Zhang Heying’s ominous premonition was soon confirmed.
The meeting at NetDragon was going terribly.
The moment he suggested apologizing and making concessions to Lin You to seek reconciliation, it immediately sparked fierce opposition from the executives present.
The boss’s face turned livid with anger.
Before the boss could speak, the head of R&D department exploded in fury.
“If a college student can achieve this, it means the technology isn’t truly insurmountable. Most likely we’ve just fallen into a mental trap and taken a wrong turn temporarily! With some course correction, we could achieve a technological breakthrough in very short order! There’s no need to buy licensing from others – that would only make us dependent!”
“Even if we consider the worst case, as everyone knows, the hardest part of any new technology is its initial creation. Once there’s a successful case, replication becomes much easier! Following our own path and keeping the patents in our hands is the wisest choice!”
The lead programmer seized the moment to add support: “The development cycle for major game titles is measured in years. Being one or two months late with new technology won’t significantly impact our game production.”
The lead designer chimed in: “Exactly. And while waiting for the technological breakthrough, we can focus on preparatory work. It won’t cause any delays.”
Art Director: What R&D, lead programmer and design said makes sense.
Seeing so many executives opposing reconciliation with reasonable arguments, the boss began hesitating.
The lead designer spoke again: “We can’t be intimidated by temporary technological gaps. Technology isn’t everything in gaming.”
“Even in this era of virtual games, there are still companies making keyboard-and-mouse PC games and controller-based console games, and they’re doing quite well financially.”
Though those companies lack the strength to reach the industry’s top tier, he thought to himself, but there was no need to voice that.
“Even if his technology is temporarily ahead, that doesn’t mean he can threaten our advantages in gaming. NetDragon’s reputation built over these years isn’t so easily shaken. Besides, what he’s made is just some ambiguous walking simulator!”
The boss raised his concern: “But is it possible he could develop a major virtual game that threatens our position?”
The founder of NetDragon had already stepped down, and this new boss had received elite education since childhood. It wasn’t until he came to NetDragon preparing to take over from his father that he played some of the market’s top-selling games out of product research interest.
To him, games were just products. The details of production weren’t something the boss needed to study personally, which was why he relied on subordinates for professional opinions on such matters.
Yet his inherent pride made him unwilling to admit defeat so easily.
How could some penniless, powerless college student who hadn’t even graduated deserve to make him concede?
The lead designer immediately responded: “Setting aside how a lone college student would dare attempt a major game – even if he did, major games aren’t something just anyone can make! That requires an experienced, mature team! But the talent capable of making major virtual games are all already occupied. If you, boss, can ensure he can’t recruit enough people, he’ll be like a tiger without teeth.”
The young boss nodded in satisfaction: “That shouldn’t be hard. I’ll contact Flying Fox and Deserted Island, warn them to keep their people locked down so he can’t recruit anyone! Without support, I’d like to see what he can accomplish alone!”
“President Zhao, should we also contact the Bluebird Alliance? While they don’t have top-tier companies, they do have talent with experience in major virtual game development.”
The Bluebird Alliance was a coalition of small-to-medium game studios, originally formed for mutual support – coordinating new game releases and resisting pressure from large corporations.
It included many developers still making PC and console games. While few worked on virtual games, there were some who had left major game companies among them.
“Yes, that’s indeed necessary,” the boss nodded slightly. “He’s challenging the entire industry, so it’s only fair the entire industry resists him together.”
“Let’s adjourn the meeting here. I’ll make those calls. Everyone return to your work. Meeting dismissed.”
Zhang Heying sat in his seat, watching this performance, momentarily unable to tell:
Were these department heads genuinely convinced Lin You posed little threat? Or were they resisting his new technology out of fear it might endanger their positions and stable lives within the company?
Especially the R&D head – since when could cutting-edge technology be replicated so easily? Those 20,000 R&D personnel were just numbers on paper – when had they ever been fully staffed? Not to mention most were researching hardware performance improvements – greater capacity, faster read speeds, lower latency, higher resolution, quicker processing…
Could these people really pivot on a dime, drop their current work to research another direction, and achieve breakthroughs within months? He wasn’t technical, but he seriously doubted it.
In the end, he could only sigh and leave the meeting room quietly. He felt it necessary to start connecting with some headhunters in advance.
Meanwhile, other voices were gradually growing louder.
In a small livestream with just over a thousand viewers, Xia Yi was completely focused on her broadcast, oblivious to outside events.
She hadn’t even paid attention to news about Lin You before.
But during today’s stream, suddenly all her viewers started spamming his name wildly.
Along with phrases like “virtual reality,” “so great,” and “finally this day has come.”
Only then did Xia Yi, following her audience’s directions, open Lingxi to see the video Lin You had posted.
Halfway through watching, she couldn’t help but start crying, and the more she cried, the harder it became to stop.
Her viewers flooded the chat with comforting messages.
This was because Xia Yi had a special label: disabled person.
She was a one-legged streamer.
Her most viral content wasn’t her game streams or broadcast clips, but a bizarre vlog.
That day she went with friends to an escape room. Wearing pants, her difference wasn’t visible.
Then in a pitch-black corridor, an NPC staff member yanked off her prosthetic leg…
Both screamed simultaneously.
The girl wailed while crawling on the floor toward the NPC, shouting: “My leg! My leg! Give me back my leg!”
While the staff member’s screams were ten thousand times more terrified…
After reattaching her prosthetic, she tearfully apologized to them.
When this video surfaced, it went viral instantly, giving her a taste of overnight fame.
But such fame came and went quickly.
Due to her prosthetic’s limitations, intense movement was difficult, let alone playing VR games in an omnidirectional treadmill.
Now she finally saw hope.
Yet she wasn’t crying just for herself.
Because of her condition, she knew many disabled gamers who’d lost various bodily functions, facing life’s inconveniences and extra gaming challenges.
Thinking how they could all use this equipment to enter fully realistic virtual environments and experience being able-bodied again, she couldn’t stop sobbing, crying louder and louder.
As if releasing years of pent-up grievances and tears all at once.
(End of Chapter)