After wrapping up the general meeting with his staff, Xie Yunfan called the head of Human Resources, Liu Muyao, into his office for a private discussion to detail the upcoming recruitment strategy. He intended to establish two distinct design teams specifically dedicated to The Cases of Di Renjie and Holographic Script Sessions. Aside from a few core veterans to anchor the projects, the remaining slots would be filled entirely by fresh recruits.

Furthermore, he planned to establish a foundational “Design Directorate.” His goal was to personally mentor a select handful of promising designers, teaching them his entire game production pipeline from the ground up. Once these apprentices “graduated,” he could confidently hand over long-term live-service operations to trusted subordinates whom he had personally cultivated.

In the future, Yangfan Studio would inevitably evolve into the “Yangfan Group.” Its portfolio would expand far beyond a single title, and it was structurally impossible for him to remain the sole game designer forever.

During the initial R&D phase of any new project, he would personally oversee the creative direction. Once a game matured, he would delegate authority downward, allowing him to immediately throw his energy into crafting the next title. Grooming a cohort of capable designers was an urgent priority.

After hearing the parameters, Liu Muyao replied crisply, “Understood, Boss. I’ll draft the recruitment ads immediately. How does mid-next month look for the initial round of interviews?”

Xie Yunfan nodded. “That works. Let’s schedule interviews for mid-July, with onboarding set for August.”

Once Liu Muyao departed, Liang Anwei from the Animation Department was summoned to the office. Xie Yunfan instructed him to expedite production on a concept teaser trailer for Holographic Script Sessions.

Liang Anwei asked, “Boss, I don’t have any concrete visual assets for the new game yet. For this teaser, should I focus purely on articulating the core concept of the title?”

“Yes,” Xie Yunfan clarified. “The primary objective of this teaser is to let our player base know that we have formally greenlit production on a modern-day script-killing game. At the same time, it serves as a strategic warning to other companies. By showcasing our rapid development pace, they’ll realize that attempting to rush out a modern copycat title is chronologically impossible.”

Light dawning upon him, Liang Anwei nodded. “Understood. I’ll aim to have it wrapped up within a week.”

With the assignments distributed, Xie Yunfan opened his laptop to continue organizing his product roadmaps.

Since Di Renjie was a historical figure, all future scripts featuring ancient or historical settings would be absorbed directly into The Cases of Di Renjie. Conversely, any scripts set in modern, sci-fi, cyberpunk, or post-apocalyptic universes would fall under Holographic Script Sessions.

While the fundamental mechanics of a script session remained identical across both titles, the differing chronological settings would offer completely contrasting experiences for the players.

Historical scripts utilized specialized attire, architecture, and period-accurate scores, offering a sense of chronological displacement that made players feel as though they had slipped through time—a highly novel sensation. Modern scripts, however, utilized character assets and environments anchored in daily life, making the crimes feel localized and hauntingly realistic.

Down the line, he intended to introduce cyberpunk, futuristic sci-fi, and post-apocalyptic wasteland settings, ultimately transforming the game into an all-encompassing, massive holographic script-killing platform. Of course, building such an expansive ecosystem would require time.

For now, the most critical step was executing this opening phase flawlessly—solidifying the reputation of The Cases of Di Renjie and ensuring players fully embraced the holographic script-killing framework. His core team wouldn’t rush blindly into the next project; they would keep their primary focus on polishing upcoming scripts for The Cases of Di Renjie, ensuring every single narrative was a masterclass in design.

A week into the launch, online discourse surrounding The Cases of Di Renjie grew increasingly fervent. The vast majority of players had successfully cleared the beginner-tier scripts, unlocking access to the intermediate catalog.

The intermediate tier boasted a wide variety of narratives, including a select few labeled with a terrifying “six-star” horror rating.

On this particular day, the hashtag #TerrifyingEmbroideredShoes suddenly trended onto the front page of Weibo.

The spike in traffic stemmed from Liu-ge, a prominent streamer on the Blue Fish platform. After completing the intermediate script The Embroidered Shoes, he had been so thoroughly traumatized by the experience that he spent a solid half-hour ranting and venting in his broadcast room.

