“In the gaming community, someone suddenly mentioned Jiang Rong’s game: that dark horse title has now broken into the top ten.”
Among a group of game developers, this topic sparked immediate attention. As industry insiders, they paid far more heed to game data than ordinary players, who only watched from the sidelines for entertainment. The developers, however, were looking for the deeper trends and meanings.
When the dark horse game first surged into the top 100, many developers already sensed a formidable competitor had emerged.
But no one expected its stats to climb so rapidly—outrunning their own achievements at a pace they couldn’t match.
“To be honest, I used to feel anxious, worrying what if our games couldn’t outperform theirs,” one developer admitted. “Now that their results genuinely surpassed mine, paradoxically, I feel more at ease.”
“Exactly. Now the contestants who should be in the top ten are worried about their rankings,” chimed in some of the lower-ranked competitors, who relaxed and resigned themselves.
The top ten contestants in the group chat exchanged uneasy glances.
Just as other developers felt a straightforward concern, Li Zhidong’s emotions were far more complicated.
He vividly recalled claiming in the classmates’ group chat that the game would slide no higher than twentieth place—but now it had crashed into the top ten, a blatant slap in the face.
How could he ever raise his head in front of his classmates again?
“This won’t do. My pride and my game cannot be trampled on,” Li Zhidong suddenly stood up and paced anxiously, searching for a solution.
After a moment’s thought, he stopped abruptly and began making calls.
“Tell me, since you can post positive reviews for games, can you also post negative ones?” Li Zhidong asked urgently.
“Of course, that’s one of our services,” replied the leader of an online review manipulation group.
“Good. Then start posting negative reviews on this game,” Li Zhidong replied, sending them a link to Slime Pop, Jiang Rong’s game.
Soon enough, harsh comments began flooding the Slime Pop review section:
“A game for children, yet a group of adults are seriously engrossed in it—how childish.”
“Right, I actually feel sorry for players of this game—they’ve only got the age, not the maturity.”
“Came expecting something great, but this game isn’t fun at all. The quality is terrible. How did this game even get into the top ten? Completely undeserved.”
Many comments of this nature multiplied.
Initially, Slime Pop’s players didn’t notice, since their review section was usually calm and friendly, rarely featuring sharp remarks.
But once they caught on, the players exploded with outrage and fired back immediately:
“What? Are those saying these words not still kids at heart? Whether or not Slime Pop is just for children, we can still enjoy it.”
“Exactly. It’s just a game. To criticize players’ maturity because the gameplay is simple just shows how little intelligence the commenter has.”
“I came because I heard good things about it—so have many others. We all think this game’s fun. If you don’t like it, just leave. No need to linger and leave bad reviews.”
Not only did the players debate fiercely in the comments, but some took the initiative to privately message Jiang Rong, informing her of the situation right away.
Jiang Rong looked through her inbox at messages from countless fans like Liang Man, Bai Yang, and others.
Liang Man and the other ordinary players simply reported the unusual activity in the review section, expressing a vague sense something was wrong and advising Jiang Rong to prepare herself.
In contrast, the game streamer Bai Yang’s message was more detailed and insightful.
Besides describing the surface-level attacks, Bai Yang speculated that this was not just a simple negative review campaign—it was likely a targeted strike against Jiang Rong herself.
“Usually, when players leave bad reviews, it doesn’t implicate other players. But these negative comments deliberately belittle the players, probably aiming to stir resentment and drive them away. The developers will need to act fast to resolve this.”
After sending the message, Bai Yang’s face grew serious.
Though the players were now defending Slime Pop, the prolonged dispute would undoubtedly become a heavy burden.
Players came to enjoy games, not to argue.
Even if it wasn’t the game’s fault, the ongoing bickering would certainly erode their affection for it.
As Bai Yang fretted, Jiang Rong replied from her side: she was already aware and thanked everyone for the timely alert.
Seeing Jiang Rong’s calm response, Bai Yang breathed a sigh of relief.
After thanking her fans for the heads-up, Jiang Rong turned her attention back to the game itself.
“Host, what should we do now?” Jiang Yu anxiously paced nearby.
“Stay calm. Their goal is to muddy the waters. If that’s the case, let’s clear the water,” Jiang Rong said as she gently held Jiang Yu, who was dressed in a slime-themed skin, close to her.
Though this situation was troublesome, it was far from unmanageable.
Soon after, Slime Pop automatically updated.
The arguing players paused, then their curiosity was piqued: “What’s new in this update?”
Many of them logged back in. New features appeared within the game—such as playtime tracking and display of the highest level each player had cleared.
At first, players were confused, until one noticed this information synced to the review section.
“Everyone, go check the playtimes and highest cleared levels in the reviews! Most of them are just a few minutes, and the highest level is below ten!” someone exclaimed in shock.
Upon hearing this, they rushed back to the review section.
They examined the playtimes—almost all under half an hour—and the levels, lingering mostly in the single digits.
When compared to their own playtimes stretching hours or even dozens of hours, and highest levels reaching double or triple digits, the contrast was glaring.
“That can’t be. How long did they even play? They’re not really part of the Slime Pop audience.”
“Exactly. If they had actually invested more time in the game, this embarrassing situation wouldn’t have happened.”
