Chapter 52: Winning the Award in Advance

As the Fourth Calamity, I embody the culmination of all virtues in the world, as well as the total sum of all evils.

In the past, when I was at the alien scholar’s household, shirking responsibility was merely a form of amusement.

But this time, playing my own game—one based on real historical events—I simply could not suppress my desire to save the world.

The rise and fall of a nation is the duty of every man.

There is a simple yet profound sentiment that has perhaps long been etched into everyone’s hearts.

So, where lies the path to salvation?

This game is built on the foundation of a feel-good narrative: every tragedy can be averted.

All frustrations within the game can be overcome through wisdom and extraordinary martial arts.

If the greatest tragedy cannot be averted—even if the protagonist is unrivaled across the land and is caught between internal and external reactionary forces—then something must be amiss.

This is a consensus among many devoted fans, and the most devoted have realized that the greatest obstacle to saving the people does not lie outside, but within—the imperial court of the Song Dynasty itself.

The way to save the people of the Song is to destroy the Song.

Suddenly, I recalled President Gu’s approach: “To pacify the outside, one must first stabilize the inside,” which recently made a brief appearance on trending searches.

The buzz noted that after the release of “Pure Love,” Gu Meng dismissed a large number of senior executives from his company. Meng Juju, portraying herself as a victim, recorded an interview at her new company in North America, even including a brief boxing demonstration.

Ghelpg.

Unfortunately, her skills were terribly poor, and during the interview, she made outrageous claims about being simultaneously pursued by twelve African male models.

Even the feminists thought she was incredible but suggested she distance herself.

It’s not that having radical views is frightening; what’s frightening is foolishness—at least try to appear pitiable when writing your little essays!

Such a liability.

Meng Juju continued to push her narrative, still aiding Gu Meng from afar in North America.

Yet, because so many were fired, some speculated whether this was an internal purge within the Maodou faction due to succession issues.

After all, the team had produced masterpieces like “Pure Love Warrior”; was it wise to dismiss everyone?

But these controversies quickly faded.

Because later, You Xuan released that half-finished, terrible demo, and everyone understood what kind of deadweight President Gu was dragging along.

Respect for the Dragon King grew even more!

Pure fans recalled this episode and found it completely coherent.

This true ending not only exposes the rot within the Song Dynasty but also hints at President Gu’s earlier predicament: to make a great game, you must eliminate the liabilities, or else you are doomed.

At first, players might feel inspired by the noble sacrifice, as the plot given the most attention ignites passion—even in death, there is no regret, blood boils with fervor.

That alone is commendable; it can leave players with a classic ending remembered for a long time.

But after multiple playthroughs, the oppressive feeling inevitably grows.

For a game, this is actually enough—there are so many good endings to explore, and such a vast scope.

Ordinary players likely won’t feel frustrated after a couple of playthroughs; the protagonist’s final charge against premature gray hair is stunning, like a dragon shedding its armor.

Following that is a sequence of tales sung throughout the ages, where the hero’s deeds are forever remembered by the people—hardly a bad ending.

Yet somehow, it feels insufficient, because this game is so fun that players keep digging deeper and deeper.

This ending feels like a masterpiece during the first and second playthroughs.

But with so many side quests and a rich action module, people never tire of playing, often returning for more after the second run.

When history remains unchangeable, the feeling of oppression becomes increasingly apparent.

This is actually because the game is too well made.

In a typical martial arts game, most players feel the story is complete upon finishing; repeating it loses its charm, and discussions about the plot become lively, like with many classic domestic games.

But because this game’s gameplay is so diverse, and the multiplayer portion was developed by You Xuan himself without much flair—or any particularly interesting NPCs to seek out—players end up replaying continuously.

Each time, upon reaching the ending, they face another choice, then resolutely choose to stay, only to be consumed by flames once more.

It’s quite possible that no other ending exists; after all, without an official strategy guide, all fans’ theories are just speculation.

