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Holiday lights had started to creep into the city—holo ads running warmer colors, storefronts flashing "limited-time" deals, people rushing through the snow with bags and tired smiles. The whole place had that end-of-year tension: half celebration, half survival.
But at Northstar Games, there was no holiday.
There was only work.
Dozens of people were still locked into the same brutal rhythm—day and night bleeding together, sleep reduced to fragments, meals eaten standing up, energy drinks replacing water. The building's sixth and seventh floors glowed like they were alive, as if the tower itself had been infected with stubbornness.
And across the city, another place was just as restless.
Skybound, the biggest gaming platform in the country, was running on emergency mode too.
Inside Skybound's headquarters, Mason Zane sat alone in his office with paperwork spread across his desk like a crime scene. A few of the company's engineers were on-site as well, assigned to handle the holiday surge—server load, lag spikes, random crashes, unexpected bug storms. This always happened during holiday week. More players meant more pressure, and pressure always found the cracks.
Skybound had a tradition: someone had to stay behind at year-end.
Last year, Grant Dalton handled it. This year, it was supposed to be Ryder Fox. But Ryder had been on business travel for over two months, and the company couldn't realistically force him into another stretch of duty.
So the job landed on Mason.
And right now, Mason was on the phone, speaking with that smooth corporate tone that sounded polite even when it was basically a locked door.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Bai," Mason said, his mouth curved in a faint professional smile, "but we signed an agreement with Northstar Games. Until their release, Neon Blade: Echoes of Lumen stays on Skybound's homepage."
There was a long stream of frustration on the other side.
Mason didn't blink.
"No, I think you misunderstood me. This isn't about money. Let me be blunt—this is a contract issue. You're also in gaming. You know what a contract represents. Skybound can't break it just because someone complains."
The other side kept pushing.
Mason kept the same tone, same calm, same edge hidden under politeness.
"Yes, Northstar extended the release timeline. But the contract doesn't classify that clause as breach. Still—thank you for the reminder. If we sign something similar in the future, we'll include delay conditions more clearly."
A pause.
Then Mason went in for the clean cut.
"Also, we're open to working with Starfall Studio. As long as your studio can ship three seasonal games in one year, Skybound would be thrilled to partner with you."
The line went dead quiet.
Because that demand was insane.
Three seasonal games in a year?
If they could do that, they wouldn't be begging Skybound for homepage space—they'd be buying billboards and laughing.
The call ended.
Mason's smile slipped off his face like a mask finally discarded. He leaned back, fatigue visible in his eyes, and tapped the back of his mouse with one bent finger—tap, tap—like he was trying to shake the exhaustion out of his bones.
He sighed.
Because those calls weren't rare. They'd been constant for two days.
Ever since Neon Blade: Echoes of Lumen got delayed, competing studios had all started asking the same question:
Why was the game still taking the most valuable homepage recommendation slot if it wasn't out yet?
Mason's answer never changed.
If you can make what they made—if you can bring what they brought—then Skybound will treat you the same.
Because whether those studios liked it or not, Northstar Games had earned that spot.
Not through politics.
Through results.
Mason didn't need spreadsheets to remember the numbers. He could feel them.
Animal Party alone brought in tens of millions in revenue share.
Pure profit.
Skybound didn't spend months making the game. Skybound didn't pay for the dev risk. Skybound simply gave traffic and took a slice—then walked away with a mountain of clean money.
The board had held multiple meetings about Animal Party. Not because it was "high art." Not because it had blockbuster storytelling. Not because it cost a fortune to produce.
Because it was fun.
And fun was everything.
People argued all the time about what mattered in games—budget, graphics, soundtrack, cinematic presentation, combat depth. Mason had seen those debates in conference rooms and comment sections.
But the truth was brutally simple:
If players don't enjoy it, nothing else matters.
Even an expensive "masterpiece" becomes trash if people don't want to play it.
Animal Party wasn't even a huge "online phenomenon" by raw concurrent numbers. The daily active users were around a million. That was big, but not mythical.
What made it terrifying was sales.
Because the game didn't spread like traditional marketing.
It spread like a virus.
Players dragged their friends in. Friends dragged more friends. The conversion rate was ridiculous.
