36: The undercurrents of the trademark war

Cheng Mo pulled the phone away from his ear, the screen still glowing with the message from the unknown number. He didn't reply, nor did he delete it; he simply stuffed it into his hoodie pocket and casually pulled down the brim of his hat. The cold coffee had already been poured out, the cup crushed into a ball and tossed into the trash. On the arcade screen, the sticky note that read "You'll go to hell sooner or later" looked slightly faded under the sunlight.

He shouldered his backpack, the stickers rustling. As he stepped out of the studio's iron gate, he checked his watch: nine fifty-two. The appointment at the Administration for Industry and Commerce was at ten, just enough time for him to walk over and grab a bottle of water on the way.

There weren't many people on the road. He passed a convenience store and bought a can of iced lemon tea. He popped the tab using the edge of a game controller, a motion so practiced it seemed like he prepared for this little ritual every day. The metal scraped against his fingertip—a bit cold, a bit sharp.

At seven minutes past ten, he pushed open the glass doors of the Administration for Industry and Commerce's reception hall.

Someone was already waiting inside—three men in black suits circled the information desk, clutching folders as a printer whirred, spitting out a long string of screenshots. One of them looked up and saw Cheng Mo, whispering something to the others. The other two immediately turned around, their gazes scanning him like scanners.

Cheng Mo didn't stop, walking straight up to them and taking a sip of his lemon tea.

“Did Wang Zhen send you?” he asked.

The man in the middle pushed up his glasses. “We are legal representatives commissioned to handle the trademark registration objection for 'leap platform nightmare'.” He handed over a letter. “The name and logo are suspected of inducing anxiety and creating psychological pressure, violating the spirit of Article 39 of the Advertising Law regarding the protection of minors.”

Cheng Mo took the letter and, without looking at it, stuffed it directly into the side pocket of his backpack. “And so?”

“We have submitted evidence, including player community sentiment analysis reports, psychological expert evaluations, and several video clips of livestream accidents,” the man said at a steady pace. “We suggest your side proactively withdraw the application to avoid entering the administrative reconsideration process.”

Cheng Mo smiled. “You guys haven't even cleared the game, have you?”

“This isn't a matter of clearing the game; it's about social responsibility.”

“Oh.” Cheng Mo leaned against the railing by the wall. “Then let me ask you, did you watch the time Steel Coin livestreamed the twenty-four-hour pixel maze challenge and ended up wetting his pants?”

The three men froze.

“We saw it. But that was an extreme case.”

“It wasn't a case; it was a choice.” Cheng Mo set down the drink can and pulled a neatly bound booklet from his backpack. Printed on the cover was 'On the Awakening Value of the Aesthetics of Pain'. “This is a collection of papers spontaneously written by 1,267 players worldwide. The theme is 'Why We Need Games That Break Us'. Someone wrote an eight-thousand-word philosophical treatise calling it an existentialist electronic ritual; a German student used Freudian theory to analyze the pleasure of failure, concluding that 'every fall is a rebellion against a mediocre life'; there’s even a retired teacher who wrote a poem titled 'I Learned to Breathe After My Seventeenth Death'.”

He placed the book on the information desk with a loud thud.

“What you call mental pollution is actually a cultural symbol co-created by millions of people. You take a few screenshots and claim it's toxic—that's like banning hot pot restaurants just because some people get diarrhea from eating spicy food.”

A lawyer next to him frowned. “This material holds no legal weight.”

“I know,” Cheng Mo shrugged. “But it's effective because it's real. You can refuse to acknowledge it, but you can't pretend it doesn't exist.”

The hall fell silent for a few seconds.

Another lawyer spoke up. “Even so, the word 'Nightmare' itself carries negative connotations and is likely to cause public misunderstanding.”

“Misunderstanding?” Cheng Mo laughed out loud. “Then have you checked how many people searched for 'how to overcome nightmares' on the day of registration? How many forum thread titles changed to 'I'm not here to escape, I'm here to win'? You only fixate on the curses, but you don't see the people who finish cursing and then dive right back in, dying seventeen times just to beat the eighty-eighth level.”

He pointed into the void outside the door at the invisible stream of data. “You think they're being tortured? You're wrong. They are knights who voluntarily stepped into the trial grounds. What it's called isn't important; what matters is who defines its meaning—is it you people sitting in air-conditioned rooms writing reports, or the players who actually press the start button?”

The staff member behind the information desk quietly looked up.

The three lawyers exchanged glances.

The leader closed his folder. “We will forward the supplementary materials to the review team. The final decision does not rest with us.”

“Of course.” Cheng Mo picked up the book and flicked a bit of dust off the cover. “But let me remind you—if the meaning created by millions of people can be dismissed by a simple 'might be misleading,' then that is what a true mental crisis looks like.”

Having said his piece, he turned and left, his pace steady and unhurried.

As he reached the door, footsteps sounded behind him.

He turned back.

It was the lead lawyer from before. He had chased after him a few steps, his tone slightly lowered: “Those papers you mentioned... were they really written by the players themselves?”

Cheng Mo pulled another copy from his backpack and handed it over. “There's a signature page on the first page; you can call them at random to verify. Oh, right, the third name is a high school student—don't call while he's in class.”

The lawyer took the book and flipped it open, his finger stopping on a page crowded with handwritten signatures.

Cheng Mo didn't wait for a reaction; he turned and headed down the steps.

The sun was shining brightly outside, and the wind made the hem of his clothes sway. He walked down the sidewalk, right hand in his pocket and left hand carrying the lemon tea can, the empty can swaying gently with his steps.

The phone in his pocket vibrated once, then again.

He didn't pull it out to look.

He knew whose messages they were—maybe Wang Zhen's next move, maybe a system notification, or maybe some strange easter egg feedback from a player. But none of that mattered right now.

He had said what he wanted to say and left the evidence he needed to leave, turning a so-called "compliance review" into a close-quarters battle over cultural discourse. The winner hadn't been decided yet, but he had at least let the other side know: this wasn't just a game, nor was it a marketing stunt.

It was a manifesto written by a group of people through their refusal to give up, despite failing, breaking down, and restarting seventeen times.

He walked past two intersections and stopped at a red light.

The traffic ahead moved slowly. A delivery tricycle scraped against the roadside planter while turning, making a loud clang. No one got out to check; the driver just honked the horn and kept riding forward.

Cheng Mo stared ahead, then suddenly fished a pen from his backpack and wrote a line on the blank space of the book's back cover:

【Next Stage Goal: Make the reviewer's child want to clear the game too.】

The light turned green.

He put away the pen and quickened his pace.

The wind made his hoodie's hood sway slightly, and his silver earring glinted in the sunlight.

He walked deep into the alley, his footsteps gradually fading away.

The studio's iron gate remained half-open, as if waiting for his return.