Even if a DLC comes later adding another ending, that would be normal.

Yet, the pure fans still feel something is off.

They finally realized what felt wrong: the inability to change the true ending does not conflict with the game’s plot having solutions, because an ending can exist without a solution—but this contradicts another hidden baseline feel-good mode within the game.

The game’s protagonist is the child of destiny; this game does not torment its hero.

Both “Pure Love” and “The Legend of Heroes” reveal that President Gu has embedded details at an almost exasperating level of precision and intricacy.

If the true ending was incomplete due to scope, there would be hints that it’s an unfinished work, with DLC to come.

In the current version, from a narrative standpoint, the passionate sacrifice is, of course, fitting; this is a historical drama, and writing it this way is appropriate for an award-winning serious work.

But from the player’s perspective, having a mostly exhilarating game suddenly deliver a bitter pill—telling you that even with the “Heavenly Book” and the “Innate Martial Saint Body,” unbeatable across the world, one cannot overturn the entire realm or save this people—doesn’t that feel a bit too realistic?

With this in mind... the pure fans know where to start searching.

Though the game offers freedom, most of it is confined to the martial world; the few political court side quests are either transformed into small-state events or structured so that the protagonist, as a righteous figure, thwarts conspiracies.

Ultimately, it’s not a war game, nor a game of intrigue; the protagonist is defined as a chivalrous hero.

Only border towns see actual warfare, depicted in a simplified manner through continuous choices and several key battles, portraying the hero’s initial city defense, years of sieges, and eventual decline in old age, either extinguished or fallen on the battlefield.

So, if one wishes to change the dynasty, then...

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After some time, in a dark room before a screen, Pure Fan Teacher, having endured countless sleepless nights, let a peculiar gleam flash across his eyes.

His voice was hoarse as he whispered, “Ah, I’ve found it.”

Meanwhile elsewhere.

“President Gu, sorry to bother you again, but I have good news to share.”

“Not at all, Chairman Qi, you’re too kind. Just call me Gu.”

Gu Meng knew this was Qi Tongping, the chief judge of this martial arts game contest and vice chairman of the Chinese Game Association, to whose home he had once brought milk.

They had exchanged phone numbers and WeChat contacts, so the call was flagged on his phone.

He remembered Qi’s warmth at the time and felt quite honored.

He had only brought milk, with no local specialties hidden inside; he wondered if Qi had misunderstood.

He worried that upon opening the box and finding only milk, Qi might be upset, thinking he was inconsiderate.

Gu Meng genuinely wanted to improve.

It’s just human relations—normal, like in the arts circle, or among award judges.

There’s no such thing as fairness.

Helplessly, there was always a boss watching, blocking any progress.

“No, no, no, I’m your fan. I can’t call you that. Let me call you Dragon King, that’s what the fans call you.”

“Don’t, don’t, that’s too much.”

“Then how about I boldly call you Brother Gu?”

Gu Meng tried to dissuade him, but seeing he was serious, he accepted with a wry smile.

“Brother Qi, what’s the good news you mentioned?”

“The contest winner—voting is complete—is your ‘Ancient and Modern Legends: True.’”

“Ah? Isn’t the nominated game supposed to have a ten-day public showcase, with the final day for…”

“We can be flexible.”

Understood—bribery; the real list was decided long ago.

“Not only that, if nothing goes wrong, the second annual ‘Cool Play Game Star’ live broadcast on New Year’s Eve will also name your game as Best of the Year. The timing was tight, and releasing in December was a bit late, so I helped you cut ahead.”

“Ah, thank you so much, Chairman Qi—”

Gu Meng was naturally pleased but also somewhat hesitant.

“Ah, don’t call me by my title in private; I’m only vice-chairman. Just call me brother.”

Gu Meng began to suspect there was something added to his milk.

Poisoning was probably just a thought; he hadn’t really done it.

Could it be that his thoughts had become dreams, secretly enacted?

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