In only three months, Animal Party's sales surpassed the combined total of Night of the Full Moon and Getting Over It.
And the most unreal part?
Industry rumors said Northstar didn't even prioritize Animal Party.
It had been a casual project. A "side idea." A "small experiment."
At Skybound's year-end showcase, Animal Party won three awards… and no one from Northstar showed up to claim them.
Because the entire company was busy building Neon Blade: Echoes of Lumen.
Two months to create a hit.
And then there was the global side: even outside Skybound, Animal Party was doing numbers—millions of copies on other platforms too.
That meant one thing:
As long as Northstar didn't self-destruct, they weren't running out of money.
Animal Party gave them financial freedom.
Mason also knew Northstar had started expanding. Vivian Frost had been recruiting aggressively. Mason himself had even quietly introduced candidates and contacts to her.
Because even if Northstar had money, hiring at that scale burned cash like fuel.
Money always ran out eventually.
Which was why Neon Blade: Echoes of Lumen mattered so much.
At a previous meeting, some people suggested removing Neon Blade from the homepage due to the delay. But more voices—stronger voices—argued to keep it.
In the end, Neon Blade stayed.
And now Mason stared at his monitor, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
"So… how much longer?"
"It's been a month since the apology video."
"It's not really going to drag until summer, right?"
Delays in gaming had a nasty habit.
One delay could become two.
Two could become a chain.
Every fix revealed another problem.
It happened all the time.
Mason wasn't just worried as a manager.
He was worried as a player.
He'd been invited once by Ethan Reed to visit Northstar and try an early build. Mason had refused at the time—too busy, too many deadlines.
Now he regretted it.
He reached for his tea, took a small sip, and forced himself back to browsing industry reports and platform status.
That was when the office door suddenly slammed open.
A man in glasses—slightly heavyset, breathing hard—rushed in like he'd been shot out of a cannon.
"Manager Zane! Manager Zane!"
Mason turned sharply.
It was the leader of the fourth engineering group. One hand braced on the doorframe, the other pressing his knee as he tried to breathe.
"Slow down," Mason said, already rising from his chair. "What happened? Platform issue?"
"No—no—no bugs!" the man gasped. "It's Northstar. It's—Neon Blade—just now, Neon Blade got submitted. It's live in our backend review right now!"
For a second, Mason's brain didn't process the words.
Then his eyes widened.
"What?"
He stepped closer.
"You're telling me… Neon Blade: Echoes of Lumen is submitted?"
"Yeah! It's in review. Right now!"
Mason stood there, frozen—like someone had just punched him with good news.
---
Back at Northstar Games, the moment the submission went through, the company snapped.
Not into chaos.
Into celebration.
"Finally finished!!!"
"W-Wait—seriously?! It's over?!"
"I'm going home and sleeping for three days. No one is stopping me!"
"I called my mom and told her why I haven't been responding. She thought I was on drugs because I lost weight!"
"Who's down for a trip? We have a 14-day break!"
"I'm in! I actually have money now!"
Confetti exploded across the office. Someone had found a pack of party poppers and used them like grenades. Bits of shiny paper drifted through the air, clinging to keyboards, hair, and exhausted faces.
Vivian Frost was smiling too—real smiling, not her usual "CEO smile." She held a thick stack of bonus envelopes, handing one out to every person who came forward.
"Come on," she said, voice bright. "Everyone gets one. Completion bonus."
Even the cleaning staff got a large one.
Nobody was forgotten.
Ethan Reed stood nearby, watching the scene with a faint smile that looked almost unreal on his tired face.
It's done.
It's finally damn done.
Neon Blade had been sent to Skybound. All that remained was the backend review.
Vivian had already posted the announcement through the company's Official Blog account.
Ethan posted one on his personal account too.
He wasn't sure how to feel about the marketing side.
Two months ago, the hype was massive. Now the release was sudden—no long countdown, no dramatic launch prep. Players would wake up and suddenly see it's here.
But that was Northstar's style.
The only thing Ethan truly didn't know was how players would react to something this story-heavy, this heartfelt, this carefully built.
He smiled to himself.
Tomorrow, they'd get the answer.
And after half a year of development, Ethan's confidence was rock solid.
Neon Blade: Echoes of Lumen would speak for itself.
---