"Ethan Reed, how much do you think you're going to make from that soundtrack?" Vivian Frost asked, leaning back in her chair like a bored queen on a cheap throne. "It's already sitting at **number nine on the album charts**, and people online are screaming that it might hit **number one**."
Ethan didn't even look up from his laptop.
"What's it to you?" he said flatly. "This is my private vault. I'm not splitting any of it with you. So stop asking."
Vivian rolled her eyes so hard it looked like she was rebooting her brain. She set her mouse down with a loud click.
"Please. I don't care about your money. I'm not greedy. I'm just curious." She pointed at the screen with a lazy finger. "Q-Block pays by play traffic. Nine tracks. All charting. You're telling me that doesn't print at least **six figures a month**?"
Ethan shrugged, still typing.
"Probably."
Vivian stared at him, offended by how casual he sounded about the kind of money people got stabbed over in Lumen City.
Then she sighed. Boredom hit her like a slow poison.
Playing games for too long could lead to what she called "electronic impotence"—that dead, empty feeling where even your favorite titles started to look like chores. Vivian was deep in it.
The worst part?
She'd already played everything Northstar Games had made. She could speedrun most of it half-asleep. The only thing she still touched regularly was *Animal Party*, but that game needed friends—real friends, present friends—and her friends were either busy, asleep, or pretending they weren't online.
Public lobbies were out of the question.
If Ethan wasn't there, she refused to enter.
Getting knocked flat by strangers, humiliated in front of a chat window full of laughing emotes, was a special kind of rage she didn't have time for. But if Ethan was around? Different story.
If she got bullied, she'd yell for him.
Two on one always wins, right?
…Right?
Vivian's "Cat Paw Punch" was legendary in her own mind, and she wasn't about to let reality ruin that fantasy.
She tapped the desk, staring at the ceiling.
"Anyway," Ethan said, finally glancing at her, "you're worrying about the wrong thing. The money's nice, but the trailer matters more. You agree or you're lying."
Vivian's boredom cracked into a grin.
"Yeah. That's the real prize."
Mooncrest Studio had delivered the first version of the trailer cut—an animated showcase built from gorgeous character shots, sleek UI flashes, and quick gameplay glimpses. It revealed **nothing** about the story. Not a single spoiler. Just vibes, attitude, and a promise: *This game is real. This game is expensive. This game is coming.*
Vivian nodded, suddenly alert.
"It's basically ready. Art team is doing a second pass—logo polish, the final music layer, some background tone and punch." Her eyes gleamed. "It'll be online before evening. Traffic's insane right now."
The soundtrack had caught fire, and the keyword **"Neon Blade: Echoes of Lumen"** had been hovering in Official Blog's trending list since morning. It had climbed into the top fifty and refused to die.
Going higher would be hard. The top spots were usually reserved for celebrity scandals, corporate fights, and influencers pretending not to be paid.
But top fifty was already a weapon.
Official Blog had tens of millions of daily users. Even a top fifty position meant an exposure burst large enough to change a company's quarter.
And best of all?
The traffic was free.
The keyword was clean. The algorithm loved it.
And the attention was already built by Ethan's own move.
They'd be idiots not to cash it in.
Vivian leaned forward.
"Did you settle things with Skybound?" Ethan asked. "Promotion slots. Home page visibility. All that."
Vivian's grin faltered.
"Yeah… kind of. They're willing. Very willing." She sounded annoyed by it, like she'd been forced to swallow a compliment. "But they want an adjusted revenue share."
Ethan's fingers paused mid-keystroke.
Vivian continued, "Rowan Flint—yeah, that's his name—said if we want a featured promo slot, they need **eighteen percent**. That's three points higher than the old terms. He said if we sign, Skybound gives us placements worth **tens of millions**."
Ethan stared at her like she'd told him the sun was optional.
"Don't tell me you didn't agree."
Vivian's eyes widened instantly.
"If you keep looking at me like that, I'll dig your eyeballs out!" she snapped. Then she threw her hands up. "Of course I know it's a good deal! Three points is nothing. Skybound's basically showing favor because they trust the project. I just didn't sign it without talking to you first."
Ethan's expression softened into something worse than smugness.
"Are you the boss or am I the boss? Just decide."
