Void Island launched without any prior marketing, yet on release day, advertisements flooded social media and gaming forums.
The promotional strategy was bizarre—it was directly tied to ‘Nook.’ Terms like “alternative,” “superior replacement,” and even words like “copy” and “plagiarism” were used unabashedly. The intent was crystal clear—they were directly targeting Nook, making sure every player knew it.
Just as Li Xuan predicted, Void Island had no monetization system at all. They had also lowered difficulty levels and reduced upgrade times. Any in-game items or equipment that required purchases in Nook were now available in Void Island through gacha draws–Not only that, but the first pull after logging in was free, and the drop rates were astoundingly high.
A few hours before launch, aside from the bot accounts, most of the feedback was actually negative. In Nook’s backend, a flood of messages from loyal players urged them to check it out.
> “Did you guys release this game? It’s just a copy of Nook—The resemblance is too strong—this has to be copyright infringement.”
But soon, the sentiment began to shift. With such an aggressive marketing campaign, some gamers decided to try Void Island.
> “Not gonna lie, it’s actually pretty good. Leveling up is fast, and it’s completely free. You don’t have to pay to unlock any scenes. Sure, the controls are a bit clunky, and the art style is ugly, but who cares?”
> “This is plagiarism!” someone protested in the comments.
> “Well, I’m not the one who copied it. Let Nook sue them if they want!” The original poster replied confidently. “What, I’m broke. I like free stuff, can’t I save some money?!”
Even people in the gaming industry, who had never heard of this company before, started asking around:
> “What’s going on? Is this some kind of new competitive strategy?”
Qi Boyuan was overwhelmed with frustration. He stared at Void Island’s advertisements, wondering if he was still half-asleep.
What the hell was going on? He wanted to know just as badly. He couldn’t imagine what kind of grudge Li Xuan’s seemingly successful and polished adoptive father had to go this far.
But he had no answers. And no one else could answer his questions either. The mastermind behind all of this wasn’t even at the company.
Li Xuan had gone home the night before.
Sheng Min had attended an audition for the lead role in ‘Not Just a Mountain’ on Friday, and Li Xuan made time to pick him up.
“Did you wait long?”
Due to the rushed update of Nook, several bugs had appeared post-launch, and Chu Tianheng was overwhelmed. Li Xuan had helped handle them before rushing over—arriving half an hour late.
“No.” Sheng Min wasn’t aware of the situation, only that Li Xuan seemed busier than usual. “Didn’t I tell you? If you’re busy, you don’t have to come. I’m not a kid—I can go home on my own.”
“I told you I’d pick you up.”
Sheng Min smiled, took the bouquet of flowers from the backseat, and lowered his head to smell it. They had driven a while before he asked, “Why haven’t you asked me how my audition went?”
“How did it go?” Li Xuan finally pulled his attention away from work and played along.
“I don’t know.” Sheng Min lightly flicked a drop of dew off the petals. “The assistant director was there today. I think they’ve seen my work before.”
In fact, she was a fan of his—a young, capable woman. She had handled the audition professionally, but the moment it ended, she had rushed over, asking for an autograph. Her excitement was barely concealed as she kept praising him and even mentioned that she couldn’t believe it when she first saw his resume. Before he left, she earnestly promised that she wouldn’t leak any information about his audition until the final decision was made.
“When’s the next round of auditions?” Li Xuan asked.
“Not sure yet. They told me to wait for notice.”
Sheng Min still looked completely relaxed. He recalled how, before leaving, the assistant director had told him somewhat regretfully:
“I think you did great, really. But Director Yin has some quirks when it comes to casting… Don’t worry, though—I’ll make sure he sees your audition tape. He’ll personally handle the follow-ups.”
Sheng Min had sincerely thanked her, but he wasn’t overly anxious about it.
“I was really happy today,” he said, gazing out at the vibrant city lights. “And I enjoyed preparing for the audition this week, too. Whether I get the role or not doesn’t really matter that much.”
At a red light, Li Xuan reached over and gently pinched his cheek. “Really?”
“Of course, I want the role,” Sheng Min admitted openly. “But if I don’t get it, it’s not because I wasn’t good enough… Li Xuan.” He called his name with a serious expression. “Thank you for signing me up. I’ll seriously think about what I want to do next.”
Under the streetlights, Sheng Min’s face looked breathtakingly beautiful. Li Xuan had been exhausted for days dealing with the company’s troubles, and he knew this was just the beginning. But looking at Sheng Min’s quiet profile, he felt a fleeting moment of peace. “Mm.”
That night, after Sheng Min had fallen asleep, Li Xuan got up again and spent the rest of the night coding. He only went back to bed at dawn, catching a short rest beside Sheng Min before waking up to head to the office.
By then, he had already seen the news about Void Islands’ launch. He knew exactly what Qi Boyuan’s call would be about, so he ignored it, casually putting on his shoes at the door while chatting with Sheng Min about trivial things. Then, he said, “Things at work will be busy for the next few days. Don’t wait up for me at night.”
“When are you ever not busy?” Sheng Min handed him a carton of milk, then hesitated before asking cautiously, “Something happened again?… Zhao Jizhe?”
