Following the successful launch of the new script for The Cases of Di Renjie in mid-July, Xie Yunfan shifted his primary focus toward the recruitment and interviewing pipeline.

This hiring wave targeted fresh talent for the Art, Text/Lore, and Design departments, with a handful of slots allocated to other administrative roles. Because the job description for the Text/Lore team explicitly noted that “candidates with scriptwriting or novel-writing experience will be highly preferred,” the opening attracted an immense deluge of screenwriters from budget web dramas and established online web novelists.

Although the entertainment industry in this parallel world was highly developed, climbing the ranks as a writer remained a grueling marathon. Entry-level screenwriters often worked under established studios, churning out content without ever receiving a proper writing credit. This was especially true for suspense and thriller genres, where content censorship for television was far more stringent than for video games. Many compelling storylines simply could not be produced, leaving writers feeling artistically suffocated.

When word spread that Yangfan Studio was hiring a massive cohort of writers to sustain its long-term live-service script-killing platform, a wave of creative talent eagerly sought to transition into the gaming industry. Xie Yunfan was delighted by the high volume of applications; a highly competitive pool ensured he could select top-tier creative minds.

Among the applicants was a young man named “Zhuo Chen,” who had previously penned two low-budget suspense web dramas. Unfortunately, both projects collapsed before filming commenced due to investors pulling out at the last minute. Zhuo Chen had attached his unproduced screenplays to his resume. After reviewing the material, Xie Yunfan found his writing exceptional and hired him on the spot, intending to position him as the Lead Writer for the Holographic Script Sessions project.

The Art and Design departments similarly absorbed an array of brilliant talents.

Having previously leased the entirety of Building A, Xie Yunfan possessed an abundance of office space, capable of accommodating even more personnel. However, to keep the environment from feeling overly crowded, he designated the 7th and 8th floors specifically as the project zones for The Cases of Di Renjie and Holographic Script Sessions, respectively. The logistics department spent a few frantic days prepping the new zones.

The 7th floor served as The Cases of Di Renjie project zone. The moment one stepped through the entrance, a life-sized character standee of Di Renjie welcomed staff. Both sides of the hallway were lined with a meticulously organized gallery of digital posters. These digital displays could update dynamically at any time, showcasing the top-performing scripts on the popularity leaderboards each month, serving as a constant source of creative pride and motivation for the team.

The 8th floor was the Holographic Script Sessions project zone, featuring a sleek, hyper-modern aesthetic incorporating sci-fi and cyberpunk design elements. Both sides of the hallway were similarly set up with dynamic poster display zones. However, because active production on this title’s scripts had only just commenced, the frames remained empty for the time being.

Once the workspaces were fully operational, Xie Yunfan convened a strategic meeting with the newly hired designers alongside a select group of high-performing veteran employees.

Xie Yunfan addressed the room: “Moving forward, our long-term live-service projects will require autonomous design leads. I will personally mentor and guide you through our production pipelines for the foreseeable future. By next year, I expect you to independently manage and drive these mature projects forward.”

The designers exchanged apprehensive glances, their hearts filled with anxiety. The staff had grown accustomed to relying entirely on Xie Yunfan’s vision; with him at the helm, the production, marketing, and launch cycles of every title proceeded flawlessly. If Xie Yunfan stepped back in the future and let them assume the roles of Lead Designers, carrying the creative weight of an entire project felt deeply intimidating. What if they made a critical error and failed to deliver?

Reading the room’s anxiety, Xie Yunfan offered a reassuring smile. “As the studio continues to expand, it is physically impossible for me to micromanage every single title indefinitely. Everyone in this room holds a degree in game design; you understand the foundational framework of game production. The only thing you lack is real-world command experience.”

He encouraged them warmly, “Have faith in your capabilities. The day will come when each of you must step forward to anchor a major project. View this phase as your training ground.”

Working as a regular soldier under Xie Yunfan meant they never had to shoulder the crushing weight of executive responsibility. But for a professional game designer, having an independent, fully supervised title under one’s belt was an unparalleled career milestone.

In massive conglomerates like Wings of Dream or Coolplay, grinding your way to a “Lead Designer” position required a minimum of seven to eight years. Their internal promotion structures were brutally rigid, split across junior, intermediate, and senior tiers, reportedly requiring formal examinations to advance.

In contrast, Yangfan Studio was a newly minted enterprise where over 80% of the workforce was composed of energetic, young professionals. While younger talent lacked decades of corporate experience, they possessed boundless imagination, fresh perspectives, and an innate flexibility toward experimental mechanics. Xie Yunfan’s willingness to personally mentor them and hand them project leads was a rare, golden opportunity.

