The virtual world of Alacaster was almost done. Medici had built every detail: industrial ruins, sewage swamps, pipeline networks stretching across the wasteland. Everything captured the cold, metallic feel of a dying world.
He'd also finished testing the game units for the Imperium's three main factions and the Chaos Undivided forces. Their special abilities and voting system were working.
But Medici hovered above his nearly perfect war sandbox, his brow furrowed. Those eyes, usually calm and locked on code, now showed rare hints of worry.
The problem was simple but fatal: computing power.
He'd designed the Battle of Alacaster as a truly apocalyptic-scale war.
If players voted for the Imperial Guard as their main force, the game would need to simulate that epic wall of flesh and steel against the Chaos tide. That meant hundreds of millions of AI soldiers on the battlefield at once.
These weren't just background decoration. Each AI soldier needed basic pathfinding, command responses, and interaction with players and the environment.
They even needed simulated morale and reactions to casualties. Every single unit would constantly eat up server resources.
Even if players chose the Astartes or Adeptus Mechanicus instead, the problems remained. These factions had fewer units but more complex behaviors.
Superhuman tactics, unit repairs, and coordination all demanded processing power. Constant skill activations and battlefield effects, such as psychic powers, artillery, and daemon summoning, would create crushing computational demands.
The Dawn Project had given each of the top 100 contestants premium server resources. These were powerful enough to run maps like Tival or Death Hive without a hitch.
But Alacaster was a different beast entirely. The allocated computing power was like trying to put out a forest fire with a bucket of water.
The server would crash instantly. The experience would fall apart. The finals would turn into a live disaster.
"No... can't happen." Medici muttered to himself. His fingers traced through the void unconsciously, pulling up red warning data streams.
They showed resource usage predictions spiraling into the danger zone. His carefully designed grand campaign might die before launch because of basic hardware limits. Or worse, it might become a joke.
He had to fight for more resources. He needed to go to the Dawn Project organizing committee and find the technical director.
He'd lay out the situation and apply for temporary supercomputing support to keep the finals performance stable. This wasn't just a technical issue; it meant communication and negotiation, one of the things he was worst at.
He was organizing his thoughts, steeling himself to face those committee officials, when his personal terminal lit up. The creation pod's information stream began flooding with notification alerts from the outside world.
Not system warnings. Something else entirely.
A tidal wave of public attention.
Scorchwind's in-depth video about the Faith System had gone viral. It was like pouring ice water into hot oil. The reaction was immediate and massive. View counts exploded. Reposts, comments, and fan creations multiplied endlessly.
Gaming media outlets fought for headline coverage. Six of the top ten trending topics on social platforms were about Battlefield: Warhammer 40k and its Divine Blessing System.
#Warhammer40kFaithSystem#, #KhorneEightfoldPath#, #ScorchwindChosen#, #WhatElseIsMediciHiding#, #HowToTriggerOtherGods#, #ThisGameIsInsane#...
The Singularity era had brought extreme material abundance and widespread AI-assisted creation. But it had also brought severe homogenization of entertainment products. Good creativity was more precious than rare metals. Medici's Faith System cut through that monotony like crimson lightning.
It combined hardcore shooting, sprawling worldbuilding, role-playing, and divine interaction in ways no one had seen before. The system struck something deep in players' hearts. It gave them what they'd been starving for: unique experiences and real immersion.
The discussion heat far exceeded any previous controversy about the game's violence or dark setting. People were no longer debating whether they should play. They were frantically discussing how to play, which gods to follow, and what would happen next.
Countless players flooded into the game. Some tried to recreate Scorchwind's achievement. Others explored the mysteries of different gods. Traffic to streaming platform sections surged. The community overflowed with theory guides and suspected trigger screenshots and videos.
This explosion of positive buzz around gameplay depth was something Medici hadn't anticipated. But it was exactly what he needed right now.
He quickly scanned through the information. The worry in his eyes gradually gave way to calm calculation. Public sentiment, or rather the massive enthusiasm from the player base, was itself a powerful card to play.
When he stepped out of the creation pod, he carried a detailed technical assessment report.
Computational requirements and crash risks were highlighted in red. He walked toward the Dawn Project organizing committee's office area. His stride remained steady, but his mindset had shifted.
He was no longer just a contestant begging for resources. He was someone holding groundbreaking work.
He had the backing of tens of millions of potential players and their expectations. His finals performance could directly shape this year's Dawn Project's social impact and place in history.
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~ Push the story forward with your Power Stones