I just wanted you to make a movie: You made a Honkai Star Rail movie

T/N: This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and storylines in this novel are entirely fictional. Any public agencies, institutions, locations, or historical figures mentioned are used solely as fictional backdrops and do not represent their real-world counterparts.

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The ripples originating from La Chronique Universelle, to top leaders across France was a strong signal from the entertainment industry.

Naturally, smart people could tell that La Chronique Universelle did not have the courage to be the first to speak out.

Someone, maybe some major figure, must have made certain promises behind the scenes. This was almost enough for these clever people to foresee the direction the winds would take in the future.

But compared to these deeply hidden and subtle changes, another kind of change was far easier for people to observe directly.

That was the data. No matter the country or region, as long as it had an entertainment industry, they could all draw one conclusion clearly: Within the global entertainment scope, a terrifying monster was devouring traffic.

During the broadcast of Amphoreus Episode 3, 47% of active users across global streaming platforms were watching Amphoreus. This meant that out of every two people watching videos online, nearly one of them was watching Amphoreus.

The total viewership of other dramas, films, and variety shows airing during the same period as Star Rail fell by an average of 67% when Episode 3 aired.

Entertainment-industry professionals everywhere had never seen such a spectacle. They had not even done anything wrong.

Simply airing on the same day as Star Rail had cost them a massive amount of attention. Regarding this feeling, an executive from a well-known production studio helplessly stated during a meeting:

”This isn’t competition. This is a natural disaster. We can only wait for it to pass before seeing what it leaves behind for us.”

For some reason, a recording of the meeting was leaked online.

Some believed the executive’s words were alarmist and needlessly boosting others while undermining themselves.

Others agreed. But most entertainment-industry professionals expressed deep agreement.

This truly was not a competition. They could only watch helplessly as Star Rail swept through the entertainment market, then sit there and wait for a possible turning point.

Other than that, they had no options.

It was not as though no one had struggled. Wasn’t the Olympus, a representative example of that struggle? But unfortunately, they lost badly.

Although the people behind Olympus posted many tweets after Amphoreus Episode 2 ended, claiming that their own series had achieved impressive ratings...

The numbers looked fine.

But who couldn’t fabricate data? Olympus now seemed to be desperately clinging to its last shred of dignity.

And just as everyone waited for that possible turning point, they were also waiting for the day this false data would collapse. The despair felt by people in the industry was likely something ordinary viewers would never experience in their entire lives.

That despair was reflected in the delays of multiple world-class productions. Within hours of Episode 3 airing, at least six series originally scheduled to premiere that week announced delays.

Their reasons were varied and strange. Some said they were returning to production for major revisions. Others claimed post-production needed more time, while some cited delays in their schedules.

In short, no one wanted to air opposite to Star Rail’s Amphoreus.

What was even more interesting was that, because Xia Wen adjusted miHoYo’s originally planned release schedule, from weekly episodes to releases every few weeks, the weeks without Amphoreus broadcasts became a joyous free-for-all for these series.

Although Amphoreus’ shadow still loomed over them, at least during those weeks, there was no Star Rail episode airing, right?

Without Star Rail to watch, the attention swallowed by Star Rail would return here, allowing these series to compete freely for it.

The series that had originally clashed with Star Rail’s release schedule no longer tried to hold on.

One after another, they announced that they would move their broadcasts to weeks when Star Rail was not airing.

They gave up. And because Xia Wen had said episodes would air ”every few weeks,” those ”few weeks” did not have a fixed duration.

It could be three weeks, four weeks, or even longer. The gap depended entirely on how much promotional material needed to be released in between to build anticipation for the next episode.

For example, the upcoming Episode 4 would require more time.

There were promotional shorts for Hyacine, Phainon, and others that needed to be released beforehand.

If it were a normal situation, there might only be two or three PVs to release, requiring around three weeks.

But the producers of those series, and the companies behind them, did not know that.

They believed that miHoYo’s boss thought his series was too overwhelming, so he deliberately left these gaps to give everyone a chance to catch their breath.

Otherwise, if Star Rail swallowed all the traffic, how were they supposed to compete at all?

Thus, if Star Rail announced that its next episode would air three weeks later, these series would all crowd into those three weeks and release one episode per week.

During the week Star Rail aired, all of them would rest. They called it ”dynamic adjustment.”

As for what exactly they were adjusting, don’t ask.

They had adjusted it, and that was enough. Along with the new industry term ”dynamic adjustment,” another term also appeared: The Amphoreus Black Hole Effect.

It was also called the Star Rail Black Hole Effect.

It referred to the one-way concentration of traffic across the global streaming market after the Amphoreus arc of Honkai: Star Rail aired.

All other viewership, discussion volume, and public attention would be drawn toward it like water flowing into a black hole.

Even the week after an episode aired came to be known as the black hole’s aftershock.

During this period, global social media would basically be flooded with Star Rail-related content.

Within hours of Episode 3 airing, posts mentioning Amphoreus worldwide exceeded 240 million, with more than 160 million original posts and reposts.

When the popularity of something reached such a level, an even more terrifying phenomenon would occur.

...

”These MiHoYo bastards are truly ruthless!”

Inside a luxurious office, the heads of many major world famous studios had gathered.

The last time they had held such a meeting was because of Olympus.

Back then, they had been full of spirit. They believed that a series made by gathering their full strength would surely sweep across the world, pull down Star Rail, and become like the invincible armada of old.

