[Ding!
Additionally, congratulations to the host for receiving one Game Optimization Token!] Leo stared at the translucent System panel hovering in front of him, processing the implications.
A hidden task.
Completed unknowingly.
Rewarded retroactively.
The System had been running a silent evaluation in the background this entire time, watching him work, and he’d passed without even knowing the test existed.
“So there was a hidden objective the whole time,” Leo muttered, half impressed and half annoyed.
“This System is sneakier than I gave it credit for.” Still — he’d completed it cleanly and walked away with two rewards: one Game Roulette spin and one optimization token.
He wasn’t about to complain about free loot.
He opened the System panel and navigated to the lottery interface.
[System Note: Games acquired via the Game Roulette are fully premade and cannot be modified.
Host intervention is not required.] The moment it loaded, a massive, kaleidoscopic roulette wheel bloomed across his vision: bright, gaudy, and covered in game titles arranged in wedge-shaped segments around the outer ring.
Each title came with a thumbnail and a brief descriptor.
The wheel’s contents were randomized, with the option to refresh for a different set of titles.
This was a mechanic that, in theory, let you fish for the game you actually wanted before committing your spin.
Leo scanned the current selection.
Slice It!
Naruto.
Candy Crush Saga.
Don’t Touch the Screen.
Toddler Spelling Game.
He paused on Naruto.
In his old world, it had been a globally dominant franchise with decades of built-in fandom.
The problem was that this world had no such franchise: no anime, no manga, and no cultural scaffolding to support it.
Dropping a ninja-themed action game with zero brand recognition behind it would be like launching a sequel before the original existed.
High risk and a probable waste of a spin.
Candy Crush was the other standout, but a quick mental audit of this world’s existing game library told him the match-three genre was already well-served.
Winner-takes-all dynamics applied here too, so shoving a new entrant into a saturated market was a losing bet.
Neither option justified burning his only spin.
Leo hit refresh.
The wheel shimmered, and a new set of titles populated the ring: Where’s My Water?
Mario Kart.
Phasmophobia.
Contra.
Cat Mario.
Now that was a much better spread.
Mario Kart was a proven kart-racing format with high replay value, broad appeal, and strong multiplayer potential.
Phasmophobia was a horror-comedy hybrid that could absolutely dominate the streaming scene.
Contra was a side-scrolling shooter with decades of proven design DNA behind it.
Any of those three would be a rock-solid addition to his catalogue.
Feeling genuinely optimistic, Leo committed his spin.
The roulette wheel spun fast, colors blurring, titles flickering past in a dizzying stream.
Slowly, the momentum bled off.
The wheel ticked through the final few segments: Phasmophobia…
Mario Kart…
Contra…
The pointer stopped on Cat Mario.
Leo’s face went through several distinct phases in about two seconds: confusion, recognition, denial, and finally a kind of resigned, full-body dread.
He knew this game.
He had played it in his previous life, and the memory was not a fond one.
Cat Mario, despite its innocent, colorful appearance, was not a cute nostalgic platformer.
It was a pixel-art nightmare built by someone who clearly harbored deep resentment toward the concept of player enjoyment.
The premise was simple: guide a small pixelated character through a series of levels, dodging obstacles and reaching the exit.
The execution was sadistic.
Floors would collapse without warning the moment you stepped on them.
Walls would materialize out of thin air directly in your path.
Obstacles that had been inert for three consecutive playthroughs would suddenly activate on the fourth, killing your character instantly.
Nothing was safe.
Nothing was predictable.
Every level had to be learned through pure memorization and repetition, because the traps changed (or appeared to change) just often enough to destroy any confidence you’d built.
In temperament, it was Getting Over It’s evil twin.
Same DNA.
Same “I hate you personally” energy.
Just delivered through a completely different mechanical wrapper.
“Maybe it’s a different game with the same name,” Leo told himself, gripping the mouse with the kind of desperate hope usually reserved for lottery tickets and Hail Mary passes.
His old world had contained millions of games, surely some shared titles.