That sentence hit Vivian like a slap.
Her lips pressed together. The anger started in her throat and spread into her chest. For a second her eyes looked shiny—then they looked murderous.
**His grandma's.**
Her fists clenched.
You know she's the boss, and yet he assigns her tasks like she's an intern running errands.
When he needs something done, it's *Boss Vivian*.
When he doesn't, it's *Vivian*, like she's just… furniture.
Tea, water, meals, deliveries—every tiny thing magically became her job.
Vivian wanted to scream.
Ethan, to his credit, didn't meet her eyes anymore. He turned back to his laptop like a man who had learned the fine art of survival.
"Sign the contract," he said calmly, typing again. "Three points for tens of millions in promo. Skybound is calculating, sure. They'll profit. But we won't lose. Three points for a massive distribution channel is a straight win-win."
Vivian huffed. "How are you so sure the game will be a huge hit? You're sounding a little… arrogant."
Ethan smiled without looking at her.
"Boss Vivian, you've playtested it. What do you think?"
Vivian hummed twice, lifted her fist, and did two small "punching the air" motions toward his shoulder—like she was beating him in spirit.
But she didn't refute him.
Because she knew.
If the promotion landed right, **there was no world where Neon Blade didn't blow up.**
Just then, the office door knocked.
A voice called out, excited: "Boss Vivian! Chief Planner! The trailer is finished!"
Vivian stood up immediately.
Ethan stood up too—then sat back down first, like a petty little victory.
Vivian clicked her tongue. "Come in."
The head artist stepped into what the staff jokingly called **Northstar's most mysterious room**, holding a drive like it was holy data. His face was bright with pride and adrenaline.
---
At **5:50 p.m.**, Northstar Games' **Official Blog** account launched a surprise strike.
No cute banter. No long captions. No memes.
Just a video post.
And five words:
**NEON BLADE: ECHOES OF LUMEN**
Within thirty minutes, the keyword blasted up the trending list after the next hot-search refresh.
Because the soundtrack was still burning through the internet like a wildfire in a dry district.
And now the game itself had finally shown its face.
At **8:00 p.m.**, when streamer **PDX** woke up and started his livestream, his chat looked like a riot.
"TRAILER! TRAILER! TRAILER!"
PDX blinked, confused, lit a cigarette, and opened Q-Block Music. He played **"Blades Over Lumen City"** for a few seconds, then spoke into the mic.
"What trailer? A movie? An anime?"
His chat exploded.
**[Your mom's anime. It's a game trailer!]**
**[Northstar trailer! Watch it, it's insane!]**
**[Light of domestic games! The trailer quality beats online games!]**
**[Mira Vale's model is unreal!]**
**[Music + visuals = I'm crying. Northstar is loaded!]**
PDX slapped his desk and opened BiliZone, searching the title. He found Northstar's latest upload instantly.
The view counter made his eyebrows jump.
"Two million views? Already? When did this drop?" He leaned closer. "Two hours ago? You people are fast."
Then he clicked play.
The screen screamed with bullet comments:
**"HIGH ENERGY WARNING!"**
**"I've watched it thirteen times!"**
**"Luna Ash is the best!"**
**"The voice acting is cracked!"**
**"Logan Fairchild's VA is god-tier!"**
PDX immediately turned off bullet comments and watched clean.
The trailer opened with **"Reminiscence of Neon Immortals."**
Cloud effects rolled across the screen—hyper-real, almost too real—like the sky had been rendered with corporate-grade tech. From the fog, the **Northstar Games logo** emerged, sharp and metallic.
Then a long jade-green blade shot downward through the clouds like a signal flare.
The title appeared.
**NEON BLADE: ECHOES OF LUMEN**
The first character arrived in a burst of wind and falling leaves: a young man with short dark hair, a rugged cloak, a bow in one hand and a blade in the other.
The name tag flashed in cyan:
**ORION VALE**
A poem line appeared beside him—stylized, elegant, dramatic.
PDX didn't understand a word of it, but his entire body trembled.
"It looks so… epic," he muttered, half-awed.
Then came raw gameplay shots: mountains, trees, streams, wildlife, soft light filtering through leaves. Orion sprinted, jumped, drew his weapon—movement so smooth it didn't feel like a "domestic game" at all.