Unlike now, where the negative reviewers stood publicly exposed, their previous bravado silenced.
Any comment they made was instantly met with blistering backlash because actual playtime and progression stats had rendered their criticism powerless.
Their original plan was to make genuine players dislike the game and quit—but Jiang Rong turned the tables, uniting players in shared pride over their dedication and progress.
A classic case of “losing the game while trying to cheat” (stealing the chicken but losing the feed).
“They don’t dare show themselves now, but that doesn’t mean it’s over. The data clearly shows they aren’t the real Slime Pop audience. So why would they bother downloading the game just to leave bad reviews?”
“I don’t buy that they’re idle long enough to do this. Even if one or two were, there’s no way so many coordinated at once. It has to be an organized, planned attack.”
“Could it be professional online trolls? Remember, if Slime Pop’s stats drop, it’d hugely benefit other competing games,” a player speculated.
“That’s what they say, but I’m sure those people will never admit it,” Liang Man’s friend said, fists clenched in frustration. If those people truly were water armies (trolls hired to flood reviews), there was no way to get an answer from them.
“We don’t have proof right now, but does that mean we should just accept their actions? I’m so angry I can’t enjoy playing,” she added, her tone trembling with restrained emotion. She didn’t voice her anger openly for fear of affecting the game, but privately told her friend.
“I understand your anger. I’m angry too,” Liang Man replied more calmly, “but being mad won’t solve anything.”
Her friend nodded, slightly calmer. She knew deep down that pure anger was pointless.
“So, what do you suggest we do?” her friend asked, trying to steady herself.
Liang Man pondered for a moment. “I’ve been thinking about that. Do you really think those people are water armies? What do you think their goal is?” she asked.
“To suppress the ranking of Slime Match,” her friend replied confidently.
“Exactly. If the creators don’t update in time, the reviews section would become more and more polluted, eventually affecting players’ moods and the game’s data. Once the developers update, they can expose these trolls right away, leaving them no place to hide,” Liang Man explained.
“And then, everyone will realize that those negative reviews are just from water armies. It’s just awareness, but no solid evidence,” she added.
After all, they were just ordinary players—they lacked the resources and power to do more.
“That’s why it feels so frustrating,” her friend said, recalling this, her temper flaring up again.
“We don’t have proof, but we do have our own actions we can take,” Liang Man said with a smile. “Their goal is to influence the game data of Slime Match, right? Then we’ll promote it even more to let their plans fail utterly.”
Her friend’s eyes lit up with renewed hope. “Yeah, that’s a great idea! Let’s tell everyone!”
Every player had a big circle of friends. When Liang Man and her friend shared their plan in the review section—offering a solution—other players’ eyes widened with interest.
“Exactly! We can recommend the game to our friends, helping the developers boost their data,” someone said.
“The more they try to lower Slime Match’s stats, the more we should go against them,” another chimed in.
With a clear direction, the players eagerly started promoting the game to their friends. Even if only one or two accepted, the increasing number of recommendations could rapidly boost downloads of Slime Match.
Jiang Rong noticed this trend from her backend data and pondered softly, “The players are helping us. We can’t let their efforts go to waste.”
She couldn’t just watch her players rally for her game without doing her part.
Soon, Slime Match was updated again. Unlike the previous update, this time, players who recommended the game to friends could earn large amounts of energy rewards.
Limited energy had always been a pain point for players—many loved the game but found it hard to keep playing for lack of stamina. Though many players urged Jiang Rong to open spending channels for energy, she refused, only occasionally granting some during special events or milestones. Otherwise, she was “stingy.”
But this time, Jiang Rong was surprisingly generous. The players erupted in cheers.
“Wait, I’ll go recruit more players now!” they shouted, their motivation soaring.
“The advantage is mine this time,” said Bai Yang, the game streamer, raising an eyebrow with confidence as he saw the current event.
As a Slime Match streamer, Bai Yang was always short on stamina—here was his chance.
【Streamer, let’s go—rush!】
Fans cheered for Bai Yang and the game.
Soon, thanks to their efforts, the game downloads of Slime Match surpassed 200,000, and Jiang Rong’s game ranked within the top five.
“The data is still climbing. I believe 200,000 downloads and a top-five ranking aren’t the final results,” players believed confidently.
At this moment, one player hurried over to notify everyone, “Everyone, jump into the game! The devs said that to thank us for our support and to celebrate the current achievement, they’ve even released a new skin for the Slimes—available for free now.”
Players quickly returned to the game, excited to see the newly skinned Slimes. Several players squealed, “They’re so adorable! And best of all, we earned them ourselves!”
The fruits of their effort tasted especially sweet.
Besides the new skins, there were other in-game rewards. Jiang Rong didn’t hold back—she knew that without her players, Slime Match’s current success wouldn’t be possible.
“Who would’ve thought that instead of achieving their goal, our opponents actually ended up helping us,” Jiang Yu said with a grin when she heard about it.
Without the negative reviews blackening the game, players wouldn’t unify against fabricated criticisms. Plus, Jiang Rong’s game wouldn’t have reached its current heights so quickly.
“We should thank our opponents,” Jiang Rong said sincerely.
Although, she knew full well they probably wouldn’t want to hear that.