Maybe this Cat Mario was a cozy farming sim, or a gentle life-narrative thing, or literally anything other than the waking nightmare he remembered.
He clicked open the game.
The pixel art loaded.
The character appeared.
A cheerful “Level 1” title card faded in.
Three seconds into his first attempt, the floor fell out from under his character with zero warning.
Death.
Instant restart.
“Son of a Bi—” It was the same game.
Exactly the same game.
Every trap, every fake-out, every meticulously designed frustration point, all present and accounted for, rendered in the System’s signature clean-but-faithful art style.
Leo slumped back in his chair.
He had been hoping with every fiber of his being that the System would give him something different this time.
Something friendly.
Something that wouldn’t make an already hostile player base actively fantasize about tracking him down and committing violence.
Getting Over It had already earned him the collective fury of several hundred thousand gamers.
A second torture game, especially released under the same developer alias, would cement a reputation he wasn’t sure he wanted.
At this point, “The Nameless Rogue” was one trending hashtag away from becoming a public enemy.
He briefly considered the simplest possible solution: just don’t release it.
Keep the game on his hard drive and pretend it didn’t exist.
The System couldn’t force him to — [Ding!
In light of the host’s apparent reluctance, the System hereby announces the following mandatory policy: all games obtained through the System must be published on a public platform.] [Failure to release a System-provided game will result in a full wipe of the host’s accumulated data and a permanent doubling of all future System costs.] Leo froze mid-thought.
The System had read his mind.
More accurately, it had anticipated the exact loophole he was about to exploit and preemptively sealed it shut.
“You absolute bas—” He caught himself before the profanity fully formed, but the sentiment remained clear.
The System wasn’t just helpful; it was outright controlling, and it was disturbingly good at it.
There was no angle here.
No clever workaround.
If he didn’t publish the game, he would lose everything he’d built: points, tokens, and all his momentum.
The System held every single card, and it damn well knew it.
Leo exhaled slowly through his nose.
“Fine.
You win.” He logged into PlayForge and navigated straight to the upload portal, his fingers moving with the mechanical precision of someone who had done this far too recently.
He submitted Cat Mario for review in a single, practiced motion.
The whole process was fast, efficient, and completely devoid of joy.
Once the upload was confirmed, Leo figured he’d check in on Getting Over It while he waited and see how the reviews were trending, maybe glance at the sales counter.
What he found instead stopped him cold.
The top post in the community discussion section, pinned by sheer volume of upvotes, read: “TEN THOUSAND SIGNATURES – We demand to know the identity of the developer behind this game.” The comment thread below it was enormous.
Hundreds of responses, all variations on the same theme.
“This developer is a genuine menace to society.
I have never played something this torturous in my life.
All I want is to sit down with them and have a calm, rational conversation.
Possibly involving my fists.” “Great game, honestly.
My only complaint is the wear and tear on peripherals.
I’ve gone through two mice and a keyboard.
I want nothing except to meet the creator face-to-face.
Just to talk.
Very peacefully.
With my hands.” “You’re all being too aggressive.
I would never threaten the developer.
I would simply ask them to play their own game to completion.
And if they can’t clear it, THEN I’d beat them up.” Leo scrolled through the thread in silence.
The gamers in this world had spent their entire lives being coddled and catered to.
Getting Over It was the first game that had ever genuinely fought back, and they had no idea how to process it other than by collectively swearing vengeance on whoever made it.
A ten-thousand-person petition just to unmask him.
Personally.
A cold chill crawled down Leo’s spine.
How could he even explain this?
He couldn’t exactly tell the world he was a transmigrator from another reality working alongside a sentient game dev System lodged in his head.
Even if he tried, no one would ever believe him.
People only believed what they could see and verify, and “I didn’t actually design this, my parasitic AI did” wasn’t going to hold up in court.
As far as the entire internet was concerned, The Nameless Rogue had built Getting Over It with his own two hands.
And now, in just a matter of time, he was about to drop a second torture game right on top of them.
Leo snapped his laptop shut, leaned back, and stared up at the blank ceiling.
This was going to get a whole lot worse before it got any better.