Even now, in their eyes, Olympus was still a massive ship.

It just was not an invincible armada.

It was the Titanic.

And similar to it’s counterpart, this one to sank before it ever reached its destination.

”They call it a hell of a joke.”

But none of the executives present could laugh.

They were facing the most immediate question: What were they supposed to do?

Dylan, head of a famous studio, the one behind the ice princess’s movie, a typically well-groomed, middle-aged white executive, stood at the head of the table with a complicated expression.

They had once looked down on MiHoYo. They had also regarded it as a major enemy.

And now, they had no choice but to painfully acknowledge their failure and begin studying that enemy.

A few weeks earlier, they had been sitting here with pride and arrogance still filling their hearts.

They believed MiHoYo was nothing more than a clown relying on opportunism and distorted history.

Their own shows were the best of the best, the divine light meant to enlighten the ignorant people.

So they confidently launched Olympus.

They intended to spread their gospel across the entire world and erase the influence of those ”heretics.”

Now, they had suffered a crushing defeat. It had happened far too quickly. So quickly that these people had not yet adjusted their mindset.

They were trapped in a contradictory emotion:

”I lost, but how could I possibly have lost?”

This executive was no different.

But regardless, he had to swallow that feeling.

”Gentlemen, we are not afraid of competition. We have lived through a century of entertainment-industry warfare, from the era of the studios to the age of streaming.”

”But what we fear is not knowing how to compete at all.”

Dylan tapped on the table and spoke with difficulty. ”I believe that after Amphoreus aired three consecutive episodes, I no longer need to elaborate on the numbers. It is, in every sense of the term, a black hole for traffic.”

”And these figures have already surpassed what we once believed to be the theoretical maximum.”

”In other words, even if we threw in every promotional resource we had, gathered every celebrity to endorse it, and bought out every trending topic on social media, it would still be hard to say whether we could reach the numbers of Amphoreus’s third episode.”

”This is not a problem marketing can solve.”

As he said this, Dylan’s throat felt dry. He loosened his tie and looked toward the executives around him.

These old rivals and friends were all staring at him now. In their eyes, Dylan saw the same confusion and despair that he felt himself.

He tried to make his voice sound a little witty. That had been the industry’s assessment of him ever since he took this position, a man of intelligence who always remained optimistic and humorous.

It was high praise. He adjusted himself and spoke again, but there was still no humor in his voice. It was so dry that it made one’s ears uncomfortable.

”What is even more frightening is that we cannot find the formula.”

”It is not celebrities, not IPs, not special effects, and not even a single explosive selling point.”

”It is completely different from the way we used to produce hit series.”

Everyone present was an expert. They all understood what Dylan was referring to.

In the past, the path to a hit was formulaic.

A reliable screenwriter with proven experience, a decent production lineup, and massive promotion.

That formula could create a series with good reviews and considerable profits.

Especially with control over social media. That made success even easier.

Modern people are strange beings. They seem overflowing with self-awareness, but in truth are unbearably empty inside.

They chase fashionable things, things with ”depth”, to mark themselves as different from everyone else. But what counts as fashionable or deep is defined by people higher up the ladder.

And control over social media allows their studios to easily shape these people’s sense of superiority and distinction.

If media figures say a show is good, good because it is unique, then a crowd of people will immediately rush toward it.

Of course, there will naturally be people who do not buy into that.

But it does not matter. As long as modern people continue to view the world through their phones, and as long as they believe everything on those phones is the world they have personally witnessed, then the entire entertainment and media industry, can shape the world into any form it wants.

A world constructed according to their ideas.

In reality, creating something is difficult. Building a road. Constructing a bridge.

The manpower, financial resources, and endless complications involved are enough to exhaust anyone.

But online, all it takes is a piece of code, a narrative, and a group of people skilled in journalism.

That is enough to construct a world even more real than reality.

The ”famous” sung-through stage musical, Miss Baigon.

It tells the story of a soldier from the states and a south-asian girl.

A white savior. An woman being saved.

When the opera was staged, media praised it as a masterpiece.

A goddamn invader, yet in this opera, he displays that arrogant attitude of: ”I may be sorry, but I came here to save you.”

Along with that disgusting condescension from above. And it swept through Southeast Asia like madness.

Even government’s lodged solemn protests, but it was useless. Their fathers’ generation dismissed them in the name of artistic freedom. And the harm that thing inflicted remains to this day.

That is cultural hegemony! It is overwhelmingly domineering! It was the most useful weapon in the hands of Dylan and the other executives seated here.

As long as they held that weapon, whether people could think for themselves did not matter. The entire world modern people came into contact with existed on their phones.

All they had to do was shape the concepts and ideological trends they wanted on those phones, preventing people from seeing anything truly worth thinking about or learning from.

Then that hegemony would exist forever. Relying on that hegemony, even if they fed people garbage every day, there would always be viewers willing to accept it.

But now, just as Dylan had said, the formula no longer worked.

Because of Honkai: Star Rail. Because of streaming media.

The audience’s attention had shifted elsewhere.

They had begun to think. They had begun to examine current shows.

All their efforts to construct a false world, make people resonate with it, and mistake it for reality, Honkai: Star Rail had accomplished that in a way a hundred times beyond anything they had imagined.

But the terrifying part was this: Dylan and the others had no idea how Honkai: Star Rail had managed to do it.