55: The controversy surrounding the live demonstration

Steel Coin slammed the game controller onto the table, making the trophy on it wobble three times. He took a deep breath, grinned at the camera with his shamate hairstyle, and said, "Brothers, tonight, no platform jumping, no level clearing, no pants-wetting — we're doing something serious."

The live stream title had long been changed to: 【Full of High Energy】 Extreme Challenge New Feature First Reveal! Is the Parental Monitoring Mode Really an Electronic Ankle Monitor?

Just as a few comments like "Is Steel Coin sober?" and "This title doesn't sound like you" scrolled across the Barrage Chat Area, he switched to the demo screen.

"I know what you all want to say," he said, tapping the desk with his fingers. "It's just 'how much did you get paid to whitewash this' or 'another performance,' right? Fine, no more talk, let's get straight to it."

The screen split into two halves: the left side showed a simulated player interface, while the right side displayed a real-time synchronized view from a parent's phone. He clicked open a module called "Heartbeat Visualization," and a green waveform line slowly climbed upward.

"See this? This isn't an electrocardiogram, nor is it hospital equipment," he said, speeding up his speech. "When a child's blood pressure rises and heart rate accelerates while gaming, the system converts this data into a dynamic curve and pairs it with a prompt: 'Just experienced a high-intensity challenge.' Not 'your son is about to have a brain hemorrhage,' but 'your son is currently pushing his limits.'"

The barrage chat began to scroll.

"Full of tricks."

"Last time you said pants-wetting was for the show, and this time you say monitoring is a family bond?"

"Suggest renaming it to 'Parental Control Simulator.'"

Steel Coin frowned slightly but didn't stop. He switched to the next feature: "Challenge Peak Alert." When the test character performed a high-difficulty dodge in the game, a notification automatically popped up on the parent's phone: "Your child just completed an extreme maneuver; the system detected heightened emotions."

"Here's the key point," he raised his voice. "All features are turned off by default and require both the parent and child to activate them together. This isn't forced binding; it's a window for families who genuinely want to understand their children."

No one responded. Instead, the barrage chat scrolled even faster.

"Laughing to death. If my parents saw this kind of push notification, their first reaction would definitely be to smash the computer."

"Covert surveillance packaged as a mutual effort?"

"Suggest bringing the contract to the next live stream so we can see the signing amount."

Steel Coin's Adam's apple moved as he grabbed the bottle of lemon tea on the table and took a gulp. The label on the bottle was scratched with a few white marks from his fingernails.

"I know you don't believe me," he said. "But I've played every game they've made. 'leap platform nightmare' made me break three keyboards, and 'pixel maze' trapped me on the seventeenth floor without letting me sleep. But every time I broke down, I felt like I became a little clearer."

He pulled up a pre-recorded video. On the screen was a high school student wearing black-rimmed glasses, sitting at a desk, his voice trembling slightly: "My dad used to scold me as soon as he saw me turn on the computer. Now he checks his phone notifications. Once, when I cleared the fifteenth floor, he ran into my room in the middle of the night, stood at the door, and said, 'You're pretty tough, huh?'... Then he made me a bowl of instant noodles."

The video ended, and the live stream fell silent for two seconds.

Then, the barrage chat exploded.

"Scripted!"

"What a waste of talent not going to Hengdian with this acting."

"Next time you hire extras, remember to standardize their outfits. The book on the third shelf in the background, 'Introduction to Quantum Mechanics,' shows the publisher—it's last year's new edition."

Steel Coin's face flushed red instantly. He slammed the Enter key and switched to the next module: "Forced Pause Request."

"Listen, this feature can be turned off!" he almost shouted. "It only exists in the beta version, and it must be triggered by the child! For example, after failing ten times in a row, the system asks if you want to request a pause. The parent receives a notification and can choose to agree or refuse—but they can't enforce it!"

The barrage chat had already stopped paying attention to what he was saying.

"A step back twenty years."

"A new way to raise overgrown babies."

"Next, are you going to develop 'meal reminders' and 'toilet timers'?"

He tried to explain: "This is to establish a communication mechanism! It's not about control; it's about letting parents know what their children are persevering through!"

"Then why don't you ask how many parents across the internet are willing to listen to you?" a comment floated by, followed by hundreds of "+1"s.

Steel Coin clenched his jaw, his fingers gripping the mouse so hard that his knuckles turned white. He knew it was useless to continue. In the originally planned interactive Q&A session, the question area only had three scattered messages, all asking, "When is the streamer resuming 'leap platform nightmare'?"

He suddenly let out a low laugh, almost inaudible through the microphone.

"Fine," he said. "I know what you're thinking. You just think that us folks who make painful games suddenly introducing a warm-and-fuzzy feature must have an ulterior motive. Either it's pressure from the capital, or it's an attempt to salvage a ruined reputation."

He looked directly into the camera, his eyes a bit strained but unwavering.

"But let me tell you, that guy Cheng Mo has never tried to make anyone comfortable. He makes games not to please people, nor to make quick money. He just thinks—people get numb too easily. Scrolling through short videos, playing casual matches, lying flat and slacking off, days go by, and you even forget why you're breathing."

He paused, his voice softening. "This feature might not be perfect; it might even be stupid. But it's not for traffic, nor is it for PR. It's truly someone trying to rebuild a conversation that was never spoken aloud."

The barrage chat continued to scroll.

"Performance."

"Bring a voice recorder next time."

"Suggest renaming the feature to 'Survival Instinct Tester.'"

Steel Coin finally reached out and pressed the "Hide Barrage" button. The scrolling text disappeared, leaving only a static announcement bar at the top that read: "This live stream content is based on real development progress; features are still in the beta testing phase."

He didn't look at the camera again, just spoke to the empty screen: "If you've ever been misunderstood, please persevere once."

Then he turned off the camera.

The screen went black for three seconds before jumping to the platform's default "Live Stream Has Ended" interface, with gray text centered and the background showing Douyu's grinning fish logo.

Steel Coin didn't move. The headphones were still on his head, the earcup edges pressing against a strand of his blue-purple dyed hair. The room was filled only with the hum of the computer fan and the faint sound of car horns from outside the window. His right hand rested on the mouse, while his left unconsciously rubbed the joystick of the game controller, lightly, as if confirming whether a certain skill button was still in its place.

The trophy on the corner of the desk stood quietly, its base engraved with a line of small text: "pain and joy — First Extreme Player Memorial Tournament."

He stared at those words for a long time.

Then, slowly, he took off the headphones and placed them beside the controller. His shoulders slumped a bit, as if the past forty minutes had drained all his energy.

On the other side of the city, the lights in the studio were still on.

Cheng Mo sat in front of the main console, his fingers tapping on the keyboard. On the screen were lines of code for BP_Monitor_Prototype, the cursor blinking persistently after the last unfinished conditional statement.

He spun the pen in his hand, its tip scratching the desk with a short, sharp sound.

Outside the window, the city at two in the morning was still lit up with vast stretches of lights, like a map that had yet to fully load.