Leon didn't leave the house for the next two days. Not because he was afraid—yet—but because every spare moment had to be spent watching, adapting, learning.
The game was no longer his. It belonged to the players now.
Gaming channels on YouTube pushed out video essays with titles like "This War Sim Feels Like It's Alive" and "The Indie Game That Outsmarts You." Meanwhile, forums flooded with rumors.
"Anyone notice the soldiers remember your previous tactics?" "Bro I ran the same mission three times and the AI adapted." "UmbraDawn's gotta be some DARPA front or some hidden military tech leak. No way this is just a game."
Leon kept a doc open, categorizing responses: fascination, confusion, paranoia. It was the last one that worried him.
SYSTEM: Behavioral Analytics Input Logged. Cultural Shift Monitoring Initiated.
He glanced at his SP balance.
SP: 41,212
Not bad for a first ripple. But not enough for what came next.
The deeper upgrades—the real technology that could dismantle broken institutions—would cost millions. Advanced education reform protocols. Green-tech infrastructure schematics. Global diplomacy modeling systems. All locked. All grayed out.
He needed funding. Real-world capital.
But UmbraDawn could never be public.
The moment outsiders had a stake, they'd start demanding access. Influence. Control. And the tech would vanish behind private doors, buried under NDAs and quarterly profits.
No. This mission wasn't for shareholders. It was for humanity.
He would remain the sole owner.
A single ghost behind a revolutionary curtain.
He opened the legal shell interface and began refining UmbraDawn's structure:
"Private sole proprietorship with embedded safeguards against merger, acquisition, or share dilution. All IP non-transferable. All voting rights singular."
He sent the document to his parents' firm. Framed it as an "IP containment measure to avoid investor corruption."
He knew they'd raise an eyebrow. But they'd still file it.
Just like they always did.