He tried a few more at random; they were all the same wine in different bottles.
To anyone who'd survived the modern info-bombardment, these tropes had zero pull.
Without a backward glance he shot straight for the far end.
Past the long corridor, through the gate of light, he stepped into his own Dream World.
Because he was only an ordinary person, his Dream World was tiny and its processing power equally limited.
The more rules he imposed, the more complex the scene, the smaller the space became. Right now it spanned no more than a football field, and every extra rule would shrink it further.
He couldn't even conjure a proper hamlet.
He pondered for a moment. Most contestants in this sort of qualifier had Cultivation foundations; some designers' Dream Worlds had already reached First or even Second Rank.
Dream space could grow through Cultivation, or by letting others experience the worlds you built and harvesting the dream-energy they produced.
He, however, was merely an ordinary person, saddled with meager computational capacity.
Cultivating the Dream Meditation Method now was out of the question.
So grand titles like Elder Scrolls, GTA, Demonic Beast, Search-&-Destroy, or that certain open-world gacha were off the table for the moment.
He had to snatch his first pot of gold with a clever shortcut, then leverage the prize and a flood of dream-power to sky-rocket his Rank.
He rifled through his memories for a game that suited the current constraints.
Not too complex, not too simple—better safe than sorry if he wanted to win.
Besides, a Dream World was basically a 3-D game of his previous life; anything unsuited for adaptation had to be tossed.
After much deliberation he locked onto a PC title that had once blazed across the scene.
plants vs. zombies
A 2009 tower-defense puzzler from PopCap.
With its chibi peashooters, goofy zombies, and a buffet of play-styles, it hooked players of every age the moment it launched.
Easy to pick up, its stages linked like chain mail, delivering challenge without sacrificing fun.
Perfect for this competition—provided he tweaked the controls.
Li Mo had no intention of going full 3-D; that would gut the game's soul. Instead he'd build it as a sandbox, the player gazing down like a god.
He calmed his mind and focused; the Dream World shifted at once.
The surrounding scenery melted away as a vast platform formed beneath his feet.
With a wave of his hand a billiard-table-sized sandbox appeared in the center, fronted by a crystal-ball console.
At its heart a fog still swirled. Under Li Mo's guidance the game's main map—house and garden—took shape.
Next he spawned the plant and zombie models.
peashooter, sunflower, Cherry Bomb… Common Zombie, Conehead Zombie…
Each model devoured hours; after that came motion and VFX tuning.
Thanks to the Dream World's advantages the models felt lifelike, their actions and effects richer than ever.
Then came stats and stage design—the real core.
He began layering the Dream World with rules—code, in other words.
So engrossed was he that time slipped past unnoticed.
Suddenly his head spun.
A lurch of weightlessness yanked him back to reality, followed by crushing drowsiness: his Mental Energy had bottomed out.
The drain was worse than expected; finishing the game would have to wait.
He fell into a dead sleep.
Time flowed on; the next day arrived.
After a quick bite to eat he threw himself back into work.
Stats needed fine-tuning, stages had to be tested for bugs—tasks that swallowed whole days.
Only the Dream World's streamlined nature spared him months of coding; otherwise three days would never have sufficed.
Three months might not either.
As command stacked upon command, stages and mini-games matured, the game slowly taking form.
Next: music and SFX.
He rummaged through his memories for every detail.
Since this Rebirth, the hazy past had sharpened, giving him the confidence to recreate the title.
At last, one day before the deadline, his game was finished.
Trial run.
The fog on the sandbox parted, drifting to either side.
A lilting tune floated up.
Doo-doo-doo, doo-doo… Doo-doo-doo, doo-doo…
Brains, brains, brains…
A login screen appeared inside the sandbox.
With the final test passed, Li Mo exhaled in relief.
Done—celebrate with confetti.
Gazing at the finished Small World, he brimmed with pride. Now the market would decide.
The final day.
At dawn he rose early; these past days he'd been so absorbed he hadn't set foot outside.
He stepped through the door into the street. Bizarre buildings loomed—half medieval, half ethereal, every wall and pavement blooming with flowers.
Though this was the lower city, the streets were spotless.
Pedestrians of every hue bustled past—goblins, dwarves, and all manner of elves.
Tomorrow was the annual Flower Dance Festival; festivity already crackled in the air.
Vendors dotted the lanes, children dashed about laughing and shrieking.
From memory he headed toward Temple Plaza.
An hour later.
"Hi, I'd like to register."
Behind the counter an elf in business attire yawned.
"Name and status."
Li Mo filled in the form.
Harvey gave it a bleary glance—no First-Rank space. Another dreamer hoping for overnight fame. Not his problem, as long as the fee was paid.
"Registration—two-thousand Pele."
"Say what? Two grand?"
Li Mo stared, dumbstruck. Might as well rob me.
"Got the cash or not? Scram if you don't." Harvey dug in his nose, contempt plain.
Without some barrier every wannabe would clog the queue, wasting resources and time.
Li Mo snorted at the attitude.
Fine—thirty years east of the river, thirty west.
Today you can't be bothered; tomorrow you won't be able to afford me.
Luckily his cheap big sister had left him some coins, or he'd be too broke to pay and utterly humiliated.
He fished out two gold coins and slid them across.
In Elf Empire currency: 1 gold = 10 silver = 1,000 Pele—Pele will be used from now on.
One Pele buys about what a yuan did in his past life, though grain costs more and other prices fluctuate. Average monthly income for an imperial commoner is roughly two-thousand Pele.