As the realization dawned on them, a wave of excitement swept through the room. The designers resolved to absorb everything their boss had to teach.

In August, the fresh recruits officially onboarded. Xie Yunfan hosted an all-hands meeting to formally announce the establishment of two distinct project divisions.

• The Cases of Di Renjie Division: Level Design Director Zhang Su was appointed as the Assistant Project Lead.
• Holographic Script Sessions Division: Programming Director Xu Jianshan was appointed as the Assistant Project Lead.

Xie Yunfan retained the title of Overall Chief Designer for both divisions. However, everyone within the company understood the subtext—Xie Yunfan was merely steadying the ship during this transitional phase. By next year, these two individuals would step into full project autonomy.

Seated in the audience, Zhang Su clenched his fists in quiet exhilaration.

Back at his previous firm, he had been stuck as an underappreciated assistant lead, facing daily berating from his supervisor. Whenever a project succeeded, the manager claimed the glory; whenever a bottleneck arose, Zhang Su was made the scapegoat. Due to his introverted, methodical nature, he rarely engaged in corporate politics, choosing instead to quietly execute his duties—a disposition his former superiors dismissed as uninspired.

He never imagined that after joining Yangfan Studio, he would spend two successful years as the Head of Level Design, only to now be elevated to Assistant Project Lead with a clear trajectory toward running the entire division.

During a private check-in, Xie Yunfan had personally told him that his grounded disposition, meticulous attention to detail, and exceptional work on the clue-and-investigation mechanics for The Cases of Di Renjie made him the ideal candidate to supervise the project. For the first time in his career, his labor was being recognized by a leader who truly valued his worth.

Meanwhile, Xu Jianshan from the Programming team possessed an impeccable technical pedigree. Having completed an undergraduate degree in Computer Science followed by a Master’s in Game Design, his comprehensive skill set was undeniable.

The two individuals chosen by Xie Yunfan possessed the precise blend of seniority, technical capability, and respect required to command their respective teams. Once both script-killing titles achieved operational stability, Xie Yunfan could fully delegate control and devote his focus to crafting his next major title. For the time being, however, he remained intimately involved in the daily production cycles to ensure a smooth transition.

By the end of August, the inaugural script for Holographic Script Sessions successfully cleared production. The QA department ran exhaustive testing cycles, confirming the build was entirely free of critical bugs.

Ye Xiang maintained his focus on historical narratives to secure the monthly update cycle for The Cases of Di Renjie, while all modern, sci-fi, and experimental scripts were handed over to Zhuo Chen and the new writing recruits. Zhuo Chen’s screenwriting background shone through immediately; his opening narratives received rave internal reviews, allowing the art and engineering teams to seamlessly execute their respective pipelines.

By mid-October, The Cases of Di Renjie rolled out its scheduled content update. The title’s player base had stabilized into a highly loyal community, generating massive traffic spikes every weekend. On update days, the daily recurring revenue comfortably breached the 100 million yuan mark; whenever a particularly brilliant script dropped, that figure surged past 300 million yuan.

At this rate, The Cases of Di Renjie was on track to become an industry evergreen, securing an incredibly lucrative financial foundation for Yangfan Studio. The rest of the gaming industry looked on with sheer envy. But there was nothing they could do—Yangfan Studio had pioneered the holographic script-killing genre, and their active development of the modern spin-off ensured that any competitor trying to copy the model now would find themselves picking at leftovers.

By late October, the core launch catalog for Holographic Script Sessions entered closed alpha testing. A second round of polishing followed in November, and by December, the title was officially primed for its commercial debut.

Backed by a six-month marketing runway since the concept teaser and the stellar reputation of The Cases of Di Renjie, the spin-off amassed an immense wave of pre-registration interest. When the studio locked down December 12 as the official global launch date, fans flooded the social channels:

“My Qihang Pod is primed and ready! I’ve played a ton of the historical scripts, I cannot wait to see what the modern ones look like!”

“Can we please just fast-forward time straight to the 12th?”

“Will the modern settings make the horror scripts feel even more terrifying?”

Amidst boundless player anticipation, Holographic Script Sessions went live on December 12.

This time, Liu-ge didn’t waste a single moment. Wrapping up his lunch, he immediately logged into the new interface.

The moment his avatar materialized, a system notification flashed across his vision: “檢測到你是《狄仁傑探案》玩家，積分380分，可開記所有的高級劇本。” [System Notification: Active profile detected from ‘The Cases of Di Renjie’. Current Player Score: 380. High-Tier Advanced Scripts have been automatically unlocked for your account.]

