Xia Yi immediately reposted Lin You’s video, making sure to share it in her fan group and send it to several friends as well.
She wanted to spread this good news to everyone right away, especially gamers with physical disabilities.
The news spread like wildfire among the disabled community, and Lin You’s follower count skyrocketed in an instant, climbing nonstop.
Every time the page refreshed, it jumped by hundreds of thousands! In daily life, people rarely notice the disabled around them, subconsciously assuming there aren’t many.
But this is a classic case of survivorship bias.
How many disabled people are there in Great Xia? Over 85 million! That’s 6.2% of the total population—6 out of every 100 people! When this group suddenly converges in one place, the consequences are immediate and severe.
Lingxi’s year-end bonuses were gone.
That’s right—Lingxi’s servers crashed again.
Three minutes later, everything was back to normal.
But then the discussion took an unexpected turn:
《If Lin You can transmit consciousness into the virtual world, then making the brain precisely control prosthetic limbs can’t be harder than that, right?》
Lin You was also pondering this question.
In fact, he had noticed it as soon as the disabled community began speaking up on Lingxi.
And he had started thinking about it.
Was it technically difficult?
Not at all.
Even if Xiaomeng didn’t have ready-made blueprints, the technology he already possessed could easily piece one together.
But this wasn’t like making games—the challenge wasn’t technical but operational.
Disabled people aren’t uniform in size—they vary in height, age, body type, and disability conditions, meaning each product would need adjustments during installation to fit individual needs.
This would require opening countless stores, hiring and training massive staff, and continuously innovating the technology.
And yes, there was also the complicated after-sales service—children grow several inches a year, so prosthetics would need constant readjustment.
And that was just off the top of his head—unforeseen issues would only pile up.
It involved too many complexities, far beyond what he could solve alone.
Games were much simpler—he could design the blueprints and standardized processes, then place orders with unmanned factories.
Automated assembly lines could start shipping products within a week.
At most, he’d just need to handle handovers.
So his best option was to shut down his computer and go to sleep, pretending he never saw this troublesome matter.
Yet the online discussion continued to spread endlessly.
Those with scientific and medical knowledge began explaining the flaws of current prosthetics: the inconvenience of myoelectric signal-controlled prosthetics, the invasiveness of brain-computer interface implants, their exorbitant costs, and the weak neural signals that made them impractical.
They debated whether non-invasive brain-controlled prosthetics could truly be achieved, how effective they’d be, and whether the cost would be manageable.
Countless netizens shared stories of their elders, children, or friends suffering from disabilities.
Others marveled, “I’ve never seen so many disabled people in my life.”
“Chirp chirp～” Special notification alerts rang out for countless users.
Lin You’s Lingxi account, now with over 8 million followers, suddenly posted an update:
“Brain-controlled prosthetics are technically feasible—it just takes time, and many issues can’t be solved by me alone. But I promise you this: I will make it happen. Please be patient.”
This was how Lin You had been in his past life, and it remained true now.
So while he had no qualms tearing into NetDragon, he couldn’t turn a blind eye to so many suffering people.
But he simply didn’t have the time. These days of nonstop game development had left him utterly drained.
When he woke up tomorrow, there’d be piles of work waiting—registering the studio, hiring staff, securing suppliers, small-scale testing for Journey, and putting a new game on the schedule, among countless other tasks.
Brain-controlled prosthetics would have to wait until he was more capable—then, the process would be far more efficient.
As for funding, he already had an idea.
He didn’t plan to accept any investments—the studio had to remain entirely under his control.
So he decided to open preorders immediately.
At the current level of hype and player anticipation, preorders would explode.
In other words, Lin You was about to cash in on his clout!
He had already decided: the virtual reality gaming set would sell for just 10,000 yuan per unit.
That was one-fifth the average price of a full VR setup on the market—and one-eighth of NetDragon’s price.
He’d even planned future price cuts: once the initial funding issues were resolved, even with product upgrades, prices would only drop unless hardware costs surged.
A major reason for this was Lin You’s drastic hardware simplification—especially the most expensive and space-hogging component, the omnidirectional treadmill, which he outright removed from the setup.
So even at 10,000 yuan per unit, profit margins were still huge.
10,000 yuan per set, 8 million followers each buying one—that’d be 8 billion in revenue! Instant retirement!
Snapping out of his pointless daydream, Lin You considered that the first step was to establish the studio. Once he hired a professional marketing lead, they could handle factory partnerships, saving him the legwork. Perfect plan! At most, he’d just send Xiaomeng to supervise—no worries about things going wrong.
Lin You’s post unsurprisingly sparked another wave of heated discussion.
Netizens’ enthusiasm showed no signs of fading, and his follower count kept soaring.
But Lin You had seen enough. What really annoyed him was NetDragon’s continued radio silence.
If you’re wrong, admit it! If you’re beaten, take it like a champ! What kind of coward just plays dead?
So before washing up and resting, he made sure to post one last update to taunt NetDragon:
“Almost forgot something—@NetDragon, see this? Learn anything?”
The post instantly reminded netizens of the other key player in this drama, reigniting their love for chaos.
“@NetDragon, the expert’s lecturing—come get schooled!”
“@NetDragon, hurry up! Opportunity knocks only once!”
“@NetDragon, wanna learn? Too bad he won’t teach you!”
“Could it be that NetDragon already downloaded the video and is scrutinizing it frame by frame with a magnifying glass, trying to steal some tricks?”
“Or maybe NetDragon just can’t learn even if they tried?”
Amused by the netizens’ relentless dragging of NetDragon, Lin You stood up, satisfied, ready to shower and rest.
But then—someone knocked on his door.
Not a frantic pounding, but a polite, gentle tap—nothing like an overzealous fan or excited journalist.
Now he was curious. Who else would come knocking at this hour?
(End of Chapter)