Pure white. Endless, boundless white.
Medici's consciousness floated in this void like a speck of dust forgotten on a blank canvas.
This was the virtual creation space provided by the "Muse" system: minimalist, efficient, and cold enough to inspire dread.
"What should I call you?" Medici asked tentatively. His voice was unnaturally clear in this space, yet produced no echo.
"I am a subordinate unit of the Muse system, Creative Assistant Unit-1723."
The calm, neutral electronic voice responded immediately, seeming to come from all directions at once while simultaneously echoing directly in his mind. "You may choose to personalize my designation."
Medici barely hesitated before a name slipped out: "Then I'll call you 'Cortana.'"
He needed a conversation partner that felt more approachable, more concrete, not some cold string of numbers.
"Cortana" a well known name from the past," effectively easing the alienation he felt in this foreign world.
"Command confirmed. Nickname 'Cortana' has been archived."
The AI's voice remained perfectly flat. "Creator Medici, what type of artistic medium do you wish to work in?"
"Games." Medici's answer was decisive, without a trace of hesitation.
In his past life, he'd ground himself down to near-baldness in the game industry not just out of necessity, but because games (this form known as the "ninth art") held a fatal attraction for him.
They synthesized the essence of all traditional arts: literature, music, visual art, theater. But more than that, they possessed something those mediums couldn't match: interactivity and immersion.
They didn't just let you observe; they let you experience, choose, and feel firsthand.
In that ultimate experience, the transmission of emotion and thought could strike directly at the soul.
In this emotional wasteland of a world, there was no better tool for "awakening" than games.
"Command confirmed. Creation type: Interactive Virtual Experience. Initializing your dedicated creation interface..."
As Cortana spoke, the pure white space began to flow and transform.
Grid-like lines of light materialized beneath his feet, extending infinitely like a blueprint.
Various semi-transparent control interfaces and parameter panels began flickering in the air, slowly rotating around Medici, awaiting his commands.
Medici took a deep breath, his awareness sinking inward. How could he make these overgrown children living in their sterile greenhouse appreciate the value of life?
The answer was simple: make them face death.
No, not just death.
Something more brutal than death: struggling for a sliver of hope on a battlefield of despair, grasping the meaning of existence through the pain of losing comrades, greedily gulping down every breath of gunpowder-laced air in the brief lulls between volleys.
The radiance of life could only shine brilliantly when set against the darkness of despair.
And speaking of despair and darkness, one IP immediately surfaced in his mind, impossibly classic and impossibly vast: Warhammer 40K.
A universe with darkness and despair carved into its very bones, a space opera written in Gothic madness.
There, war wasn't an option but an eternal constant; sacrifice wasn't heroic but cold statistics; hope wasn't a beacon but the cruelest curse.
As for the game format, he chose the more modern and accessible framework of the Warhammer 40k series.
Large-scale battlefields, multi-class cooperation, vehicle operation, destructible environments... this high-intensity team combat and battlefield presence would be enough to show any Singularity citizen accustomed to passive entertainment what it meant to have their heart stop.
"Cortana, record the project name." Medici's voice echoed through the space with a creator's distinctive authority.
"Project name: Battlefield: Warhammer 40K."
"Name recorded." Cortana responded faithfully.
"Please describe the foundational worldview framework so I can supplement the underlying settings for visual style, physical rules, and narrative logic."
Medici cleared his throat and began sketching the dark universe that had been surging in his mind:
"The time is the 40th millennium of human history.
On Holy Terra, humanity's sole God-Emperor, a psyker as powerful as a star, has sat upon the Golden Throne for ten thousand years, protecting humanity's crumbling species.
He is both the Imperium's god and a living corpse enduring endless suffering. He watches over the entire galaxy, guiding its course, yet cannot personally save each of his subjects."
"Here, only war is eternal.
The Imperium of Man, a colossal entity spanning a million worlds, is also an extremely xenophobic, militarized theocratic empire.
Its Imperial Cult proclaims: 'Man is the measure of all things.' Any non-human intelligent life is denounced as 'xenos,' a filthy existence that must be purified and exterminated.
The Emperor's Angels of Death (the Space Marine Adeptus Astartes chapters) and the trillions-strong Imperial Guard are the scythes that execute this eternal crusade..."
Medici's voice was steady and powerful, gradually painting the Imperium's madness, fanaticism, and the tragedy of its struggle for survival in a dark universe.
He deliberately emphasized the Imperium's militarization, the brutality of war, and the insignificance and helplessness of individuals within the grand narrative.
