The skill is in the strategy," Zhong Ming corrected. "Positioning, build synergy, risk assessment. Look at the industry right now. People are exhausted. They work 12-hour shifts rebuilding the city. The last thing they want is a game that feels like more work. They want power. They want to feel like a god cutting down a field of enemies with minimal effort but maximum satisfaction."
He pulled up a flowchart. "This is the 'Feedback Loop'. In current games, the loop is: Die -> Reload -> Repeat. It's frustrating. In *Survivor's Dawn*, the loop is: Kill -> Level Up -> Choose Power -> Massacre. It's addictive. It validates the player."
Lin Wan stared at the flowchart. Her eyes narrowed as she did the mental math. She was the Creative Director; she cared about numbers, retention, and monetization.
"The retention rate on this model," she muttered, half to herself. "It relies on the 'One More Turn' psychology. Short sessions, high replayability."
She looked up at Zhong Ming. "The art style? You can't use photorealism for this top-down perspective. It would be cluttered."
"Correct," Zhong Ming agreed. "We use pixel art, but stylized. High contrast, clear silhouettes. It reduces asset production time by 60% and runs smoothly on low-end portable devices. We target the handheld market, not the high-end console market."
Wang looked at Lin Wan. "Your thoughts?"
Lin Wan tapped her chin. "It's risky. It goes against the current trend of 'bigger is better.' But the production cost is low. Extremely low. If it fails, the loss is negligible."
She turned back to Zhong Ming, her gaze piercing. "I'll give you a team. But not a AAA team. You get three interns. Two artists, one programmer. And you have exactly one month to produce a playable prototype. If the internal testing retention rate is below 40%, you're fired. No, worse—you'll be demoted to asset quality assurance for two years."
Zhong Ming hid his smile. A month? With the knowledge of Vampire Survivors in his head, he could do it in a week.
"I accept," Zhong Ming said. "But I have one condition."
Wang laughed out loud. "Condition? You're lucky we aren't escorting you out."
"I want creative control over the project's direction," Zhong Ming stated firmly. "No micromanagement. If I'm the 'World Architect', I need to lay the foundations without interference."
Lin Wan stared at him for a long moment. She saw something in his eyes—not the desperation of a job seeker, but the confidence of a veteran.
"Granted," she said. "But only for the prototype phase. You have your one month. Don't disappoint me."
Zhong Ming stood up. "I won't."
He collected his tablet and turned to leave.
"Wait," Lin Wan called out.
Zhong Ming paused at the door.
"The painting," she said, nodding towards the screen where *Resistance Soldiers* had been. "Is that the protagonist of this game?"
"No," Zhong Ming replied. "That painting is the past. The game is about the people who survived to see the dawn. It's about the future."
He walked out of the room.
...
As the door hissed shut behind him, Zhong Ming let out a long, shaky breath. The adrenaline was fading, leaving him feeling lightheaded. His body was still too weak for this level of stress.
He leaned against the corridor wall, gripping his chest.
*That was close,* he thought. *If I had pushed any harder, I might have collapsed.*
But he had done it. He had secured the entry point.
Just then, the bracelet on his wrist vibrated.
**[Mission Complete: Successful Interview.]**
**[Culture Points: +30]**
**[Current Balance: 100 Culture Points]**
**[Unlock Condition Met: Basic Game Design Logic Library (Tier 1)]**
**[New Function Available: Virtual Simulation Space.]**
Zhong Ming stared at the notification.
*Virtual Simulation Space?*
He tapped it. A new window popped up.
**[Virtual Simulation Space: A mental construct where the user can visualize and test game mechanics in real-time using mental energy. Note: Excessive use causes fatigue.]**
Zhong Ming's eyes widened. This was a game changer. He could prototype ideas in his mind before even writing a line of code? It was the ultimate tool for a designer.
He looked out the window at the sprawling, dystopian city. He had a team. He had a deadline. And now, he had a tool that bridged the gap between his imagination and reality.
"Let's get to work," he whispered.
He walked towards the elevator, his step lighter than it had been in years. He wasn't just an employee anymore. He was a producer. And the entertainment industry of this world was about to wake up from its long nightmare.