"I'm never drinking again. This headache is killing me."
Grumbling, Chen Xu rubbed his pounding temples as he sat up groggily in bed. His eyes were sticky and blurry, but when he managed to pry them open, the scene in front of him made him freeze.
"...Where am I?"
Before he could make sense of his surroundings, a flood of unfamiliar memories surged into his mind like a tidal wave.
It took him nearly an hour to sort them out.
It was clear—Chen Xu had transmigrated. In his previous life, he had been an ordinary game planner. But now, he had crossed into a parallel world.
And something about this world was… off.
The timeline had diverged in strange ways. Technological advancement had pushed every industry forward, and society was thriving. There was no more widespread hunger or sickness. The world had stabilized after a long period of war, and with people no longer preoccupied with survival, entertainment had become the dominant industry.
Among all forms of entertainment, one stood above the rest: video games.
In his previous life, games were often blamed for violence and societal issues. Public perception was riddled with stigma—governments clamped down, media railed against them, and developers were constantly under fire.
But in this world?
Games were considered a form of art. Top-tier game designers were held in the same esteem as celebrated authors or philosophers. They were cultural icons.
However, Chen Xu quickly realized something else—something even stranger.
All the famous game studios and creators from his original world were… missing.
There was no Ubisoft. No EA. No FromSoftware. The names Hidetaka Miyazaki, Masahiro Sakurai, Sid Meier, Hironobu Sakaguchi, the Hauser brothers, Hideo Kojima, and Shigeru Miyamoto meant nothing here. The people who had defined genres, revolutionized gameplay, and shaped gaming history simply didn't exist.
As far as this world was concerned, they never had.
"I've landed in a creative goldmine," Chen Xu muttered, scanning the computer in front of him.
Strict copyright laws and strong protections for original work meant that this world was a haven for creators. The government took art seriously—and that included games.
The original owner of this body, as Chen Xu recalled, had recently graduated and was trying to break into the comic industry. Sketches and illustration drafts littered the desk. Some were character designs for novels; others were concept art for game companies. The guy had submitted comic manuscripts several times, but none had been picked up by any editors. His webcomic series had failed to gain traction, and freelance illustration gigs barely kept him afloat.
Each commission fetched a modest price—maybe 1,200 yuan at most—and clients often demanded endless revisions.
Even with solid drawing techniques, it was a tough grind.
As for Chen Xu himself, he knew of the popular manga from his original world—One Punch Man, One Piece, Bleach, Naruto, Detective Conan. But knowing them didn't mean he could draw them. Watching anime and making successful manga were two very different things.
"No way I'm going to make it as a comic artist," he sighed. "Might as well go back to what I know best—games."
Digging deeper into the game industry here, Chen Xu was shocked.
Unlike his past world, where every game studio developed its own engine, this world's government provided official game engines powered by artificial intelligence. These tools allowed creators to bypass a lot of the technical grunt work—mechanics, systems, even basic code could be implemented via voice commands or visual scripts.
Gone were the days of praying that a programmer wouldn't rage-quit under pressure. Here, designers were king.
Of course, there were limitations. AI-generated code required massive computing resources. Designers were allocated fixed AI usage quotas based on their professional title. Freelancers could also rent servers for independent projects—but server space and maintenance didn't come cheap.
Becoming a licensed game designer had three paths:
Pass the annual Game Department certification exam.
Work at a game company for several years and apply through internal promotion.
Create an independent game that met market recognition standards—either 150,000 units sold, or 5,000 player reviews with an average rating above 8.5.
And no, you couldn't just fake the numbers. Manipulating reviews or sales was illegal and heavily punished.
"Well, it's not going to be easy… but it's possible," Chen Xu murmured, rubbing his chin. "After all, I'm not really doing this alone."
He had something no one else in this world did: the memories of a past life, and the knowledge of countless legendary games that never existed here.
He didn't have the resources or skills yet for massive triple-A productions. But when it came to indie games, he was confident. He knew what made them shine. Gameplay loops, emotional hooks, aesthetics, pacing—he could reproduce them all.
But just as he began thinking through a project idea, something odd caught his eye.
A glowing blue mark on the back of his hand—shimmering faintly, like a birthmark.
Curious, he rubbed it gently with his thumb.
Suddenly, a transparent interface popped up in front of him like a holographic screen.
"A… system?" he whispered.
Of course. What self-respecting transmigrator didn't get one?
Across the top, large golden letters appeared in a sleek UI:
[ Emotion Collection System ]
Chen Xu stared at it for a moment, then raised an eyebrow.
"...Why does it look like one of those cheesy mobile game interfaces?"
He sighed.
So be it. Ugly UI or not, this might just be the key to conquering the game industry of this new world.