“Family, if you read the plot summary for The Embroidered Shoes, you’ll see it’s an eight-player intermediate script with a six-star horror rating. The entire narrative takes place aboard a ghost ship, and it revolves around a pair of embroidered shoes.”

“The moment I spawned in, I was standing on this ghost ship drifting in the middle of a vast, boundless ocean. A solitary vessel floating in total isolation, draped entirely in blood-red banners and glowing red lanterns. The environment alone was enough to make your skin crawl… But back then, I thought to myself: I’ve literally played Ghost Realm. If this game manages to scare me, I’ll take the loss!“

“Once the session started, the eight players gathered quickly. The system informed us that this ghost ship was originally a bridal vessel meant for a ghost marriage, and the red embroidered shoes were a relic left behind by the deceased bride.”

“I’m sure you’ve all heard of ghost marriages, right? Anyone who played the underworld wedding theme back in Ghost Realm shouldn’t find it unfamiliar. Back in the day, if a man died unwed, his family would find a deceased bride to bind to him in a post-mortem marriage. Because the male lead of this story was a fisherman, this particular ghost marriage took the form of placing the bride aboard a ship for a maritime burial.”

“That’s right, the vessel we boarded was that exact bridal ship. That’s why the entire ship was decked out in blood-red lanterns and candles stamped with the character for double happiness.”

“Holy crap, just looking back on it makes the hairs on my arms stand up!”

“In the dead of night when everything goes silent, the ghost bride’s embroidered shoes will silently, flawlessly materialize right beside your bed. If the tips of the shoes are pointing straight toward you, she will… possess you, taking over your character model.”

“And then, she will masquerade as you to slaughter the remaining players.”

“Oh my god!”

“As for how exactly the possession and murders play out… I won’t drop any spoilers. All I’ll say is that the entire progression is incredibly eerie. I was operating under peak psychological tension the whole time.”

“At one point in the middle of the night, my character suddenly snapped awake. I looked down, and right beside my bed sat a pair of red embroidered shoes, with the pointed tips facing straight at my headboard…”

“Brothers, I nearly passed away right then and there.”

“Scared the living crap out of me!”

Netizens flooded the bullet chat, thoroughly enjoying the spectacle of the streamer’s distress. While his descriptions sounded genuinely hair-raising, the internet quickly transformed the narrative into a game of telephone, spreading exaggerated versions across social media:

“I heard a streamer broke down in tears playing The Cases of Di Renjie.”

“A pair of red embroidered shoes appeared right by a streamer’s bed, and he nearly died on the spot from sheer fright.”

“I heard someone actually had a heart attack while playing and had to be rushed to the ER!”

“The streamer got possessed by a ghost bride, and in the end, he had to jump into the ocean to complete his ghost marriage.”

“When you go to sleep, make sure the tips of your shoes aren’t pointing toward your bed. If red shoes point at your mattress, a ghost will assassinate you in your dreams.”

The rumors grew more absurd by the hour. Those who hadn’t tried a script session yet were left profoundly perplexed. Could it really be that terrifying? It’s just a pair of shoes, isn’t it?

Driven by intense curiosity, a wave of onlookers booted up their Qihang Pods and loaded into The Embroidered Shoes. Within minutes, blood-curdling screeches echoed from the pods:

“Ahhh! Stay away from me!”

“Holy crap, the shoes found me! Ahhh, mom, save me!”

It fully deserved its six-star horror rating. Even players who prided themselves on devouring horror films felt a cold sweat breaking across their spines.

The true brilliance of Chinese gothic horror lay in the psychological dread—you never actually saw the owner of the embroidered shoes. Instead, it was the sheer, sudden manifestation of those red silken points resting by your bedside in the pitch-black silence of the night… It triggered an infinite spiral of imaginative terror.

The desolate ghost ship, the heavy crimson drapery, the crimson lanterns, and a masterfully atmospheric score combined to leave anyone who survived The Embroidered Shoes declaring that they had “nearly met their maker on the spot.”

As viral discussions regarding the script intensified, it attracted a massive influx of novelty-seeking thrill-seekers eager to test their mettle. Within a few short days, the six-star horror script The Embroidered Shoes became the very first narrative from The Cases of Di Renjie to break into mainstream internet culture.

