"Byee! Good night, Arty!" Liseli chirped, giving an enthusiastic wave as she stepped out into the hallway.
"Get some sleep, Arthur," Kasavin added with a respectful nod.
A chorus of sleepy, satisfied goodbyes echoed from the rest of the department heads as they finally filed out of Suite 501, heading back to their own respective rooms.
The door clicked shut. The sudden, absolute silence of the suite rushed in to fill the void.
Left entirely alone, Dorian stood in the center of the room for exactly three seconds before his legs gave out. He stumbled forward and slumped face-first onto the impossibly soft, king-sized hotel bed.
He let out a long, muffled groan into the expensive pillows. He was so incredibly exhausted. The sheer adrenaline of the secret reveal had kept him going, but now that the team was gone, his physical and mental batteries were completely drained.
Rolling onto his back, Dorian stared blankly at the ornate ceiling.
There was just so much left to do, and a terrifying amount of things to worry about.
On the music side of his double life, he still had to finish the remaining planetary stops on Composer Percival's massive galactic tour. Then came the endless, grueling press junkets. After that, he was required to make a high-profile appearance at the prestigious Gilded Crescendo Awards.
But his music career was merely a side quest compared to the colossal titan that Round Table Studio had become.
While Hades and Pokémon: FireRed and LeafGreen were essentially finished products operating at maximum capacity, the studio's workload had actually increased. For Stardew Valley, they had officially mandated two Community DLC updates every single year to keep the community thriving.
Furthermore, RTS was no longer just a digital software company. The sheer cultural impact of their games had forced them to aggressively expand into physical merchandise. From premium Stardew Valley plushies to the absolute logistical nightmare of launching the official Pokémon Trading Card Game across multiple star systems, the physical production lines were running non-stop. There were even highly lucrative talks about partnering with elite galactic animation studios to adapt their IPs into series.
Dorian rubbed his tired eyes. And amidst all of this, he had to prepare for the future.
Assassin's Creed was officially slated as their next tactical release, entirely for the purpose of acquiring the 'Helix' technology. But diving into the Helix system brought him back to a deeply complicated, highly dangerous theory he had been quietly developing regarding his Creator System.
Over the past few months, Dorian had meticulously analyzed all the rewards he had pulled from the Gacha. He had realized a very strict, undeniable pattern.
The System only ever materialized things that the playable protagonist could actively obtain or interact with.
From the Stardew Valley banners, he had pulled crops, farming tools, and livestock, everything the Farmer could own. From Hades, he had pulled Infernal Arms, Keepsakes, and divine Boons, the exact inventory of Zagreus. From Pokémon, he had obtained Poké Balls, potions, and the biological Pokémon themselves, the literal backpack and party of Red.
The System had never directly given him a physical building. It had never pulled an actual NPC from the code. Even the mighty Olympian Gods from Hades were firmly tied to their Boons, manifesting only as ethereal projections rather than physical, world-altering deities.
But there was one terrifying exception: the Mastery Cave from Stardew Valley.
The ancient, magical cavern had completely bypassed the rule. It had physically manifested somewhere in the real universe. And he still had absolutely no idea where it had materialized. That unknown variable was a lingering mystery that deeply terrified him.
Dorian had a theory on why it had happened. In his System interface, each of his game avatars existed as a distinct title: 'Farmer of the Past' for Stardew, 'Prince of the Underworld' for Hades, and 'Champion of Kanto' for Pokémon. Each of these unique profiles had its own specific, entirely different method of leveling up and upgrading.
The cave had materialized because Dorian had completely maxed out his 'Farmer of the Past' profile. He had hit the absolute ceiling of the game's progression, and the System had rewarded him by physically altering reality somewhere in the galaxy.
That single, undeniable fact absolutely paralyzed him.
It was the exact reason he had been aggressively holding back from fully maxing out his 'Prince of the Underworld' profile. He had deliberately left the Mirror of Night unfinished. He was swimming in Darkness, but he was terrified of the "what if".
What if he maxed out the Mirror of Night and the System decided to physically materialize the House of Hades somewhere in the galaxy? What if Mount Olympus suddenly spawned in the middle of a populated Accord trade route?
The implications for maxing out 'Champion of Kanto' were even worse. What if reaching 100% completion caused the entire Kanto region to drop out of the sky onto an unsuspecting planet?
Dorian shivered, wrapping his arms around himself. He could not afford to accidentally unleash an entire mythological realm or a monster-filled continent onto the Stellar Accord. He had to keep his profiles just below their maximum thresholds until he truly understood the limits of his Creator System.
For now, he needed to stick to the plan. Staring up at the dark ceiling of the luxury suite, Dorian began to meticulously untangle the logical threads of his upcoming projects.
The Helix system from Assassin's Creed was going to be tricky. In the original Earth lore, the system's notoriously weak security was a major plot point, a literal revolving door that the modern-day Brotherhood constantly hacked into.