“No, it’s just the end of the year—things naturally pile up.” Li Xuan shook his head, leaned in to kiss him, and added, “If there’s any update on the play, let me know. Don’t worry. I’m off—see you tonight.”
……
At the company, the lobby was quieter than usual. The usual chatter had been replaced by hushed whispers. When Li Xuan entered, someone called out, “Xuan-ge.” Instantly, all eyes turned to him.
“Where’s Qi Boyuan?” Unfazed, Li Xuan asked directly.
“Over here,” Qi Boyuan stuck his head out, glancing around the room. “Alright, enough gossiping. Stay off Weibo and WeChat—don’t post anything stupid.”
The atmosphere was awkward for a moment.
“Get back to work,” Li Xuan said, waving them off before heading into his office and closing the door.
“How’s the backend data?” Li Xuan got straight to the point.
“Revenue is still within normal range, but the number of active players is already fluctuating.”
It made sense. Paying players had a higher sunk cost, making them harder to poach. But for free-to-play users, if they could access more items and environments elsewhere for free, leaving was an easy choice.
“Right now, Void Island has three cities open?” Li Xuan downloaded the game on his phone, speaking in a cold tone. “…It really is empty. The data structure is a mess, and the memory allocation is all wrong… Yuanxin’s hired guns really aren’t doing a thorough job. But their beta test footage sure looked polished enough.”
“You should stop nitpicking for now.” At this point, Qi Boyuan no longer had the energy or mindset to argue with him and said helplessly, “Even though this knockoff has a lot of issues, they’ve managed to replicate most of the functions. Plus, their current server content has already copied about 60% of Nook’s update progress. For many players, as long as they can play, they don’t really care about the experience…” As he spoke, he handed his phone to Li Xuan to show him some comments. “I just called my friend who does game reviews. He’ll post a video later to speak on our behalf, but since he’s primarily a reviewer, the effect of exposing this copycat might be limited… So, should we do a discount event to keep players engaged? Otherwise, a revenue drop is just a matter of time.”
“No need. This group of players can’t be retained.”
“Then…”
“How many players have purchased the Grass Wind Chime?” Li Xuan set down his mouse and leaned back in his chair. “I need the latest numbers.”
The Grass Wind Chime was an item introduced in the last update. It helped players increase the survival rate of their in-game residential plants and was currently one of the most expensive items in Nook.
Qi Boyuan reported a figure.
It was about what he expected. Li Xuan lowered his eyes. If the click-through rate dropped, ad revenue would immediately take a hit. However, Nook didn’t rely much on ad placements—the bulk of their revenue came from player purchases, and the retention of high-spending users was the key.
“I’ll talk to Senior. We’ll move up this month’s team research event to this week and allocate some items for upgrades…” As he spoke, he grabbed the calculator next to him, pressed a few buttons, and came up with a figure. “This should be enough to stabilize things.”
“Are you sure?”
“More or less.”
“But our daily expenses…”
Before Qi Boyuan could finish, Li Xuan’s fingers tapped the keyboard, and the number on the screen turned negative. “There’s a shortfall. I know… What’s the status of our investment talks?”
“Not going great…” Qi Boyuan rubbed his face tiredly. “I contacted investors right after you mentioned it the other day. They were initially interested, but the timeframe is too short, and we haven’t finalized anything yet. Just before you arrived, I got a call, but the moment I brought up funding, their attitude became vague… These capitalists change their stance at the slightest disturbance.”
“How long can we last with our current funds? Based on this shortfall.”
Qi Boyuan’s expression was complicated. “A month, at best. Reverse Track also needs money, and we’ve never had much to spare.”
“Alright.” Li Xuan paused for a moment. “Push harder on the investment talks, and broaden the scope. If discussions have stalled, ask again about their interest—start negotiations. If it really doesn’t work out, I’ll figure something out. This isn’t on you.”
“I’m cutting ‘Reverse Track’s’ budget this month.”
“Got it.”
Another silence fell between them. After a long moment, Qi Boyuan let out a bitter laugh. “Your analysis is right. Void Island is just copying us outright. If we want to keep Nook’s revenue stable, we have to accelerate our updates… But with the timeline this tight, Senior, after all, specializes in art. He might not be able to handle it all. You’ll probably have to step in yourself. Reverse Track will have to be put on hold. Let’s get through this period first.”
“I already have a plan. Focus on your responsibilities.”
That meant he wasn’t planning to put Reverse Track on hold after all.
On one hand, Qi Boyuan was frustrated by Li Xuan’s stubbornness. On the other hand, in a situation like this, Li Xuan’s calmness was like a shot of confidence. He remembered their early days, taking on various app and web development projects. Li Xuan could juggle three or four projects at once—back then, it often seemed like he cared more about money than his own well-being. No matter how impossible a deadline seemed, Li Xuan always managed to meet it.
Would it be the same this time?
Qi Boyuan couldn’t imagine.
“Don’t panic.” While speaking, Li Xuan had already started coding, his fingers moving rapidly across the keyboard without looking up. “If you panic, everyone outside will panic too.”
“Fine.” Qi Boyuan let out a deep breath, watching Li Xuan’s fingers fly across the keyboard. He shook his head. “The emperor isn’t worried, but his minister is about to drop dead from stress.”
