Within minutes of launch, social media exploded.
"Wait… this is made by LEO?!"
"No freaking way, this is the same Leo from Minecraft and Roblox!"
"Bro! He's in VR now—AND THIS IS ACTUALLY GOOD!"
"Yeah, this one's totally different from his usual stuff. It's like it was made by someone else. Are you sure this is Leo's work?"
"Of course it's by Leo!"
"How can a guy who made Candy Crush make a game like this?"
"Whatever, it's good for us gamers—just enjoy the game, man."
Clips started pouring in—people recording themselves flinching when a sniper bullet zipped by, laughing after clutching a 1v3 in a wheat field, or screaming as they crashed a vehicle in-game and tumbled out in full VR.
Streamers cried. Reviewers praised. The name Leo started trending separately from the game.
He wasn't just a developer anymore.
He was the developer.
…
The launch was more than successful.
It was a shift.
Reviewers called it the most immersive shooter ever made. Top-tier streamers labeled it the "first truly next-gen experience." Even skeptics admitted that the way players physically reacted in-game — the panic, the cheers, the sweat — was something no flat screen could ever deliver.
And as night settled across the studio again, and the first day numbers soared past ten million active matches, Leo leaned back in his chair, exhausted — but fulfilled.
"This is just the beginning," he whispered.
Because even now, in the shadows of that victory, he could sense it:
Other developers were watching.
Rivals were reacting.
...
While all this buzz stormed the internet, Leo was locked in his workspace, working silently.
He had more to do.
Now that he had the VR license, he finally had something he'd never had before — his own platform. A private server, marketplace, and release hub where his games didn't need to pass through anyone else's rules or split profits with any mega-distributor.
He opened his game library — all five of his earlier titles.
Each one had been released through corporate platforms. They took a cut.
Controlled exposure. Controlled updates.
Not anymore.
"Transfer request approved:
MINE CRAFT
ROBLOX
CANDY CRUSH
TEMPLE RUN
AMONG US
→ Migrated to Leo's Private Platform."
Tina and Melina watched the process finish in real time.
"That's a relief," Melina whispered.
Leo just nodded. "It's all ours now."
"And now those suckers can't take our profits from us."
…
As GroundZero VR settled into its first week, the ripples reached deep.
Competing studios halted their current projects just to analyze it. Major publishers requested tech breakdowns — most were denied. Multiple mid-tier devs quietly announced a new "VR survival shooter" within days.
A hidden group of small studios and indie coders even began collaborating. A leaked group message revealed their goal: "If Leo can shake the scene with three devs, what can we do with fifty?"
But none had the same tools. Or the system. Or the trait Leo possessed.
Still, the race had begun.
….
Meanwhile, in the city of Astrahelm, a boy named Riku Halden sat in his room, adjusting his VR visor.
He was seventeen. Lived with his parents and younger sister in a modest high-rise apartment. His mom worked nights at a clinic, and his dad managed a mechanic shop.
Riku wasn't a pro, but online, he was known as "RikuZone", a semi-popular VR streamer with a decent following. Funny, smart, a little chaotic — people liked watching him mess up more than watching him win.
When his chat told him Leo's new game was out, he didn't even hesitate.
Stream Title:"Trying Leo's New Game — Bet I Don't Survive 5 Minutes."
Viewer Count: 3,842 and rising.
He booted up GroundZero VR, slipped on his visor, and connected.
Sky above. Wind howling. Heart pounding.
Riku laughed nervously. "Okay... okay. This is wild."
He looked around. Dozens of players floated nearby — some chatting, some silently focused. Then—
THREE… TWO… ONE…
Drop.
Riku angled toward a big town — Vexton Bay — known for close-range fights and thick fog.
He landed hard on the rooftop of a warehouse. Rolled. Felt it in his knees.
"Holy crap. That felt real."
He rushed inside, grabbed a pistol, and heard footsteps.
"Already?! Come on!"
A shotgun blast rang out — too close.
He dove behind stacked crates, reloaded, popped out and fired—missed. The enemy dashed, he followed, jumping through a window.
"WHY IS THIS SO INTENSE?!"
Headshot.
The opponent dropped.
Riku froze. "I did it. I ACTUALLY—guys, clip that. CLIP THAT!"
He kept moving.
Found a backpack. A rifle. Armor.
Mid-game, an airdrop landed nearby. Riku crouched behind a wall as two players fought over it — he threw a grenade, timed it perfectly, and rushed in.
Three kills.
Heartbeat pounding.
The zone shrank. Smoke filled the area. He was low on ammo.
Top 3.
He slid into cover, barely dodging a sniper shot.
"Okay, okay… I see you."
He flanked left, sneaked around a broken jeep, caught one guy looting, and fired full auto.
Top 2.
Only one left.
Footsteps. Fog. Silence.
Then—movement.
Riku reacted on instinct, spun, and fired.
WINNER. WINNER.
"You are the Last One Standing."
His headset buzzed softly in victory glow. His stream chat exploded:
"RIKU YOU LEGEND!"
"Best win I've seen all week."
"Bro you made Leo proud."
"UPLOAD THIS RUN NOW."
Riku leaned back, soaked in sweat but smiling wide.
"That… was the best match I've ever played."
Just like Riku, thousands of players across the world were diving in.
Some played casually.
Some streamed.
Some tried to break the system.
…