If he was going to adapt the game to fit the Stellar Accord's history, he had to be careful. The galactic gaming market was already flooded with sterile, government-approved historical simulators. Injecting a massive, hidden shadow war between Assassins and Templars directly into the Accord's established timeline would absolutely be a breathtaking breath of fresh air for the genre, but would the Accord view it as harmless fiction or dangerous propaganda?
He had briefly entertained a much simpler workaround. Why not just take the flawless, consumer-ready AmuSphere technology from Sword Art Online and staple it onto the Assassin's Creed gameplay?
But he had immediately scrapped the idea. The Creator System was incredibly, stubbornly rigid.
During the development of Stardew Valley, Dorian had woven in several mechanics and plot elements inspired by other classic farming simulators like Harvest Moon and Rune Factory. Yet, despite those heavy additions to the code, the System's Gacha had never once materialized an item from those secondary influences. It remained strictly locked to the original, core Stardew loot pool.
If he created a hybridized Frankenstein of a game, he risked confusing the System and completely ruining the purity of his Gacha rewards.
Then again, he couldn't just develop SAO: Fatal Bullet as a standalone title either. Releasing a sci-fi gun game would mean stepping directly into a market completely saturated by hyper-realistic Accord military shooters. Since his Gacha probabilities and item qualities were directly tied to the player base's engagement, he simply could not afford to squander a release on an uncertain market. If the game flopped, his Gacha would dry up.
Dorian let out a long, hard sigh, dragging both hands down his face. The logistical gymnastics were exhausting.
However, a sudden spark of excitement pierced through his fatigue. His thoughts drifted to the sketch Liseli had pointed out. Monster Hunter.
Just thinking about the potential Gacha pulls from that universe made his heart race. Hades gave him divine power. Pokémon gave him elemental beasts. But Monster Hunter would give him physical, tangible hardware. Heavy armor sets, massive greatswords, durable monster hides, and wyvern organs. It was a treasure trove of physical loot ready to be sold.
Those items were the absolute key to his survival. They were the key to making him an 'official' Solar.
With a steady supply of high-tier weapons and armor, Dorian could legally register himself with the Accord as an Irregular Forger-type Solar. He could establish a flawless cover story, claiming his unique Irregular ability allowed him to conceptually design armor and weapons in his mind and physically materialize them into the real world.
It was the ultimate alibi. If he had an official, registered class, he could finally operate in the light. He could proudly march right up to Juno's father, apply to the prestigious guild, get accepted, and essentially become one big, legally recognized happy family.
Dorian smirked into the pillows. Granted, there were several incredibly vague, highly dangerous steps he still needed to figure out to actually reach that point. But it was genuine progress.
An official Solar registration would grant him an immense amount of societal standing. It would give him the necessary room to maneuver and the legal legitimacy to openly use his physical enhancements whenever a threat arose.
Step by step. He just needed to follow the roadmap. He would reveal enough to secure his place in the galaxy, keeping the true nature of the System hidden safely in the dark.
…
A day later, across the sprawling digital frequencies of the galactic net, the morning news broadcasts were in full swing.
Inside a sleek news studio, a stern-faced anchor looked directly into the camera.
"...and so, this devastating harbor attack marks the very first time a terrorist splinter group has successfully destroyed an Ampolira connection," the anchor reported, his tone grave and measured. "The burning question on everyone's mind this morning is: how will the Stellar Accord react to this unprecedented breach? Does our continued diplomatic stance on maintaining peace simply signal weakness to these radical factions, giving them the green light to keep attacking us?"
The anchor paused for a few seconds, letting the heavy political weight of the segment settle before smoothly pivoting his posture. A bright, practiced smile instantly replaced his grim expression.
"Next up, moving on to much more lighthearted news... watch how a masked composer delivered a breathtaking tribute to one of our brave legion soldier and his young family."
The studio feed immediately cut to a beautifully edited montage of amateur holographic recordings taken directly from the crowd at the Proxima Grand Arena. The shaky, glowing footage showed Percival standing at the edge of the stage, passionately singing 'You'll be in my heart...' as Reil, Lina, and baby Percy swayed in the grandstands.
"A profound show of respect to our troopers was displayed in the Proxima system last night," the anchor's voice-over continued as the emotional clips played out. "Composer Percival, the enigmatic musical prodigy sweeping the galaxy, randomly selected a young military family from the crowd. As if guided by pure fate, they were chosen to have a father's heartfelt message turned into a viral, chart-topping masterpiece right before our very eyes."
The footage faded, cutting back to the studio desk.
"The raw talent on display has sparked massive discussions among industry elites, especially considering the Composer's highly publicized status as the official protégé of legendary Maestro Gil Nothos," the anchor noted, adopting a more serious, analytical tone. "Joining us in the studio this morning to discuss this cultural phenomenon is a fellow friend and esteemed rival of Gil Nothos... Maestro Babichev Potap Fyodorovich."
The camera panned to the guest chair. Sitting there was an older, incredibly pretentious-looking man with a heavily waxed mustache and a stiff, multi-layered velvet suit.