It was undeniable that Liu-ge’s viral rants had acted as a massive catalyst. Yet, despite his vocal complaints, Liu-ge locked himself into a new script session every single evening. He discovered that the game was profoundly addictive; the process of peeling back layers of deception to unmask a killer offered an unparalleled intellectual high. Uncovering the culprit brought immense satisfaction, and whenever a killer managed to pull the wool over everyone’s eyes to survive until the end—especially when it was someone no one had ever suspected—the narrative twist left players thoroughly awestruck.

Liu-ge began exclusively picking complex suspense and deduction scripts, growing more obsessed with each passing day. Spending two to three hours after dinner inside a script session quickly became his fixed daily routine.

Cute Rabbit experienced a similar fixation. Ever since acquiring her Qihang Pod, she loaded in daily to play script sessions. However, rather than heavy deduction narratives, she favored logic-and-mechanism scripts. These puzzle-solving, stage-clearing narratives didn’t require players to view each other with suspicion; instead, they demanded seamless cooperation to overcome intricate challenges.

Putting their heads together to locate hidden clues and crack mechanical puzzles offered an intellectual payoff upon escaping a locked room that felt every bit as rewarding as taking down a high-difficulty world boss in a traditional MMO.

Aside from The Embroidered Shoes, the second script to achieve mainstream viral status was A Dream of Jiangnan.

Intermediate-tier scripts allowed players to create private rooms to invite their real-life friends. This particular script was a six-player, emotionally driven narrative that featured zero murder elements and required no voting rounds to find a culprit. Instead, it functioned like an interactive, poignantly moving drama co-starred by six players.

The narrative traced the lives of six childhood friends who grew up together, their bonds forged in absolute innocence. Because their birthdays fell remarkably close to one another, they spent every single year celebrating together, exchanging handmade gifts, and remaining the focal points of each other’s worlds.

As time marched on, however, life intervened. One friend’s family business forced a relocation to another province; another journeyed to the imperial capital to sit for the civil service examinations; one wed and settled into domestic life; and another fell grievously ill, passing away in a far-off, alien land.

They had once sworn a sacred childhood oath to exchange gifts every single year on their birthdays, but the harsh realities of time ensured that promise was ultimately left unfulfilled.

Decades later, a frail elderly man, leaning heavily on a walking cane, ambled back to the ancient tree where they had played as children. There, he crossed paths with two other silver-haired seniors. Of the original six, only three remained alive. Looking back over the frantic, exhausting tapestry of their lives, they realized that the pinnacle of their happiness had been those carefree afternoons spent beneath the shade of this very tree.

As a melancholic, sweeping score filled the space, the visual frame locked onto the silhouettes of the three elderly individuals standing beneath the canopy. A gentle breeze swept through, and the screen rippled with a dreamlike distortion—as if time itself were flowing backward—briefly superimposing the spectral images of six carefree, laughing children running beneath the boughs. Yet the vision dissolved into naught but a dream; their reunion was a physical impossibility.

A group of childhood friends who had matched into the session together found their eyes turning bloodshot with unshed tears as the narrative concluded. The attachments of youth were profoundly pure, but as age advanced and responsibilities mounted, everyone became consumed by the daily grind, gradually losing touch with the faces and promises of their past.

The structural brilliance of this script lay in its progression. In the opening act, the system physically shrunk the players’ avatars, transforming them into young children to engage in a series of nostalgic playground games, effectively pulling them back to a carefree youth. By the mid-game, the avatars aged into adulthood, forcing them to navigate critical crossroads and experience the silent, suffocating compromises of maturity. In the final act, they roleplayed frail elders facing the sunset of their lives.

Through a single script session, the players felt as though they had lived a comprehensive, unbroken lifetime across all six characters. The psychological investment afforded by the holographic medium was simply too absolute.

Following their session, Liu-ge and his group of real-life friends found themselves too emotionally stirred to simply go home. Instead, they gathered at a nearby hotpot restaurant to decompress.

The oldest guy in the group raised his glass and proposed, “How about we make a pact right now? From here on out, let’s commit to playing at least one holographic script session together every single month.”

The proposal drew a round of chuckles from the table. “What kind of weird pact is that? Other people promise to send each other gifts or celebrate birthdays… and here you are, locking us into a gaming schedule?”

