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But after the honors came the goodbyes from the employees, both those currently working for him and those he had fired appeared, starting to display their achievements and their subsequent circumstances.

This process was part of the ending sequence, but the thought of those employees he had used and then coldly discarded filled Liuzi with a sense of gloom.

“It’s just a game,” Liuzi reminded himself once more, “All the gameplay is part of the game, it doesn’t matter.”

He didn’t know why he felt uneasy, but still, he watched the screen to see what came next.

First to appear were the employees who ultimately stayed on his team.

These employees were handpicked five-star talents, each endowed with excellent traits and attributes, his right-hand men in completing the final challenge.

And because of these traits, even if they were to leave his team in the future, their achievements would be boundless.

They looked splendid, their high salaries freed them from worry, and the excellent company environment later on made them vibrant and spirited.

Looking gratefully at Liuzi beyond the screen, they spoke their heartfelt thanks.

[Thank you, Director, joining your team was the most correct decision I’ve made in my life.]

[Back in the day, I was just a nobody, lost about my future. But you, Director, dug me out from the streets, nurtured me, and took care of me. It’s been an honor to work with you on so many interesting shows. You are my benefactor. Without you, I really wouldn’t know what to do.]

[I never knew I had a talent for hosting. It was you who discovered my potential, thank you, Director.]

[Cinematography has always been what I wanted to do, but I never had the support. You showed me what was possible; you are the best mentor.]

These people had impeccable resumes and had no shortage of praise for Liuzi.

Their gratitude was sincere, without a trace of falsehood.

They were the success stories from Liuzi’s team, outstanding employees, each capable of standing on their own, top talents of the future.

But compared to these top performers, the rest were entirely different.

If they were the jewels in Liuzi’s crown, then what followed were the sacrificial lambs behind the jewels.

Among these sacrificial lambs were five-star employees with less desirable traits and low-star employees who were used up and then ruthlessly discarded.

The early staff whose wages were docked by him were also present, now watching Liuzi with indifferent faces.

From the final illustrations, it was clear that those drained of their remaining worth had gaunt faces and vacant expressions—through the screen, one could still see their lost and helpless eyes.

Before joining his team, they each had high hopes for the future, a sparkle in their eyes.

In front of Liuzi, they displayed tired smiles, offering their congratulations one by one.

[Well… congratulations.]

[I’m sorry I couldn’t walk with you till the end. You’re a great director.]

[I’m sorry my health held back the progress, thank you for the severance pay.]

[From the first meeting, I knew you would come this far. You have this potential.]

[Congratulations.]

[Congratulations.]

[Congratulations.]

…

Compared to the successful employees, there were twenty times more who were abandoned. Behind every success story was a mountain of corpses, the ladder they climbed to the top.

Watching these former companions pass by, Liuzi felt as if he had really gone through 20 years, reflecting on his once glorious days.

Upon retrospect, he was astonished to find that these people had aged.

They were the stepping stones on his pathway to success, the so-called nobodies, the kindling, the fertilizer.

Liuzi couldn’t remember their names. After all, nobody cares about the countless times they’ve eaten rice.

But for some reason, as he watched the ending scene, these people once again became vivid in his mind.

Although he knew it was just a game, and the goal of the game was to become the best show director, watching these aging, submissively smiling employees still made Liuzi feel a sharp sting in his heart.

The game’s ending after the completion had nothing special.

It wasn’t preaching, nor did it ask questions like “Is it worth it?”, it just blandly presented the employees’ endings as usual.

But the blander it was, the more suffocating Liuzi found it.

The joy of game completion was gone, replaced by a sense of confusion.

Everyone except capitalists hates capitalists, but everyone wants to be a capitalist.

Although it’s just a game, Liuzi sadly realized that deep down, he still hoped to be a capitalist.

He closed the game, and as the eastern sky gradually brightened, his mind was filled with a myriad of thoughts.

Opening the browser, he logged into Game Inn, browsed through the posts to see if there was anyone who felt the same way.

Game Inn was originally for releasing the games of the Living Immortals, but games from Fang Cheng Studio had also been brought over and had their dedicated subforum.