In his cramped rental apartment, Chen Xu stirred the steaming instant noodles, adding a single egg to bulk up the meager meal. It wasn't gourmet, but it would have to do—for now, it was all he could afford.
His financial situation was bleak. Credit cards maxed out, every digital loan service squeezed dry. Even Ningxue's freelance pay and draft fees remained unsettled—he'd borrowed another thousand yuan from her just to keep development afloat.
He wasn't eating like this because he liked it. All of his funds—what little remained—were being funneled into a final, desperate gamble: twenty thousand yuan, set aside for a single purpose.
To make Magic Mirror explode.
Chen Xu had confidence in the game's quality. In this world, the so-called "gentleman" games—especially the underground doujin kind—were a mess of rushed production and embarrassing design. Crude art, soulless writing, barely functioning mechanics. He'd seen enough to know that Magic Mirror was already leagues above the competition.
But quality alone didn't guarantee success. No matter how fragrant the wine, it's useless if buried in a deep alley.
This wasn't just some art-house project hoping for quiet discovery. No matter how refined, subtle, or moving, Magic Mirror was still, in the eyes of the market, an 18+ game. Without proper exposure, even a masterpiece would be lost in the noise.
Games needed attention. And attention required strategy.
In a noisy university dorm room, Jiang Ping yawned and climbed down from the upper bunk. He rubbed his eyes, cracked open his laptop, and mumbled, "Nothing good to read lately…"
He wasn't just looking for mindless eye candy. Sure, he had an appreciation for the usual genre fare—over-the-top fanservice and indulgent tropes—but he also liked stories with heart. Something deeper than just titillation. Fan comics that fixed bad plot twists, filled in character gaps, or rewrote frustrating endings. Doujinshi with a soul.
And every now and then, when the mood hit just right, a well-crafted "gentleman's game."
He logged into a popular overseas forum known for sharing exactly that kind of content. His goal: maybe a new comic release, or a promising fan game.
But what he found was… confusing.
Thread titles filled the homepage, but none of them made immediate sense.
"My roommate's bed was shaking all night—is it the fall of morality or human nature?"
"The most heartfelt matchmaking game I've ever played!"
"What starts off like a simple dating sim becomes something much, much more."
"I bought this for my little brother… now he's just sitting there, staring into space."
"Brave Niu Niu, pushing forward no matter the odds! Let's gooo!"
Jiang Ping blinked.
What?
He clicked into one of the threads, expecting a meme or a joke post. Instead, he found long, almost poetic reviews—lavish praise that seemed completely at odds with the game's supposed genre.
"Half an hour in, I realized… just like its name, we're all staring into a mirror. And what we see is pain, longing, and fleeting beauty. It hurt—and that's what made it feel real."
"Behind the simple gameplay lies a revelation of human darkness. Redemption and despair woven together. Even after I closed the game, it haunted me."
"Each character's story glows like a shard of some shattered world. Yes, it's flawed—but the emotional resonance? Unmatched."
"It reminds me of Dream of the Red Chamber. The women in this game each face their own struggles across time, love, fear, and fate. It's not about the rush—it's about reflection."
"It wears a loose, colorful skin, but what lies beneath is philosophy and pain. It made me feel something I didn't expect."
"When a gentleman's game can make you cry… rushing or not becomes irrelevant."
Jiang Ping leaned back in his chair, stunned.
What the hell?
He scrolled through the thread again, trying to wrap his head around it. The posts weren't jokes. The tone wasn't ironic. These were sincere reactions.
One title kept appearing in every thread, every comment, every reply.
"Magic Mirror."
That had to be the game they were talking about.
He rushed to the platform store, typed in the title. Sure enough, there it was—its cover featuring a soft-lit anime girl in a dreamy, melancholy pose. A big red label: 18+.
Definitely a gentleman's game. No mistake about that.
But were these reviews… really about this game?
The price tag read 10 yuan. About the cost of a campus breakfast.
Jiang Ping stared at the page for a few seconds longer, then added it to his cart and scanned to purchase.
He needed to know.
What kind of matchmaking game could stir up a storm like this?