Potap let out a long, highly dramatic exhale through his nose and offered a stiff nod to the camera.
"Welcome, Maestro," the reporter greeted warmly. "So, as an expert in the field, what do you think of this performance by Gil Nothos's protégé?"
Potap scoffed, adjusting his cuffs with a look of utter disdain. "Please. This is clearly a highly calculated, heavily manipulated PR stunt. Honestly, I am not even remotely shocked that a student of Nothos would stoop to this cheap, theatrical level to mask a lack of true classical discipline. If it were my student–"
The screen abruptly went black.
Lightyears away, in the lavish, sunlit parlor of a high-end estate in Sela, Gil Nothos lowered his remote and casually tossed it onto the glass coffee table.
He reached forward and picked up a delicate porcelain cup. A warm, fragrant stream of steam drifted from the dark liquid inside. It was a fresh batch of teebu, personally grown, harvested, and shipped directly to his doorstep by Dorian.
Gil brought the cup to his lips and took a slow, deeply satisfying sip.
"Heh," Gil muttered, a dark, incredibly smug chuckle rumbling in his chest. "Rival, my ass. You couldn't even rival my fart with that absolute noise pollution you dared to call an album last year, Potap."
Gil took another leisurely sip of the world-class teebu, leaning deep into the plush cushions of his armchair. A bright, immensely proud smile spread across the veteran Maestro's face.
The absolutely only thing Gil took from that entire news broadcast was the glorious fact that the galactic media had officially, publicly declared Composer Percival as his student.
…
Mord Tida was not a planet meant for art. It was a harsh, unforgiving world built entirely for extraction.
To call the venue for Composer Percival's third galactic tour stop a "concert hall" would be a massive, comical stretch. In fact, there were no tickets at all.
The venue was an ancient, abandoned strip-mining pit; a colossal, spiraling wound carved miles deep into the rocky crust of the planet. The main stage was a reinforced industrial platform situated at the very bottom of the crater. The audience simply stood along the massive, spiraling excavated terraces that led all the way up to the surface.
This localized event had been the absolute ultimate logistical nightmare for Ratik.
Setting up high-fidelity acoustic dampeners and a massive live orchestra in the middle of a dusty, hyper-arid crater was one thing. Getting an audience was another. She had literally been forced to aggressively lobby the local branch of the Accord Ministry of Resources, calling in dozens of corporate favors just to grant the entire planetary mining workforce a two-hour leave.
Even with the massive weight of Percival's capital, pulling it off had been nearly impossible. But unexpectedly, John Kepler had stepped in to help.
Dorian's father had spent years doing back-breaking, deep-core mining on Mord Tida. He had bled, sweat, and suffered alongside the other miners. Using his deeply respected connections, John had quietly called the union bosses and the Neman chiefs, smoothing over the ground-level logistics that corporate money simply couldn't buy.
The local planetary overseers didn't even know the true details. All they had been told was that some eccentric, unbelievably wealthy artist wanted to utilize the unique acoustic echo of an abandoned Class-4 mining pit for a private performance.
For Dorian, however, this stop was deeply, profoundly personal.
He didn't care about the lack of media coverage. Mord Tida was where his father had nearly broken his body. This concert was Dorian's way of saying a quiet, massive thank you to the gritty, exhausted, invisible workforce of the galaxy.
Inside the temporary backstage command center, which was literally just a retrofitted heavy cargo hauler parked at the bottom of the pit, Ratik was nervously pacing back and forth.
"I've crossed every single one of my fingers and toes," Ratik muttered, aggressively swiping through her datapad.
Standing calmly by the main power conduit, Raja smoothly adjusted the cuffs of his pristine suit, completely unfazed by the layers of industrial dust coating the walls. "Don't worry, Ratik. The localized atmospheric shields are holding perfectly. All systems are green."
Ratik let out a long, shaky exhale. She walked over to Dorian, who was quietly strapping on his electric guitar. She gently tapped him on the shoulder.
"Alright," Ratik said, her stern expression softening just a fraction. "Go get 'em."
Dorian offered a firm nod and slipped his silver mask over his face.
As he stepped out of the cargo hauler and walked up the metal ramp to the stage, the sheer scale of the venue hit him. It was breathtaking in the most rugged, brutal way imaginable.
Looking up at the towering, spiraling walls of the pit, he saw hundreds of thousands of miners. They were still wearing their heavy, grime-covered environmental suits. Their faces were streaked with dark soot and sweat. Instead of flashing concert merchandise, the pitch-black crater was entirely illuminated by a sea of bright, white industrial helmet lamps shining down toward the stage.
Looking at them, Dorian saw the exact same exhausted, dust-covered look his father used to wear when he came home from a brutal shift, coughing and aching just to put synth-food on the table for him, Lyra, and Marcus.
A deep, profound warmth bloomed in Dorian's chest.
Beneath the mask, he smiled. He stepped up to the microphone, ready to give the working class of Mord Tida a night they would never, ever forget.