Paul Research Center, top-floor office.
Outside the massive floor-to-ceiling windows stood the dense forest of New York's skyscrapers.
But at this moment, Paul's gaze wasn't on the view outside. It was captivated by the enormous data screen that covered an entire wall before him.
On the screen, bright red numbers were rolling and jumping upwards at a near-frenzied pace.
[NERvGear Global Real-Time Sales: 1,784,521 units]
[Website Pending Orders: 5,342,889]
[Projected Revenue: $7,118,757,368]
Just twenty-four hours after the press conference had ended.
The first batch of one million units in stock was completely sold out within three minutes of the pre-sale channel opening.
The subsequent flood of massive orders crashed Paul's specially reinforced servers three times.
Seven point one billion dollars.
This figure already surpassed the annual GDP of many small and medium-sized countries. And it was still growing wildly, by tens of thousands of dollars every second.
Paul held a glass of ice water, leaning back in his leather executive chair. His face showed little emotion, but the fingers gently tapping on the desk betrayed the storm raging within him.
Money.
It was an avalanche, a tsunami, rolling in relentlessly.
He could almost hear the roar of the world's cash converging into a torrent, flooding into the company's accounts.
This feeling was far more real, and far more... captivating, than being an omnipotent god in a virtual world.
The office door was suddenly thrown open.
"Boss!"
Wang Nuo, the company's general manager whom Paul had poached from Wall Street with a high salary—a middle-aged man who was always impeccably dressed and full of energy—looked somewhat disheveled at this moment.
His tie was askew, his hair a mess. He rushed in, holding a constantly vibrating phone in one hand and a tablet in the other.
"Boss, look! The White House sent a formal inquiry. They want to purchase a batch of NERvGear for... astronaut psychological counseling and simulation training!"
"And the Pentagon! They want to partner with us to develop a military version for soldier combat simulations. The budget... the budget is unlimited!"
"MIT, Caltech, Stanford... Thirty-seven of the world's top fifty universities have sent collaboration requests, hoping to establish joint laboratories!"
"And..."
Wang Nuo spoke at a rapper's pace, his face a twisted mixture of extreme excitement and utter exhaustion.
He had never experienced such a mad scene.
The company's front desk was swamped by couriers delivering letters of intent, and three of the external contact phones had been burned out from overuse.
They weren't doing business; they were being buried in money by the entire world.
"Calm down, Wang Nuo." Paul took a sip of his ice water, his voice steady. "This was all within my expectations."
Wang Nuo gasped for air, forcing himself to calm down. Looking at the young man before him, who wasn't much older than his own son, he felt a wave of absurdity.
The whole world was going crazy for him, yet he was as calm as if he were watching a movie that had nothing to do with him.
"Sorry, boss. I lost my composure," Wang Nuo said, wiping sweat from his forehead. "But... we have trouble, too."
He handed the tablet over.
On the screen were the trending lists for Twitter and Facebook.
#NERvGearTheNewOpiumOfTheMasses
#BoycottVirtualWorldsGiveOurKidsBackTheirChildhood
#TensOfThousandsOfParentsPetitionAgainstPaulTech
The jarring hashtags spread like a virus across social media.
Clicking on the hashtags revealed a flood of tearful accusations.
"My son hasn't left his room in two days since he put on that damn helmet! I have to bring his meals to him! He wasn't like this before; he used to be an active, athletic kid!"
"Save the children! Paul Tech is using virtual sugar-coated bullets to destroy the physical and mental health of our next generation!"
"This thing is worse than drugs! Drugs destroy the body, but this devours the soul! I demand the government immediately ban the sale of this harmful product!"
The accompanying photos showed teenagers with bloodshot eyes and haggard faces, their parents crying beside them, their own faces etched with anxiety and rage.
In a very short time, these posts had received a massive number of retweets and likes. The tide of public opinion seemed to have turned overnight from fanatical adoration to wary condemnation.
Paul's expression didn't change in the slightest as his finger swiped gently across the screen.
"The timing is very concentrated," he commented lightly.
"Yes." Wang Nuo's face grew serious. "And that's not all."
He swiped to another page, showing the headlines of major news websites.
*In-Depth: The Hidden Social Crisis Behind NERvGear*
*Expert Warning: Prolonged Use of Full-Dive Devices May Lead to Personality Dissociation*
*Technological Leap or Pandora's Box? How Should We Regulate the 'Virtual World'?*
The authors of these articles were, without exception, so-called "sociologists," "neuroscientists," and "adolescent psychology experts" who were previously unheard of but had suddenly emerged.
They used alarmist headlines and seemingly professional but deeply flawed arguments to paint NERvGear as a monster that would devour reality and destroy civilization.
"These experts, it's as if they coordinated. Between eight and nine this morning, they simultaneously published critical articles in over thirty mainstream media outlets," Wang Nuo's voice grew heavy. "The troll farms are active, and online sentiment is reversing sharply. The PR department's phones are also blowing up with nothing but accusations and curses."
A brief silence fell over the office.
The sunlight outside was still bright, but an invisible chill began to creep through the room.
A media storm targeting Paul Tech, targeting NERvGear, had formed. It was ferocious, and... premeditated.
Wang Nuo watched Paul nervously, waiting for his command.
He had imagined countless possibilities. Call an emergency press conference to clarify? Immediately activate the crisis PR plan? Or even temporarily halt new orders to quell the public outcry?
However, Paul's reaction once again exceeded his expectations.
The young man casually placed the tablet on the desk with a soft *thud*.
He swiveled his chair to face the massive data wall again.
On the screen, the revenue figure had just surpassed seven point two billion.
The torrent of money hadn't paused for a single moment despite the storm outside.
"Wang Nuo."
Paul's voice was soft, but it carried an unquestionable chill.
"Pull up all the surveillance footage from the day of the press conference."
Wang Nuo was taken aback. "Boss, you mean..."
"Especially the front row."
Paul's gaze seemed to pierce through the scrolling numbers on the screen, fixing on a point in empty space.
"I want to know who, exactly, Obadiah Stane messaged when he pulled out his phone halfway through the conference."
"Find out everyone he contacted, and all the companies and individuals behind those media outlets that have financial ties to him."
"I want a complete list."
Wang Nuo's heart skipped a beat. He understood instantly.
Paul didn't give a damn about the current media storm.
He couldn't even be bothered to make excuses or engage in public relations.
From the very beginning, his target wasn't the incited parents or the bought-off experts.
It was the mastermind hiding behind it all, the one who thought they were so well-hidden.
"I understand, boss!" Wang Nuo's posture straightened instantly, the fighting spirit reignited in his eyes.
He turned and strode away, his steps firm and powerful.
The office returned to silence.
Paul picked up the now-lukewarm glass of water and downed it in one go.
The cool liquid slid down his throat, making him feel incredibly clear-headed.
*Trying to crush me with public opinion? Too naive.*
*In the face of absolute technology and absolute capital, so-called public opinion is nothing more than lines of code that can be rewritten at any time.*
*And he just happened to be the world's top programmer.*
A cold smirk slowly formed on Paul's lips.
*Obadiah...*
*You think this is a game of chess?*
*No. I don't play chess.*
*I only do one thing—flip the board and crush all the pieces, along with the arrogant player himself.*