Chapter 72
Chapter 72
By the time Feng Bu Jue sat down at their computer, the servers had already shut down over an hour earlier. Since then, a storm had erupted. The forum they now browsed had activated strict posting restrictions—each user limited to one post every five minutes. Even so, the page refreshed every ten seconds, scrolling endlessly.
As early as 8:00 a.m., the system had disabled queueing for new scenarios, halting all player entries while prompting logged-in users to log off. Those still inside scenarios at the time remained oblivious until 10:20 a.m., when they finally exited or completed their sessions. For over two hours, logout notices had blanketed every login screen. By 10:30 a.m., even those stubbornly clinging to the lobbies were forcibly disconnected, and the game servers officially closed.
Then the players flooded the forums.
The prominent announcement at the top of the page sparked endless debates. Most reactions were complaints. These weren’t just low-level players—many were near or already level twenty. They felt cheated. The closed beta had ended too soon, leaving those who’d bought Gaming Pods or fought for limited accounts at a disadvantage. After all, players without closed beta access could simply wait a few days to play Terrifying Paradise anyway.
The core grievance? The mere fifty-four hours of closed beta hadn’t granted them the “advantage” they’d imagined.
Dream Corporation’s official pinned thread, however, calmly reiterated the terms everyone had agreed to: the closed beta’s level cap was twenty, and once 10% of players reached it, the open beta would begin. Since this threshold was met, delaying the open beta would breach their agreement.
Most players had never read the fine print. When logic failed, some turned to tantrums. Posts accused the company of favoring “studio players” and exploiting common users. Others ranted about “greedy corporations colluding with studios to inflate Gaming Pod prices.” These critics, ignorant of industry basics or production costs, spewed baseless accusations, rallying equally uninformed followers. Rational voices offering facts were drowned out, labeled as “corporate shills.”
Such chaos was inevitable. Like arguing with trolls, reasoned arguments crumbled against a wall of insults. These users wielded a limited vocabulary—swear words, dismissive “hehehs,” and faux-moralistic jabs—dragging debates to their level.
Meanwhile, silent accounts observed quietly. Some brave souls, risking backlash, supported the open beta’s launch. Not corporate employees, but high-tier studio players. To them, idle level-20 characters were wasted resources.
Others played peacemakers, urging Dream Corporation to adjust the 10% threshold to “10% non-class players” for fairness. These “common players” masked self-interest as principle, distancing themselves from outright trolls.
The forum descended into chaos. Useful guides and requests sank into obscurity, buried under endless pages of flame wars. The servers strained under the traffic, yet Dream Corporation remained unshaken. Their message was clear: the beta was over, updates were coming, and open beta would launch on their terms.
To threats like “refund all Gaming Pods!” or “trash game, trash company!”, the staff smirked. They knew few would follow through. Such posts would self-destruct in a week, becoming proof of users’ pettiness.
As a rising company, Dream Corporation acted like an entrenched monopoly: unyielding, indifferent. Users could accept it or quit. Like rising gas prices, there was no negotiation.
While many games dragged betas to death, milking microtransactions, Dream Corporation defied norms. Their two-day closed beta not only preserved hype but amplified it.
On Sunday morning, they announced open beta requirements: non-Terrifying Paradise Gaming Pod users needed a proprietary adapter to log in. This eased closed beta players’ anger—open beta wasn’t entirely free. It was like buying a PS2 controller to play on a rival console.
At 11:00 a.m., registration opened. Compatible devices sold instantly. Within an hour, orders surpassed 200,000 and climbed. New players flooded the forums, drowning old threads in spam. Flame wars erupted between factions, trading insults like grenades.
Feng Bu Jue, meanwhile, had slept through it all. After cooking noodles and logging on, they stared at the chaos, stunned.
Online, everyone thought their outrage historic. To outsiders, it was just another morning.
For Feng Bu Jue, open beta’s timing meant little. They didn’t crave first-place rankings or believe extra closed beta time offered real advantage. Strong players would always rise—extra weeks only delayed the inevitable.
But open beta’s arrival was good news. Closed beta had hidden too much: currency trading, public zones, malls, deck-building systems, and more. Now, within forty-eight hours, Terrifying Paradise would finally reveal its full world.
(End of Chapter)
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