He had his own comprehensive considerations.
The Warhammer 40K universe was too vast, with races, factions, and history intricately complex.
You couldn't swallow it all at once, and he had no intention of introducing bizarre xenos factions like Orks, Chaos, or Necrons in the first version (Season 1).
He'd even temporarily shelved the iconic Space Marines.
You had to eat one bite at a time, and shock value needed to be layered on gradually.
For Season 1, he only needed a sufficiently dark, sufficiently oppressive, sufficiently "real" human civil war backdrop to let players first adapt to the brutality of the battlefield.
"Basic worldview framework recorded. Logical coherence assessment: high. Dark oppressive style marked. Now, please set specific game modes and battlefield parameters." Cortana's voice interrupted his thoughts.
Medici refocused and began building the specifics:
"Map name: Tival. Background: An industrial world on the Imperium's frontier.
The planetary governor, corrupted by unknown influence, has declared independence from the Imperium.
An Imperial pacification fleet has arrived in orbit, and a war of suppression and counter-suppression is about to erupt on the surface."
"Battlefield size: set at 20,000 square kilometers. Includes core urban zones, abandoned industrial sectors, radioactive wastelands, and mountain canyons among other terrain types.
The rebel faction is the defender, relying on urban fortifications and familiar terrain for defense.
The Imperial faction is the attacker, possessing orbital bombardment support (limited uses) and equipment superiority."
"Combat scale: Each side can accommodate 32 real players simultaneously, playing as elite sergeants or special unit operators.
Meanwhile, the battlefield will be filled with AI soldiers from both factions, totaling 20,000, responsible for forming battle lines, executing basic tactical commands, and creating a large-scale war atmosphere."
Medici particularly emphasized the tiered intelligence of AI soldiers:
"Divide AI soldiers into three tiers: Recruits, Regular troops, and Veterans.
· Recruits: Poor shooting accuracy, rigid tactical movements, easily fall into chaos. They're cannon fodder on the battlefield and excellent tools for creating a sense of chaos and mortality.
· Regular troops: Basic combat capability, accurate shooting within 100 meters, can execute basic commands like capturing and defending. They're the backbone of the battlefield.
· Veterans: Elite units, pinpoint accuracy within 300 meters, flexible tactical positioning, even capable of simple flanking and ambush maneuvers. They're battlefield threats players need to handle carefully."
"Players can choose from four classes:
· Assault: Equipped with assault rifles and explosives, core for close to mid-range combat, responsible for breakthroughs and assaults.
· Medic: Equipped with medical kits and revival syringes, rescues downed teammates, maintains battle line combat effectiveness.
· Engineer: Carries tools and anti-vehicle weapons, repairs vehicles, deploys defensive fortifications, destroys enemy armored units.
· Scout: Equipped with precision rifles and observation equipment, responsible for long-range sniping, marking targets, providing battlefield intelligence to teammates."
As Medici issued each command, the virtual space underwent dramatic changes.
On the grid floor, a topographical model of planet Tival was rapidly constructed: ruined cities, twisted factories, barren sands rendered in vivid detail.
Imperial Guard soldiers in earth-yellow uniforms and rebels in dark gray armor began running and exchanging fire across it, muzzles spitting virtual flames, dust from explosions slowly rising.
Cortana efficiently integrated all parameters, occasionally raising technical queries: "Physics engine realism set to 97%, confirm? High realism may cause extreme discomfort for novice players."
"Confirmed." Medici didn't hesitate. "That discomfort is exactly what I want."
"Gore effects and dismemberment system enabled at 'realistic' level, confirm?"
"Confirmed."
"After player character death, there will be a 15-second 'spectator state' to observe the battlefield, then respawn at a control point.
Consecutive deaths may trigger 'combat fatigue' debuff, temporarily reducing certain attributes, confirm?"
"Confirmed. Let them savor the taste of death properly."
Watching the virtual battlefield before him gradually take shape, filled with steel, fire, and death, Medici's eyes gleamed with complex emotion.
This was no longer that cold, pure white space, but a cruel and authentic hell he'd created with his own hands.
He knew what he was making might not be a game, but a violently potent wake-up call.
What kind of pain and chaos would this medicine bring to a Singularity society drowning in eternal tranquility?
He took a deep breath. The air already seemed to carry the gunpowder smoke and rust of the virtual battlefield.
"Good," he murmured, his lips curving into an almost cruel arc.
"The first cornerstone of paradise has been laid. Now, it's time to let these overgrown babies taste reality."