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Infinite Realms' decision to restart competitive racing with a ten-million-dollar prize pool wasn't purely altruistic. Sure, they wanted to capitalize on Fast & Furious's success and stimulate the racing content market. But the real motivation?
Money. Always money.
Fast & Furious had proven players would spend insane amounts on racing content. The paid chapter's success, combined with the prize competition model, had shown Infinite Realms corporate exactly how profitable competitive racing could be.
Now they were designing the entire tournament ecosystem around extracting maximum revenue.
The daily events and underground races looked free on the surface. But winning? That required constant car upgrades, performance mods, maintenance, new vehicles. Sure, you could grind for in-game currency to pay for it all.
Or you could just swipe your credit card and skip the hundred-hour grind.
For whales—the big spenders who bankrolled free-to-play games—this was basically an engraved invitation to open their wallets. And they would. They always did.
That Evening – Planet Earth, Abyssal Depths
Alex took a rare break from Avengers development to tackle Immortal Banner Guild's annual Honor Mission. These grueling hundred-player raids were mandatory for any guild wanting to compete in the War for Glory—Infinite Realms' premier guild competition.
He'd assembled the guild's top hundred members for a speed-clear attempt on the Abyssal Counterattack, one of this year's toughest Honor Missions.
"Right side, WATCH THE RIGHT!" Alex shouted into voice chat, simultaneously swinging his mech's massive greatsword through a lunging Scourge Beetle. The blade cleaved the giant insect cleanly in half, its ichor spraying across his mech's dark armor plating.
They were deep in Earth's underground abyss—a nightmare landscape of perpetual darkness, dripping moisture, and endless waves of horrifying insectoid creatures. The bugs poured from surrounding nests like a chittering flood, each one the size of a car with scythe-like forelegs that could punch through steel and mandibles that crushed concrete like crackers.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
Explosions lit up the cavern as guild members coordinated their assault. Plasma grenades detonated in clusters of enemies. Laser fire carved through exoskeletons. Energy cannons vaporized entire swarms.
Alex piloted a Striker AK-90—an epic-quality light mech from ET Games' famous "MechWarrior" dungeon content. Only about two hundred existed in the entire North American server region. When it first dropped, players had paid obscene amounts for it.
The AK-90 stood roughly ten feet tall—compact for a mech, designed for speed and agility rather than raw firepower. Perfect for Alex's warrior-class playstyle that emphasized mobility and close-quarters combat.
Despite its "light" classification, the mech looked like it could punch through a tank. Sharp angular lines, brutal industrial aesthetics, military-spec armor plating. Its primary color scheme was matte black with red accent lighting, giving it a predatory appearance.
Actually, most mechs in Infinite Realms shared that same aggressive military-industrial design philosophy. Heavy mechs took it even further—walking fortresses covered in weapon systems, radiating pure destructive intent.
The hundred players Alex had brought were all max-level with top-tier gear, so the initial beetle waves weren't particularly challenging. They cut through the swarm efficiently, pushing deeper into the abyss toward the real threats—the elite monsters and raid bosses waiting in the depths.
Honor Missions served as gatekeepers for the annual War for Glory competition. Only guilds that completed these brutal hundred-player raids earned the right to compete for Glory Realm territories—prestigious holdings that provided massive bonuses and bragging rights.
The missions were genuinely difficult. Out of hundreds of guilds attempting them each year, fewer than twenty actually succeeded.
For a top-tier guild like Immortal Banner though? It was tough but manageable. They had the coordination, the gear, and the experience.
Two Hours Later – Earth Base, Reconstruction Zone
"Mission complete. Nice work everyone," Alex announced as the final boss collapsed and the victory screen appeared.
The guild materialized back at Earth Base to claim rewards and handle repairs. Alex pulled up his mech's maintenance report and winced.
Fourteen thousand gold for repairs and maintenance. Roughly forty dollars in real money.
And that was after a relatively clean run with minimal damage. If he'd taken serious hits, the repair bill could easily triple.
That was the hidden cost of piloting epic-quality mechs—you could afford to buy them, but using them was an ongoing expense. Just like owning a supercar in real life. Sure, you might scrape together enough to purchase it, but the insurance, maintenance, and repairs would bankrupt you.
Mech equipment was a continuous revenue stream for content providers. Players paid up front for the mech, then kept paying every time they actually used it in combat.
Brilliantly predatory game design.
Still, despite the costs, mechs remained the most coveted equipment in Infinite Realms. Every major content provider competed fiercely for a slice of that mech-equipment pie.
"A WARM WELCOME TO GENERAL STARWIND OF THE UNITED GOVERNMENT'S SOLAR SECTOR ARMY, NOW ARRIVING AT EARTH SAFE ZONE FIVE!"
The announcement boomed across the entire zone, accompanied by triumphant orchestral music. Banners displaying the general's achievements materialized throughout the area. NPCs actually stopped and saluted.
Alex rolled his eyes. Fucking pay-to-win whales.
This was the special treatment reserved for top-tier United Government faction players—basically Infinite Realms' version of whale VIP status, except dressed up as military rank.
In Infinite Realms, players could join official factions after hitting level 10. The United Government, Space-Time Alliance, Marauder Syndicate, Free Collective—each offered different gameplay experiences and progression paths.
Or you could stay independent like Alex and most Immortal Banner members, existing as free agents or "Independent Operators." Combat-class indies were called Free Warriors—they had maximum freedom to form guilds and create their own organizations, but received no official faction bonuses.
Joining the United Government was like choosing military service or government work in real life. You got privileges, equipment stipends, fast early progression. But you also got restrictions, obligations, and quotas.
The real kicker? Despite looking easier initially, the United Government path was actually the most expensive pay-to-win route in the entire game.
Because it wasn't just about leveling up. It was about rank advancement—climbing the military hierarchy, earning commissions, achieving higher and higher status. It was World of Warcraft's Honor System on steroids mixed with actual commissioned officer ranks.
And climbing that ladder required obscene amounts of money.
You had to win honor battles, earn merit points, compete in faction-specific PvP. Every promotion meant fighting other players for limited positions. The competition for top ranks was exponentially more intense than guild wars.
Someone like General Starwind had definitely dropped hundreds of millions of won—probably over $100,000 USD minimum—to reach that rank. Maybe way more.
But the payoff? Everywhere they went, the game announced their presence like visiting royalty. NPCs treated them with deference. Other players recognized them instantly. The ego boost was probably worth the cost for some people.
Beyond the flashy announcements, high-ranking United Government members got exclusive equipment, priority access to new content, special mounts, custom cosmetics, and influence over faction storylines.
Infinite Realms understood player psychology at a fundamental level. They'd designed progression paths for every type of spender—whether you wanted to dominate PvP, collect rare items, build guild empires, or just feel important.
The game would find your weakness and extract money from it. Efficiently. Relentlessly.
And players paid up willingly, even enthusiastically, because the dopamine hit was worth it.
Alex had to admit, from a game design perspective, it was kind of genius. Absolutely predatory and ethically questionable, sure. But genius.
PLZ THROW POWERSTONES.