PDX leaned forward, mouth open.
"The sky is so blue… the clouds are so white… the water is so clear…" He pointed. "And the rabbit is so cute!"
Then his face tightened with suspicion.
"Wait—are these graphics real? Is this actual gameplay?"
His chat screamed yes.
PDX's eyes shone.
Good domestic single-player games were rare now. Not because creators lacked passion, but because the market crushed them. Small studios made small masterpieces that barely survived. Big-budget single-player projects? Almost extinct.
Online games ate everything. If a single-player theme sold even a little, ten companies rushed to reskin it into an online cash machine.
In that environment, making a big single-player game wasn't business.
It was rebellion.
And Northstar had done it anyway.
Then PDX frowned.
"Huh… didn't Ethan say it's turn-based?"
He wasn't the only one confused.
The movement, the world, the fluid traversal—none of it looked like what people expected from turn-based games. People expected cute chibi models, simplified maps, old-fashioned staging.
This didn't look like turn-based.
It looked like a premium cinematic RPG.
Then the second character appeared—laughing, playful, moving like a blade-dancing street phantom.
Twin short swords.
Bright eyes.
Her name flashed:
**LUNA ASH**
The chat lost its mind even with bullet comments off.
Then the third character arrived and the entire tone shifted.
A field of purple blossoms.
A woman sitting calmly, playing a sleek instrument—eyes lowered, expression gentle but weighted with sadness.
Her name:
**MIRA VALE**
PDX's nose stung unexpectedly.
He didn't know the story. He didn't know the relationships.
But the combination of music and visuals made something heavy rise in his chest.
**That was Northstar's strength.**
Even without context, they made you *feel* the tragedy.
And finally, at the end of the trailer, the long blade from the opening returned.
This time, it appeared beside something that made PDX sit up hard.
A tombstone.
PDX's face twisted. "A tombstone? What is this? Whose tombstone is that? Orion's? Damn you, Northstar! You're doing this again—you're trying to break us!"
He slammed the desk, genuinely furious.
Because the sword was clearly Orion's personal weapon.
And the tombstone wasn't shown fully.
A tease.
A threat.
A promise of heartbreak.
It was obvious what Northstar was doing.
**They were baiting the audience's emotions on purpose.**
And the most terrifying part?
It worked.
PDX wasn't alone. Streamers everywhere reacted the same way.
Across forums, the same line kept popping up in different forms:
**"Northstar has terrifying courage."**
First, they were called **the most romantic game company.**
Now?
People were starting to whisper something new:
**the most ruthless.**
The trailer spread with insane speed, powered by the momentum of *Animal Party* and the soundtrack's chart climb. In a single evening, Neon Blade became a hot title—before anyone could even buy it.
Hashtags exploded across the gaming community:
**#LightOfDomesticGames**
**#RomanceRequiresCourage**
**#IsNorthstarBurningBridges**
**#PDXIsCursingNorthstarAgain**
**#ThatTombstoneIsOrion's**
Back home, Ethan Reed sat with narrowed eyes, scrolling through the Northstar forum.
Theories were everywhere.
"Orion's dead."
"No, it's Logan's."
"Mira is sad, so it must be Logan."
"Orion sacrificed his blade for his brother."
Ethan almost nodded along.
If he didn't know the truth, some of these theories were genuinely well-built.
But he did know the truth.
So he smiled.
**Who said there was only one tombstone?**
Only one of the main cast truly died, sure.
But there were **two tombstones**.
And if the audience thought the love story would be neat and fair?
They were in for pain.
Because life wasn't fair.
And neither was Lumen City.
Ethan folded his arms, amused at the chaos he'd planted.
**"I'm really evil,"** he murmured, half-laughing. **"When the game drops, I might need to hide for a while."**
He pictured fans melting down.
He pictured the angry posts.
He pictured the dramatic edits with crying emojis.
He pictured someone mailing him something sharp out of pure emotional betrayal.
Then he laughed again, softer this time.
**"But why does it feel so good?"**
And somewhere in Linan Arcology, corporate recruiters were already whispering his name like it was currency.
Ethan Reed didn't just make a game.
**He set a trap.**
And the entire internet walked right into it, smiling.
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