The game had become a hot topic across the internet. Even the titans of the online gaming industry were keeping a close eye on it. Everyone was convinced that Spore Evolution had to be backed by a terrifyingly competent team. How else could it achieve the impossible—perfectly simuting all five senses and offering a second life inside a game?

  Even if you only considered its hyper-realistic graphics and groundbreaking physics engine, the technology seemed to defy current limitations. Experts estimated that maintaining such a detailed, evolving world would require several supercomputers just to support one server.

  According to analysts in the gaming industry, a server hosting just a hundred pyers would need three supercomputers running in parallel to maintain this level of realism.

  That meant, on average, one supercomputer served every thirty pyers.

  At today’s prices, a single supercomputer would set you back at least twenty million dolrs. Most AAA online games couldn’t afford even one. A typical supercomputer could support dozens of regur games simultaneously. And yet, this mysterious project was allocating three of them to power a server with only a hundred pyers—an infrastructure cost north of sixty million dolrs.

  In other words, every pyer was consuming computing resources worth over 600,000 dolrs—about half of what a rge-scale MMORPG would use for its entire user base.

  It was absurd. Almost inhuman.

  Naturally, people expected Spore Evolution to begin charging premium fees to recoup its astronomical costs.

  With its cutting-edge technology and steep hardware demands, everyone assumed this was a game only the wealthiest elites could afford to py.

  Some specuted the monthly subscription could run up to 50,000 yuan or more. That kind of price tag might be pocket change to whales who routinely spent hundreds of thousands on in-game purchases—but for the average gamer? Unthinkable.

  And yet, contrary to all expectations, Spore Evolution made no moves to monetize. No subscriptions. No paywalls. Instead, the developers released fifty more beta testing slots, effectively adding two more supercomputers to their system and burning another forty million yuan in resources.

  Utter extravagance.

  Gamers were stunned—and loyal. The generosity won over even the most jaded free-to-py crowd. But the game wasn’t exactly easygoing either. It remained ruthlessly hardcore.

  Soon, a viral post analyzing the new update took the internet by storm.

  "Yo, it’s me again! Don’t ask how I’m so fast—I’m Akina’s Speedster!"

  "Let’s break down this update log. This might be the most hardcore patch in the entire history of gaming!"

  "First off, let’s talk about those new beta slots. The devs are insanely generous. According to expert estimates, each pyer uses up over 600,000 bucks’ worth of computing power! Other games charge you to py—this game is burning cash on you! Respect!"

  "Second, if you want one of these coveted beta slots, you’ll have to submit a professional essay on evolutionary theory. That’s right. A thesis. For a game."

  "This is peak hardcore! I swear, did the dev make this game just to raise the nation’s education level?"

  "Third, the elimination system. As a current closed beta pyer, I’m sweating. I could lose my spot! If I want to keep pying, I’ve got to hit the books!"

  "Last up, the achievement system. No clue yet what counts as a 'uniquely powerful species' or what rewards we’re getting, but if the devs keep being this generous, it’s gonna be crazy good. I’m hyped!"

  "Anyway, I’m off to grind... and also study evolution like my life depends on it. No way I’m giving up my beta slot!"

  The post exploded online.

  What truly caught everyone's attention, however, was the thesis requirement.

  Some pyers were thrilled. Others despaired. But no one dared to compin.

  After all, with the astronomical resources allocated to each pyer, wasn't it fair that access was limited? It wasn’t even behind a paywall—it was just hard to get.

  "Learning makes me happy!"

  "My mom always said if I studied hard, I'd become good at games. Turns out she was right."

  Many diehard gamers suddenly found themselves buried in biology textbooks, sneaking into bookstores to study natural selection and evolutionary mechanics in secret.

  "No worries," one boasted. "I’m grinding knowledge now. That slot’s mine."

  Others had different ideas.

  "You nerds study all you want. I’m hiring someone to write my thesis. Can’t just copy-paste a foreign paper off CNKI though—I’ll pay ten grand to a university tutor to write it properly."

  "Ten grand? Please. Those slots are going for a hundred thousand on the bck market! You really don’t understand how crazy this world is. Rich people will spend millions just to py a game!"

  Spore Evolution had gone from an obscure niche game to a full-blown national craze.

  In city libraries across the country, the surge in visitors was impossible to ignore. People were elbow-deep in advanced biology books, poring over topics like the Cambrian explosion, the origin of species, and the cataclysms of the Cretaceous and Triassic periods.

  Even if you didn’t want to py the game yourself, scoring a beta slot and selling it could net you a cool hundred thousand yuan.

  Local TV stations caught wind of the trend. Footage of packed libraries went viral. Sociology experts, unaware of the game behind the madness, proudly decred:

  "Now that people’s living standards have improved, they’re turning to knowledge for fulfillment. This is excellent! And the choice of such a complex subject—evolutionary biology—proves their desire to challenge themselves!"

  Their statements didn’t age well.

  They were soon corrected, of course. All of it—every st bit—was thanks to a revolutionary game called Spore Evolution.

  The experts were left speechless.

  "All this... for a game? Are they insane?"

  Until now, games had always been painted as distractions. Addictive, foolish wastes of time.

  But Spore Evolution flipped the script. Its message?

  "Learning makes me happy."

  Parents across the country nodded in approval.

  Even gold-farming workshops—those factories churning out in-game currency for profit—dropped their keyboards. Their employees scrambled to study scientific papers and gather specialized knowledge instead.

  Xu Zhi watched the chaos unfold with quiet amusement. The game's popurity had already far exceeded his expectations.

  The next day, his inbox was swamped. Over a thousand thesis submissions poured in.

  His mailbox practically exploded.

  Everyone wanted in.

  Their essays were serious—thorough pns detailing species concepts, evolutionary paths, and adaptive strategies. Some even cited international scientific papers to justify their designs.

  Each submission essentially said the same thing:

  "Great and mighty developer, I’ve thought deeply about my species’ evolution. Just give me a spore—and I’ll show you what I can do!"