Seeing this, Liu-ge couldn’t help but praise the design: “Outstanding! I don’t have to grind through the beginner tier all over again.”

The data profiles between the two titles were completely interconnected. Surviving and scoring points in The Cases of Di Renjie granted immediate clearance to tackle advanced content in Holographic Script Sessions, acting essentially like a pre-approved passport. It was an incredibly user-friendly feature that allowed the two titles to seamlessly cross-pollinate their audiences.

News of the shared progression framework spread across social media like wildfire:

“Just verified it myself—player scores are completely shared between both games.”

“Unlocking intermediate scripts requires 10 points, while advanced scripts require 100 points. If you’ve played The Cases of Di Renjie, you can jump straight into the deep end here.”

“If you want ancient mystery, go find Di Renjie; if you want modern suspense, boot up Holographic Script Sessions.”

“Over twenty brand-new launch scripts… we are going to be eating good!”

Players enthusiastically launched the game.

Liu-ge found himself completely spoiled for choice as he scrolled through the massive digital wall of script posters. Ultimately, his eyes locked onto a high-difficulty sci-fi narrative titled Gene Project.

System: Matching players… Please stand by.

A moment later, the lobby filled. It was an eight-player instance with an even four-male, four-female split. (The system allowed players to cross-play different genders if a role required it).

System: Please draw your Character Profile Card.

Liu-ge tapped the holographic screen. Eight distinct roles spun rapidly before locking onto his assignment, accompanied by lines of crisp white text:

System: You are Dr. Liu, Male, Age 38. Role: Director of the Primary Research Facility on Planet 73 of the Phil Star System. Recently, a series of anomalous, fatal accidents have occurred within the facility every forty-eight hours. While investigating the anomalies alongside your colleagues, you discover that the root cause originates from…

The remaining details were redacted, left for the player to uncover.

Driven by curiosity, Liu-ge phased into the environment.

The scene materialized into a hyper-realistic, high-tech laboratory. Sleek, brushed-silver instruments rested atop clinical examination tables, corridors were laced with active security lasers, and every heavy blast door required fingerprint and iris verification to operate.

Following a system prompt instructing him to attend an emergency briefing, Liu-ge smoothed down his lab coat and navigated the sterile hallways. As he passed a series of cleanrooms, he glanced through the transparent observation glass—and the sight made his skin crawl.

Inside Lab 1, rows of glowing cultivation vats held hundreds of infants sharing the exact same facial features. In Lab 2, the specimens inside the vats had reached full adulthood. Countless clones floated silently within the fluid-filled chambers, eyes closed, appearing as though they could snap awake at any moment.

While Liu-ge was no stranger to sci-fi cinema, experiencing these rows of cloned human test subjects through the absolute fidelity of a holographic medium felt profoundly unnerving.

So Gene Project revolves around human cloning?

As he looked closer, he realized one of the vats contained a clone of his own character model. Holy crap! Shaking off a wave of goosebumps, he hurried into the adjacent briefing room.

Inside this session, eight players took on the roles of research facility personnel, complemented by two unique NPCs: one Medical Examiner and one Security Officer.

Recently, for reasons unknown, facility colleagues had begun dropping dead one after another. At first, everyone assumed it was unexpected cardiac arrest brought on by high occupational stress, but after three consecutive casualties, panic began to grip the staff.

Yesterday, the corpse of the latest deceased colleague was sent for autopsy. Ultimately, the Medical Examiner uncovered a synthetic, novel neurotoxin within the remains.

The Medical Examiner explained: “This toxin is synthesized from laboratory pharmaceuticals. A minute dosage of just 10mg is enough to induce fatal shutdown. It is completely colorless and odorless, allowing it to be seamlessly slipped into food rations to eliminate targets without a trace.”

The Security Officer’s gaze swept coldly across the room. “Since the research facility is a highly classified unit under biometric lockdown, outsiders have zero means of infiltration. Therefore, I conclude that the culprit is an insider sitting among you right now.”

The revelation sent a chill down the players’ spines. A colorless, odorless poison meant the execution method was completely invisible; a single careless bite of food could mean instant elimination!

If the innocent faction didn’t pinpoint the culprit quickly, they were looking at a total party wipe. Realizing this, Liu-ge immediately locked into peak concentration, scrutinizing clues and cross-referencing alibis alongside his peers to break down the case.

The integration of a sci-fi framework into the script-killing mechanic felt incredibly engaging. The presence of the investigator and medical examiner NPCs streamlined the deduction process, feeding the players tangible data points like fingerprint matches, iris logs, and blood toxicology reports to help map out timelines.

