The Desert World Is Too Much
The screen had an interface that looked like it was modeled after an Earth community website. It must have been adjusted to suit me.
Every post came plastered with countless tags, and there was a dedicated board where you could browse them separately.
If I had to name the tags closest to my situation, they’d be Desert, Life Score, Biology, Mystery, and Contamination.
Sure enough, with over two hundred million players still in the game, the sheer volume of posts was staggering. I clicked on one at random.
“That ‘lol’ written in pure initial consonants…”
“It’s a liberal translation. The player in question is a silicon-based organism from another dimension.”
The post had a surprising number of replies, but the comments were even more ridiculous.
I grew curious and asked, “What kind of worlds did these people actually get?”
The Angel answered without missing a beat. “They’re all just whining. For example, the original poster can extract every nutrient they need from those cacti. The first commenter’s world is packed with divine relics and ruins. The second one got plains instead, so feeding their population isn’t an issue. And the third player’s world has insanely high magic pressure, which means they can build a proper magitech civilization.”
Still, the desert users’ suffering all sounded roughly the same. “It only rains once a year.” “I want to raise spirit creatures but I can only get fire and light elementals.” “There’s no way to raise my Technology score.” “Wait, your desert actually has sand? Mine is a polar region that doesn’t even get snow.” And so on.
Yet it seemed everyone had received some kind of bonus to compensate for the barren land—fragments of a god, powerful mysteries, lifeforms that could survive the desert, or even an existing civilization.
I scrolled through a few more players. In my opinion, the most livable terrain would be… plains?
But the plains players were whining just as hard.
“Humans really are trash after all.”
“Why does your conclusion always land there? There are probably far more non-humans than humans.”
“Then all sentient beings are trash.”
Everyone was complaining. Every last one of them acted like the land they’d received was the absolute worst in existence, venting every grievance they had.
Of course their dissatisfaction was genuine, but after a few more collisions half the players would be culled, then half again. Worlds would merge, new terrains and ecosystems would appear. When that happened, these same people would just find new things to whine about.
If I got sucked into this community I’d probably forget about managing my own world and spend all day scrolling. So I decided to tear my eyes away from the board completely.
What mattered was buying lifeforms from other players to enrich my ecosystem.
It had been 1,960 before the last World Collision, but the number had actually gone up afterward. It looked like points were tallied the moment victory was decided. With 2,012 points I was probably sitting in a pretty high rank, which meant I could buy pretty much any creature I wanted.
“Purchasing elements from other worlds is a highly recommended playstyle. Doing so can already be considered proper community engagement.”
The Fantasy World Creator, or Panwol for short, wasn’t a civilization simulator. It was a world simulator.
Unlike famous civilization games, this one let you build the magic, mysteries, scientific technology, and entire ecosystems of a world.
“Still, I must be clear—the foundation was a civilization simulator. Every element in the game is designed around sentient beings forming civilizations and advancing them.”
The Angel insisted on that point, but from a geological perspective, civilization occupied only the briefest sliver of time.
If it was truly a world simulator, the focus should have been on the magic-ecology environment that only a fantasy world could possess.
“You do realize the organizers are the developers of that very game, right?”
All I could say was that game developers were surprisingly bad at playing their own games. Sometimes players understood the true intent better than the creators.
In any case, Panwol treated every lifeform in the game not as simple “resources” but as integral parts of a world.
Take grass, cows that eat the grass, and humans that eat the cows. Just those three.
The cow does not exist to be eaten by humans. The grass does not exist to be eaten by cows. Even if a god had created them with that intention.
Mutations and evolution happened at insane speeds inside the game. (Come to think of it, that was still true now. Was it because of the mysterious power called magic?)
If cows began eating the grass, the grass would start producing toxins.
The cows would then shrink in size and evolve stronger internal organs.
And the humans? With smaller cows that now stored poison, they’d have to change their own body structure again.
If the cycle continued, you’d end up with vicious poisonous weeds, cows that ate those weeds, and dwarf-like humans specialized in hunting those poison-accumulating cows—humans so riddled with toxic bodily fluids they eventually gave up on civilization entirely and evolved into pure carnivorous predators.
This was a common tragedy for beginners who were bad at the game. They’d artificially create animals or slave races with convenient traits for their civilization, only to watch those same creatures mutate wildly under the influence of magic until they became useless monstrosities.
How did you prevent that?
Using the earlier example, you had to increase the variety of grass. You also had to increase the number of species that ate the grass, as well as the symbiotic organisms that helped the grass reproduce.
Then you added creatures that ate those creatures, and creatures that ate those creatures, and so on. Only after repeating the process would the ecosystem finally become healthy.
Diverse grasses that forced herbivores to develop survival strategies beyond poison.
Cows with large bodies and robust digestive systems because they had to eat many kinds of grass.
Humans who raised those cows. Small herbivores and insects that ate the grass the cows ignored. Birds that ate the insects. Humans that ate the birds. That was how ecological balance was achieved.
That was also where gaming skill diverged. It wasn’t called a Life Score for nothing. It wasn’t “Population” points—it was Life points. An indicator that measured the overall health, scale, and quality of an entire ecosystem.
Strictly speaking, my ecosystem currently had a high score but wasn’t particularly healthy. That was why I felt a strong desire to import custom-made creatures created by players across the universe, tweak them slightly, and put them to use.
“Wait… is your ecosystem not healthy right now? Honestly, among the two hundred million remaining players, your Life Score is undoubtedly number one. If even you aren’t healthy, what would a healthy world even look like…?”