“Hahaha, the true colors of a gaming addict stand revealed!”

The guy chuckled, his expression turning thoughtful as he added, “Think about it. In our day and age, we have smartphones, laptops, and advanced holographic pods. Keeping in touch is incredibly simple. It’s nothing like the era featured in that script, where a handwritten letter could easily get lost in transit. Back then, once you split up and headed to different corners of the land, there was a very real chance you’d never see each other again for the rest of your lives.”

A collective silence fell over the table.

He was right. In the historical era depicted by the “ancients” in the game, infrastructure was primitive and information traveled at a crawl. Reaching out required physical mail. If you lost track of a friend’s physical address, sending a letter became impossible, forcing you to bury your longing deep within your heart, only returning to your roots in old age driven by a desire to pass away where you began.

Yet today, technology had bridged those chasms. Through video calls, you could view a loved one’s face instantly. And through multiplayer holographic networks, you could physically step into a shared space and interact with the people you missed at a moment’s notice!

Once the six of them graduated from university, they would inevitably scatter across the country—some heading to the capital, others remaining in Rongcheng, and some moving to the metropolis of Shanghai for work. But as long as they synchronized their schedules and logged into their Qihang Pods, they could converge within a holographic space. Chatting, relaxing, and sharing a script session offered an incredibly seamless, frictionless way to host reunions.

The youngest girl at the table raised her hand in enthusiastic agreement. “I’m completely on board with Big Brother’s idea. Script-killing games are perfect for friend groups to play together. We grew up together, and even when we eventually enter the workforce or start families of our own, I still want us to remain an active part of each other’s lives.”

“Makes complete sense. A single session only takes two to three hours. When we’re living in different cities, arranging a physical dinner is a logistical nightmare. But locking in a game session? That’s incredibly easy; all you need to do is find a Qihang Pod.”

“Big Brother really has the long-term vision here. It’s settled then! Whenever we’re free, we book a session. None of you are allowed to drift away and forget your childhood crew!”

Their glasses collided with a crisp, resonant ring that echoed inside the private dining booth. The imagery of the elderly friends from the script returning to their ancestral village to gather beneath the ancient tree lingered vividly in their minds.

They cherished their friendship deeply and refused to let real-world inertia turn their bonds into a narrative regret. In an era of advanced technology, physical distance was no longer a barrier to remaining close.

The group later detailed their emotional journey in a viral online post, sparking a massive wave of resonance among netizens:

“I haven’t seen my childhood best friend in a solid decade. Reading this makes me miss the old days so much!”

“Honestly, the greatest blessing of multiplayer online holographic titles is that long-distance couples and far-flung friends can physically reunite inside a virtual space whenever they want.”

“Exactly. A single script session costs a mere dozen yuan or so. If you had to buy a plane ticket to host a physical reunion in the real world, a round-trip would set you back several thousand yuan easily, right?”

“@Sailboat, I strongly recommend developing a Class Reunion script! In the future, we can host class reunions entirely within the holographic space. I moved to a different province for work after university, so I always have to miss our alumni gatherings. If you create a massive 40-to-60-player holographic reunion script, it would eliminate all the travel hassle. Classmates from every corner of the country could log in and attend instantly!”

“Multiplayer holographic games are genuinely primed to become the ultimate medium for large-scale team-building activities.”

“In the future, alumni reunions and corporate team-building events should just involve everyone lying down inside their game pods to launch a massive multiplayer casual mode. It completely bypasses the exhaustion of mandatory drinking culture and forced networking. Talk about societal progress, hahaha!”

“Anyone who despises corporate drinking culture, smash that like button immediately!”

“@Sailboat, when are the modern scripts dropping? You seriously need to consider the class reunion concept!”

“Honestly, can we look into hosting holographic weddings down the line…? Handling table toasts, packing wedding favors, and coordinating guest logistics in the real world is an absolute nightmare, cough cough!”

The online discussion boards burned white-hot.

No one could have anticipated that a niche script-killing game would break into mainstream culture through such a unique cultural angle. On one hand, its cerebral suspense and deduction narratives offered players an intense intellectual thrill. On the other hand, its emotionally driven scripts resonated so deeply with the public that the title transformed into a premier tool for virtual “team-building” and social connection, offering unparalleled convenience for long-distance companions.