Ultimately, by the third day of in-game time—and at the cost of two additional player lives—the group successfully cornered the culprit.

The killer turned out to be a brilliant, unhinged geneticist. Because a massive batch of his own clones had been flagged as failures and scheduled for disposal, he had been forced to watch dozens of entities sharing his exact face dissolve inside a chemical reclamation vat. The trauma had broken his sanity, turning him into a sociopathic serial killer determined to purge every single participant associated with Gene Project.

Exiting the pod, Liu-ge felt completely chilled. The psychological weight of facing rows of your own biological duplicates lingered long after the game ended. Much like The Embroidered Shoes, the narrative possessed an incredible, haunting aftertaste.

Yep, definitely having nightmares tonight.

……

Simultaneously, Cute Rabbit loaded into a cyberpunk-themed objective script titled Containment Zone 7, stepping into the shoes of a Special Operations Commander.

System: You are Zhou Ruixue, Commander of the K9 Tactical Strike Team. Your awakened evolutionary ability is “Ice,” allowing you to instantaneously freeze any target object within a designated radius. The K9 Tactical Strike Team has received direct orders from Central Command to infiltrate Containment Zone 7 and investigate a series of anomalous energy fluctuations.

System: Primary Objective: Secure the anomalous energy core located within the containment sector and return it to the research division for specialist extraction. Time Limit: 2 Hours.

Reading her briefing, Cute Rabbit beamed with excitement. “A cyberpunk setting paired with an active objective script! This is exactly my jam. My ability is ice; I bet the other players have different elemental powers.”

“Wow, this sounds incredibly fun.”

Taking a deep breath, she quickly locked in her readiness status.

A moment later, five players materialized inside a high-speed elevator cabin.

The transparent glass lift shot skyward like a kinetic round, finally coming to a halt atop a sweeping observation deck. Looking out, a sprawling cityscape filled her vision—monumental skyscrapers blanketed in dazzling neon light arrays, with streams of vibrant kinetic mechs navigating a multi-tiered grid of aerial transit lanes.

This was a hyper-advanced metropolis constructed by humanity in the wake of a planetary cataclysm, suspended high in the atmosphere. The interior of the city burned with brilliant illumination, contrasting sharply with the unknown perils of the dark containment zones stretching far beyond the perimeter walls.

While the cyberpunk aesthetic was a familiar staple of traditional mobile gaming, experiencing its scale through a holographic pod was a completely different beast!

The sheer tapestry of color and depth left the players breathless.

One player couldn’t help but blurt out, “Holy crap, the rendering on this cyberpunk city is absolutely insane!”

The words had barely left his mouth when a cold, synthesized mechanical voice barked from an overhead security camera: “Silence is mandatory within the transit hub.”

The player’s face flushed red, while the rest of the team muffled their laughter.

Moments later, the doors slid open, and an intelligent android stepped forward to receive them: “K9 Unit, please board the tactical dropship to proceed to your target coordinates. The wireless comms units linked to your gauntlets can be utilized to request headquarters assistance in the event of an emergency.”

The team filed into the vessel. Cute Rabbit noted that their avatars were decked out in identical tactical armor—the deep-charcoal digital camouflage looked incredibly sharp.

“Dropship departure imminent. Please secure yourselves for high-velocity transit…”

With a resounding boom, the dropship launched off the platform.

One player who hadn’t anchored himself properly nearly pulled a complete backflip, saved only by a teammate catching his vest in the nick of time.

Cute Rabbit introduced herself warmly: “Hey team! I’m Zhou Ruixue, Commander of the K9 Unit. My ability is Cryokinesis. Why don’t we go around and introduce our skill sets?”

The remaining members immediately chimed in: “Name’s Lin Yan. Pyrokinesis.”

“Hydrokinesis here…”

“I control lightning.”

“Aerokinesis!”

The loadout was remarkably balanced. Cute Rabbit fell into contemplation. “We only have 5 players here, but the server lobby indicated a 10-player instance. That means there’s a rival faction on the map.”

Shortly after, the dropship reached the outer rim of the containment zone.

Leaping onto the terrain, they noticed a second dropship touching down on an adjacent clearing. Five individuals stepped out of the craft, clad in deep-navy tactical combat rigs.

A system alert chimed in their ears: “Tactical Strike Team F7 has accepted the identical containment sector search parameters. Secure the target energy core before they intercept it.”

Cute Rabbit looked over at the rival squad.

The opposing commander, a tall individual sporting a heavy kinetic minigun slung across his back, offered a casual wave and yelled out, “Competitive instance! May the best squad win!”

Cute Rabbit smiled back. “Good luck out there.”