For starters, I wanted to say that my world itself was far too small.
“That’s because I’ve only won twice so far.”
Even so, forty square kilometers was fairly spacious. Especially since my ecosystem was essentially aquatic; its true scale should be measured in volume rather than surface area.
In other words, let me give an example of the flaws in the Dessert Legion I had personally created.
“So ‘Dessert Legion’ has officially become the name, huh.”
At first glance the Dessert Legion seemed invincible. They were lifeforms that normal organic creatures couldn’t consume, yet they themselves could consume other organisms.
However, the Dessert Legion currently had one truly horrific weakness. Their chemical defense mechanisms had a serious flaw.
“……?”
“Simply put, look at the freshwater lake area in my wetlands. Do you often see jellies or puddings in that lake?”
“Now that you mention it, the jellies and puddings really don’t go near the freshwater zones, do they?”
“I checked. They avoid it because the water is murky.”
“Huh? But it’s so clear you can see the bottom.”
Exactly. By Earth standards it would be Class 1 water quality—clean enough for humans to drink straight from the source.
But “clean” didn’t mean free of contamination. Microorganisms lived there. Various organic compounds were mixed in.
In short, because of things like fish and frog urine and feces, or sediment flowing in from the river, the Dessert Legion couldn’t survive in the freshwater lake.
“Oh my god.”
The only ones holding on were species like the Meat-Eating Pudding. Thanks to their Carnivore trait they had gained resistance to such organic matter.
Instead, in order to adapt to the increasingly polluted ecosystem, even the Meat-Eating Puddings were evolving into “normal” lifeforms.
They were no longer members of the Dessert Legion that other organisms couldn’t eat.
Of course, the Dessert Legion wasn’t so weak that they’d actually die from something like fish poop. But they did hesitate to enter the lake.
So what if an opponent deliberately tuned every single one of their lifeforms with poison?
It wasn’t an outlandish idea. I had encountered many players who did exactly that during my playtime.
Players who accepted the drop in overall ecosystem energy efficiency and simply gave every lifeform in their world a toxic trait.
“That certainly is a problem. Your main strategy is ecosystem destruction, yet your own ecosystem is the one at risk of being destroyed.”
Therefore, I needed to import external organisms to overcome this weakness. There was a chance those foreign lifeforms might destroy my ecosystem instead, but that could be handled through evolution via divine power.
While silently answering the Angel’s question in my head, I continued browsing the community’s “Player Creation Exchange” section.
I was looking for anything that could be applied to my world.
And I was quickly disappointed. There wasn’t much of value on the Life-related side.
Knowledge in the science or magic categories sold for quite a high price, but since Life was usually tied to specific terrain types, it was extremely difficult to find creatures that other people actually needed.
“It’s true that very few players pay attention to their ecosystem from the early stages. Though there aren’t any who ignore it completely until the end, either.”
Still, with two hundred million players, I was able to find quite a few decent lifeforms.
I spent twenty or thirty points at a time and bought a large number of freshwater aquatic creatures. Salamanders, fish, water beetles, the aquatic plants they needed to live in, and anything else that could supplement the Dessert Legion’s weaknesses while coexisting with them.
After the purchases I had 1,704 points left. That was still too much.
“Well, the people who listed bugs and fish probably didn’t expect them to actually sell. They were just putting them up in case someone might want them.”
Maybe. I didn’t want to buy things I didn’t need, but I also didn’t want to leave points sitting unused. What should I do…?
“How about purchasing a civilization kit? I’ve already looked up species, technologies, and mysteries that would perfectly fit your remaining points and coexist with your current ecosystem.”
In the end, even if it was inefficient, it looked like I had no choice but to save the points…
“Please. You possessed someone in a civilization-building game. At least build a civilization.”
While browsing the expensive items, I discovered something ridiculous.
This was…
“An absurd item has appeared on the market. It seems the seller couldn’t awaken the fragment with their own world’s capabilities. It’s exactly what you need, and this is probably the cheapest it will ever be. Another player might snatch it up in the next match.”
“I wish I’d seen it earlier. What a shame.”
“What? You can just sell something from your own world. Nectar is a resource anyone would desperately want.”
At those words I froze.
“Wait a second. What do you mean? You’re saying I can use the points I earn from this sale immediately?”
“Yes. No one ever said you couldn’t. Why did you think it was impossible?”
“Why…? Because if that’s true, then as long as both sides agree, we could trade items from our worlds without any limit.”
“Correct.”
“Isn’t there at least a transaction fee?”
“There isn’t.”
“Then points would just circulate between worlds and accumulate forever.”
“Exactly. It’s a feature designed to encourage trade.”
Well… it seemed abnormally lenient toward commerce, but whatever. I didn’t have anything I particularly wanted to sell anyway, and right now I needed to spend points instead.
I asked Abhojuth back in my world to scoop out one well’s worth of pure nectar.
The pure essence of life. The lump of nectar was listed for 296 points and sold to a player named Sesaisa in three seconds flat.
“I never thought I’d be able to buy something this valuable.”
“The other player probably never expected it to sell either. Still, they gained 2,000 points’ worth of value, so they didn’t exactly lose out.”
I had already decided on the name for my new legendary creation.
Yogur-tosoth. A magnificent name fitting for a general of the Dessert Legion.
“I keep telling you not to give your creations names that sound like twisted ancient outer gods, don’t I?”