With hashtags like #DiRenjieCasesScaringPeopleToDeath, #FriendsGroupingUpForHolographicSessions, and #ScriptKillingIsntJustDeduction dominating the hot search charts for days on end, the executive suite over at Wings of Dream felt a wave of profound, agonizing regret.

Multiplayer holographic networking had indubitably become the defining trend of the era. Coolplay and Qihang had both successfully cracked the multiplayer framework to launch thriving titles, locking themselves into a lucrative duopoly, while Wings of Dream’s stock prices suffered a devastating plunge… A reality where only Wings of Dream bore the brunt of the damage had officially materialized.

Tang Tonghai immediately convened an emergency summit that very day, ordering the hardware engineering division to break through the technical bottlenecks surrounding multiplayer connectivity at all costs. Simultaneously, he intended to capitalize on the viral discourse by immediately greenlighting a modern-day script-killing title.

The netizens clamoring for “large-scale holographic class reunions” had handed him a sudden stroke of creative inspiration.

According to his market research, although Yangfan Studio’s The Cases of Di Renjie featured a few emotional and puzzle-focused scripts, the vast majority of its catalog remained firmly anchored in traditional murder mysteries and suspense. Wings of Dream’s historical strength lay in crafting lighthearted, casual entertainment software; why not produce a multiplayer, socially focused “script session” title that prioritized entertainment over complex deduction?

Tang Tonghai gathered his design leads to evaluate the feasibility of “cloning” the script-killing framework. However, while Wings of Dream was still locked in committee meetings, the official Weibo account for The Cases of Di Renjie suddenly dropped a high-production trailer.

“Dear players, Yangfan and Qihang are proud to announce our joint venture into developing a modern-day script-killing experience: Holographic Script Sessions. The project has been formally greenlit and active production is underway.

The script catalog for this upcoming title will encompass modern, sci-fi, post-apocalyptic, wasteland, and cyberpunk settings. Furthermore, we will be debuting a massive Social Gathering Mode, supporting up to 100 players within a single, unified script instance.

The alumni reunions and corporate team-building narratives explicitly requested by our community are already entering production.

The project is currently undergoing accelerated R&D. Stay tuned for Holographic Script Sessions, the direct definitive spin-off of The Cases of Di Renjie.”

The Weibo post accompanied a concept teaser trailer. The world-building visuals were spectacular, indicating that aside from suspense and puzzle-solving, Holographic Script Sessions was positioned to become a premier, massive multiplayer social platform!

When Tang Tonghai witnessed the announcement, he slammed a stack of folders onto his desk in a fit of rage. Before his internal team could even formalize the paperwork to greenlight their clone, Xie Yunfan had already blasted out a polished promotional trailer, completely seizing the first-mover advantage yet again!

Of course, he could choose to swallow his pride and press forward with development regardless…

But from a chronological standpoint, Yangfan Studio would inevitably beat him to market. After all, the base engine and networking architecture for The Cases of Di Renjie rested securely in Xie Yunfan’s hands; he could simply repurpose and modify his existing framework, whereas Wings of Dream would have to code their systems from absolute scratch.

Furthermore, Qihang had already mastered the networking hurdles, while Wings of Dream would have to sink millions into fundamental research. Even if his staff worked grueling overtime shifts daily, hitting the market ahead of Yangfan Studio was a mathematical impossibility. Launching a derivative copycat title after Yangfan Studio had already solidified its ironclad reputation and locked down the player base would draw immense public backlash.

Tang Tonghai knitted his brows in deep thought before instructing, “Drop it. Have the Design Department brainstorm an entirely different multiplayer online genre for us to pursue. I want a project formalized immediately, and it must hit the market before the end of this year!”

Wings of Dream was operating under severe panic. Coolplay remained content to spectate from the sidelines, while the production pipeline between Yangfan and Qihang moved forward with clockwork precision.

Ever since the chilling suspense of The Embroidered Shoes and the emotional resonance of A Dream of Jiangnan broke into mainstream culture, the concurrent player metrics for The Cases of Di Renjie had stabilized at an exceptionally high baseline. Because the game utilized a “pay-per-script” monetization model, players had to purchase individual unlocks to experience new content, transforming stable active metrics into a reliable stream of recurring revenue.

