Leo sat in his worn-out computer chair, the early morning light casting long shadows across the room. He closed his eyes, focusing inward, and called up the system's interface in his mind.
Planning: 60 (Competent)
Programming: 60 (Competent)
Art: 60 (Competent)
Music: 60 (Competent)
Total Fright Value: 500
He stared at the last line, a deep frown creasing his brow. The numbers hadn't budged. Not a single point. His attributes were the same, which he expected. But the Fright Value… after a million views, after thousands of comments detailing sheer terror, after Zaneiac's viral video of him screaming his lungs out… it was still at the base 500.
Why? Was it a bug? Did the system not count fear from a demo?
He mulled it over, the initial excitement from his viral success curdling into a cold, sinking disappointment. A single, logical, and deeply frustrating conclusion began to form in his mind. The system doesn't reward you for a sample. It only pays out for a finished product.
As soon as the thought solidified, he knew it was true. It made a certain kind of cruel sense. There were no shortcuts. No easy paths.
A bitter, humorless laugh escaped him. His grand plan, the one he'd been secretly constructing in the back of his mind, shattered into a million pieces. He had imagined it so clearly: use the flood of Fright Value from the Dark Forest demo to buy the development kit for Titanfall 2. In this world, a world where the FPS genre was stuck in a rut of modern military shooters, a trailer featuring pilots calling down skyscraper-sized mechs from orbit would be a cataclysmic event. Investment would have poured in. He could have used that money to establish a company, hire a team, and reclaim his past life as a successful producer.
It had been a beautiful dream. Now, it just felt naive. The system wasn't a genie granting wishes; it was a harsh mentor, forcing him to walk the proper path. He had to finish what he started.
"Forget it," he sighed, the words dissipating into the quiet room. "One step at a time. Do it right." He placed his hands back on the keyboard, the familiar plastic cool beneath his fingertips.
Half a month flew by in a blur of late nights and early mornings. Leo's world shrank to the glowing rectangle of his monitor, the clatter of his keyboard a constant rhythm. Empty coffee mugs formed a small city on his desk. Fueled by the system's hyper-efficient engine, his progress was astonishing. The first chapter of Dark Forest was not only complete but polished and tested, with side quests that were even more intricate and rewarding than the original game he remembered. He was already twenty percent into the second chapter—the swamp—and the finish line felt, for the first time, tantalizingly close.
During that time, the demo video's popularity exploded twice more.
The first surge came when Zaneiac, the streamer who had first discovered the demo, released his full playthrough video. It was a masterpiece of comedic terror, his tenor screams and witty commentary creating an endlessly entertaining experience that brought a massive new wave of attention to Dark Forest. Leo had watched it with a strange sense of pride and amusement, seeing his creation through the eyes of a genuinely terrified player.
The second explosion was even bigger. StreamVerse officially featured the game in their "Must-See This Week" segment, anointing it with the prestigious label of 'redefining horror games'. That official endorsement was like pouring gasoline on a bonfire. The view count soared past the ten-million mark.
With the views came revenue. Likes, channel subscriptions, and direct donations added up. When Leo checked his account, he stared in disbelief. After the platform's cut, he could withdraw nearly five thousand dollars. It wasn't life-changing money, but to his family, it was a lifeline. It was more than his parents made in two months of back-breaking labor.
Dark Forest was now a household name in the gaming community. Everyone knew about the terrifying indie horror game being built by a single, mysterious developer. The combination of a gameplay video and a playable demo was a powerful one-two punch of authenticity that made the promises of big studios feel hollow and distant.
More job offers flooded his inbox, now from larger, more prestigious companies. He ignored them all. And then, finally, the message he had been waiting for arrived. It wasn't a job offer. It was an investment proposal.
From Iron Horse Capital. A serious firm. They specialized in finding and funding promising new ventures. And they were offering one million dollars to fund the completion of Dark Forest.
Leo's heart leaped. This was it. The validation. The fuel he needed to turn his dream into a reality. Huang Tian had not let him down; his efforts were paying off.
He typed out a gracious, enthusiastic reply, his fingers flying across the keyboard. Then he stopped, a cold, sickening realization dawning on him. Iron Horse Capital couldn't invest in him. He wasn't a company. He was just a guy in his bedroom. He had no public business account to receive the funds, no official seal to stamp a contract, no business license, no tax qualifications. He was a legal ghost. Any money they sent him would be classified as a personal loan, subject to interest and taxes that would defeat the entire purpose of an investment.
He had hit his first real-world wall.
He slumped back in his chair, the elation draining out of him, replaced by a dull, aching frustration. He painstakingly drafted an email, explaining his situation as professionally as he could.
[Mr. Meng, we appreciate your transparency. Given your current status as a private individual, our firm would be unable to proceed with the investment as outlined.]
The reply came less than an hour later. Leo frowned at the name on his phone. He hadn't specified a surname, but they had assumed his first name, "Meng," was his family name. A minor annoyance in the face of the larger problem. He asked if they could keep the offer on the table while he sorted out his corporate affairs. The response was swift, polite, and utterly devastating.
[While we admire your initiative, you must understand our position. A newly formed company with no profit history, no assets, and a single, unreleased horror title as its only project would present a significant challenge for our risk control systems. Even if a manual review were to pass, the approved investment amount would likely not meet initial expectations.]
Leo read the email twice, a bitter smile twisting his lips. He knew how to translate corporate-speak.
"Challenge for our risk control systems" meant "No chance in hell of being approved."
"Would likely not meet initial expectations" meant "We'd offer you pennies, if anything at all."
He couldn't blame them. Why would a major investment firm gamble a million dollars on a ghost, a solo developer with no track record, in a genre famous for failure? No matter how hot the demo was, the business reality was ice-cold. This investment was gone.
He typed a final, polite reply, thanking them for their time.
[Understood. Thank you for the explanation. Perhaps we can cooperate in the future when the opportunity arises.]
[Of course, Mr. Meng. We wish you the best.]
He tossed his phone onto his bed and let out a long, heavy sigh. The frustration was a physical weight in his chest. But as he stared at the ceiling, the feeling began to shift, solidifying into a cold, hard resolve. This wasn't a defeat. It was a lesson. A necessary, painful wake-up call.
His path was clear now. The next step wasn't finishing the game. It was building the vessel that could carry it.
It was time to register a company.
PLS SUPPORT ME AND THROW POWERSTONES .