System: Operation commenced. The first team to successfully extract the energy core claims victory.

System: Although both tactical teams represent differing internal factions, you remain under the jurisdiction of the Federal Tactical Bureau. Lethal force against fellow operatives is strictly prohibited; violations will result in immediate system detention.

System: K9 Unit operatives possess biological evolutionary traits, while F7 Unit operatives are equipped with top-tier military tech and advanced ordnance. Leverage your respective advantages to navigate the perils of the containment zone.

As the notifications faded, a countdown timer materialized in the upper right corner of her HUD.

This style of competitive team-versus-team scenario had appeared previously in The Cases of Di Renjie as a tomb-robbing treasure hunt, where two factions raced through an ancient burial site to secure an artifact.

Transposing that exact mechanic into a cyberpunk universe complete with active superpowers felt wonderfully novel. Cute Rabbit immediately rallied her squad and plunged into the neon-draped forest.

……

Meanwhile, hardcore gaming enthusiast Purple Cauliflower selected a dedicated puzzle-room script titled Escape from the Undercity.

The narrative was set against a grim, post-apocalyptic backdrop where humanity had constructed a subterranean stronghold to survive a harsh environment. Years prior, however, the undercity had sustained catastrophic structural damage during a colossal monster assault, leaving major sectors collapsed and sealing the primary emergency evacuation route.

Players had to decode a sequence of intricate mechanical puzzles to escape the collapsing subterranean labyrinth before the clock ran out.

Throughout the session, the environment continuously shuddered and rocked, forcing players to navigate shifting, unstable terrain to locate pathways forward.

The undercity was laced with absolute “kill-switches”—collapsing staircases, vanishing floor panels, corridors surging with live electrical currents, and rapidly flooding containment locks. A single misstep meant an instant game over.

The session commenced with a full lobby of 15 players.

Within thirty minutes, brutal environmental eliminations whittled that number down to 5.

Ultimately, Purple Cauliflower was the lone survivor to breach the surface, relying on over a decade of hardcore gaming instincts to navigate the final traps by the skin of his teeth. Every single one of his teammates had perished along the way.

A clear rate of less than 10%—it was a beautifully punishing piece of design!

Yet, Purple Cauliflower found the mechanical puzzle designs incredibly inspired. Every trap demanded logical deduction and rapid spatial analysis, proving that the design team hadn’t taken shortcuts.

The holographic execution of a “locked-room escape” was spectacularly engaging.

Leaving the pod, he immediately queued up for another session, eager to sample a different genre.

By the night of December 12, as the open beta for Holographic Script Sessions went into full swing, a mountain of player reviews flooded the internet:

“I am utterly obsessed with the cyberpunk objective script Containment Zone 7! The superpowers are so fun to use. Our pyromancer tried to incinerate a wall of mutated vines and accidentally set his own avatar’s pants on fire, smashed his rear end into the dirt, hahaha!”

“Playing Gene Project genuinely terrified me. Spending hours locked in a facility surrounded by rows of your own cloned duplicates… looking at those cultivation vats caused actual physiological discomfort! 10/10 suspense.”

“The high school serial murder script The Vanished Schoolgirl left my spine completely frozen. I didn’t suspect the culprit for a single second; he played the innocent bystander role flawlessly.”

“The script Age of Mechanics is an absolute mind-bender. You have to deduce which players are androids hiding among the human crew. By the final act, I couldn’t even tell if my own character was human anymore…”

“Word of advice: do not blindly queue into Escape from the Undercity. The difficulty is insane; our entire lobby suffered a total party wipe and we never even saw the exit door T_T”

As the wave of positive critiques mounted, public enthusiasm reached a fever pitch.

The historical iteration had already offered an incredible variety of gameplay loops, but by expanding the canvas across multiple eras, the Text/Lore division’s creative output had exploded, delivering an even richer tapestry of mechanics.

Because the data profiles remained completely shared, players could navigate between both titles at will.

A user could spend their Friday evening walking the cobblestone streets of an ancient town alongside Di Renjie to unmask a thief, and spend their Saturday navigating a neon-draped cyberpunk metropolis, utilizing active superpowers to complete a tactical extraction.

The script-killing framework had truly evolved into an all-encompassing platform.

Cerebral murder mysteries, intense competitive objective loops, punishing escape rooms, and lighthearted party narratives coexisted seamlessly. Every single script offered a unique aesthetic blueprint, ensuring that every time a player stepped into a pod, they experienced a completely fresh adventure.

It was no wonder Yangfan Studio possessed such unshakeable confidence in their live-service roadmap.

A platform like Holographic Script Sessions could easily be played for years on end without ever feeling stale.