The intermediate tier offered 12 distinct scripts, which provided plenty of content to keep the general player base engaged for a considerable time. The advanced tier contained another 12 narratives, featuring complex, brain-melting serial killer cases packed with obstructive NPCs, mechanical escape mazes, and large-scale, high-chaos party scripts.

Since the general consumer base didn’t possess infinite spare time to grind daily, this initial catalog was perfectly calibrated to sustain the market for roughly a month. However, for hardcore enthusiasts and professional streamers, the entire library was cleared within two weeks, leaving them craving more.

A deluge of comments began surfacing beneath the official Weibo account, clamoring for content updates:

“I’ve cleared every single script in the game! When is the content drop happening?”

“The concept trailer for Holographic Script Sessions looks incredible, please launch it as soon as possible! I’m dying to try a hundred-player corporate team-building script!”

Xie Yunfan maintained a firm grip on the broader R&D timeline. Exactly one month after The Cases of Di Renjie entered its open beta phase, their very first major content update hit the live servers right on schedule.

This update introduced five brand-new scripts, comprising three advanced-tier narratives and two intermediate-tier narratives. Among the advanced offerings was a highly complex, interconnected 10-player instance. The moment the patch went live, content-starved players immediately fired up their Qihang Pods to dive into the fresh material.

A month into its release, consumer passion for the title remained entirely undiminished. Within this latest batch of content, a high-difficulty script titled The Goddess Tomb garnered near-universal acclaim.

Set within a subterranean ancient sepulcher, the environmental atmosphere was wonderfully grim, forcing players to test their cognitive reflexes against an array of intricate mechanical traps. The narrative also incorporated an array of bizarre sorcery elements, delivering a thrilling ride from start to finish.

For a 10-player team to systematically unearth the underlying truth buried within the tomb required an intensive four to five hours of continuous gameplay. Blending holographic tomb-raiding with escape-room mechanics proved to be an immensely successful formula. The Goddess Tomb achieved an even greater viral reach than The Embroidered Shoes, drawing a massive wave of new users into the ecosystem.

Shortly thereafter, the official account for The Cases of Di Renjie released a strategic statement. The studio affirmed that the title would operate as a long-term live service, receiving monthly content drops to ensure a continuous stream of fresh narratives for the community. Furthermore, they explicitly clarified that the upcoming launch of Holographic Script Sessions would have zero impact on the update velocity of The Cases of Di Renjie.

This announcement served as an absolute reassurance to the community. Players who favored historical settings could remain anchored in The Cases of Di Renjie indefinitely; as long as the servers remained live, they would receive a monthly injection of narrative content. For consumers, it was an incredibly sweet deal. Those who disliked the historical aesthetic could simply look forward to the debut of Holographic Script Sessions, or seamlessly enjoy both titles whenever they had the time.

Given that both games were positioned as permanent fixtures of the market, a growing segment of consumers began seriously evaluating a personal investment: Should I buy a Qihang Pod?

Booking a session at a local commercial experience center was becoming a logistical hassle. Due to the massive surge in the popularity of Qihang Pods, securing a peak-hour reservation had become increasingly difficult, often requiring users to endure grueling wait times. After running the numbers, a significant portion of working professionals decided to dip into their savings to purchase a personal pod for their homes, allowing them to match into a session whenever they had a free moment.

Following Yangfan Studio’s twin announcements regarding the long-term live-service commitment for The Cases of Di Renjie and the active development of Holographic Script Sessions, the retail hardware sales for Qihang Pods experienced an explosive upward trajectory.

According to market intelligence, by the end of July, the total active install base for Qihang Pods within the China region had breached 25 million units—effectively matching Coolplay’s hardware footprint and completely eclipsing Wings of Dream’s numbers.

Qihang had once been viewed as the absolute underachiever of the holographic hardware sector. Yet today, backed by the creative momentum of Yangfan Studio, the alliance was rapidly closing the gap with Coolplay. Transforming their current momentum into cementing their status as the absolute market leaders of the holographic domain appeared to be a mere question of time.