But how exactly could he discourage these players from downloading his game?
Pei Qian was an absolute nobody. Even if he revealed his identity as the creator of Lonely Desert Road, how quickly could that message really spread?
After some thought, Pei Qian decided the best approach was to directly modify the game description on the official ESRO platform.
This way, any potential player would immediately see his new description, thus creating the perfect deterrent!
Determined, Pei Qian quickly logged into the backend and revised the description:
"An Apology to All Players!"
"I'm truly sorry! This is an extremely garbage, absolutely terrible, worthless game!"
"It's incredibly boring—don't waste your time!"
"Seriously, stop playing! If you bought it, please refund immediately. Thank you!"
After revising the description, Pei Qian anxiously waited.
But after one hour, the hourly downloads showed no signs of decreasing!
Even worse, several new comments appeared:
"Oh? The game description changed?"
"Did the developer suffer some mental breakdown?"
"Well, considering your heartfelt apology, I'll forgive you. But refunding one yuan is too troublesome—I'll just consider it a popsicle treat for you."
"This developer is hilarious! Did you think we didn't already know it's a garbage game? We're playing precisely because it's garbage!"
"The dev seems pretty self-aware. Your honesty earned you a five-yuan donation!"
"I just bought this game as a gift for a friend—let him suffer too!"
Reading these comments nearly brought Pei Qian to tears.
Exactly what should he write in the description to convince these people to refund?!
He now realized that setting the price at just one yuan had been a grave mistake. It was simply too cheap—many players couldn't even be bothered to go through the hassle of refunding it.
But at the same time, he couldn't set a higher price. As a small indie game, if he priced it at several hundred yuan, ESRO's reviewers would likely flag him, and the system would definitely issue a warning.
Pei Qian felt despair creeping in. With the game's popularity remaining unexpectedly high, he was rapidly losing hope.
. . .
Monday morning.
"Brother Qian, you skipped class again today?"
Ma Yang had already packed up his things. He looked at Pei Qian, who was awake but lying in bed staring blankly at the ceiling, seemingly contemplating life.
Pei Qian weakly waved him off, not even having the energy to reply.
"Respect," Ma Yang shrugged, grabbing his textbooks and heading out.
It was only freshman year—most students didn't develop the habit of skipping class or sleeping until noon until their sophomore or junior years.
But Pei Qian had ten years of hindsight. He knew perfectly well that missing these classes would have no real consequences. After all, he wasn't studying medicine or law—subjects that severely punished absences. For an ordinary liberal arts major, a bit of last-minute cramming was enough to pass.
Besides, how could Pei Qian possibly have the mood for class right now?
Every time he refreshed the backend and saw those soaring numbers, he sank deeper into existential dread.
After lying motionless in bed for nearly half an hour, Pei Qian finally mustered up the courage to summon the system.
Since yesterday was Sunday, the platform's weekly revenue share should have been transferred to the company's account in the early morning hours.
The system's funds should already be updated by now.
With the mood of someone awaiting his execution, Pei Qian nervously glanced at the numbers on the system interface.
[Wealth Conversion System]
[Host: Pei Qian]
[Profit Conversion Ratio: 100:1 | Loss Conversion Ratio: 1:1]
[Next Settlement: 7 days remaining]
[System Funds: 51,394.5 yuan (↑1,394.5)]
[Personal Assets: 367 yuan]
"Oh…"
Pei Qian closed the system interface and felt like he was dying inside.
He couldn't bear it.
He absolutely couldn't bear it anymore!
Although he'd mentally prepared himself, seeing the actual numbers was still excruciating.
After all, he'd roughly calculated how much he'd earn from the game's steadily rising downloads.
Ever since Teacher Qiao's roast video had gone viral, downloads for Lonely Desert Road had skyrocketed daily.
Marketing accounts reposted the video relentlessly. Many other content creators jumped on the bandwagon, further fueling its popularity.
Once the hype train started rolling, it became almost impossible to stop.
Pei Qian watched helplessly as daily downloads climbed from a few dozen to several hundred, then into thousands.
Due to this explosive popularity, the official game platform promoted his game even more aggressively, adding it to recommendations such as "Featured Indie Games," "Driving Simulators," and even "Popular Racing Games."
Every time Pei Qian opened the backend dashboard, he'd receive another message:
"Congratulations! Your game 'Lonely Desert Road' has been featured on the XXX recommendation list. Please refrain from releasing updates during this period to avoid unexpected bugs affecting player experience—"
By now, Pei Qian felt completely numb reading those notifications.
Nothing hurt more than accepting his fate.
Only one week left, and system funds had already surpassed 50,000 yuan. That meant at the upcoming settlement, any earned profit would convert into his personal assets—but at the miserable ratio of 100:1.
For every 1,000 yuan profit, he'd only personally receive… a mere 10 yuan.
Pei Qian stared at the numbers, feeling utterly defeated.
. . .
One week later.
In the dormitory.
"…I don't get it. How did such an idiotic game even get popular?"
"Please get out of my computer already!"
"There are people on the leaderboard who've actually played over forty hours— Are they insane?!"
Ma Yang, lying on the upper bunk, complained after playing Lonely Desert Road for only five minutes before quitting. He genuinely couldn't understand why this garbage game had gotten so popular.
Meanwhile, Pei Qian was trembling silently on the bunk below.
"Hey, Brother Qian, have you played that insanely popular garbage game recently? You know, that one with the desert road?" Ma Yang leaned down from the upper bunk to ask.
"…No," Pei Qian answered truthfully.
Indeed, he hadn't played much of his own creation.
He knew better than anyone how terrible the game truly was—he couldn't bring himself to play it.
Ma Yang slapped his thigh in frustration. "It's absolutely disgusting! Whoever created that thing must have no conscience at all!"
Pei Qian: "..."
I never intended for any of you to play it!
You guys are the ones who insisted on downloading it. How is that my fault?!
Never in his wildest dreams had Pei Qian expected this awful game would spread all the way to his own university—even infiltrating his own dormitory.
Throughout the past week, thanks to countless reposts from video creators and gaming media, Lonely Desert Road had become an unexpected viral sensation, leaving Pei Qian questioning reality itself.
However, he felt immensely grateful that in 2009, live-streaming platforms were still in their infancy.
The largest platform, YY Live, had only about 100,000 users—nowhere near the explosive popularity they'd achieve a decade later.
Had live-streaming been as prominent as it was ten years later…
Pei Qian shuddered, afraid even to imagine the consequences.