The flickering neon sign of "Larry's Late Night Lattes" buzzed outside, casting a greasy sheen on the rain-slicked street. Inside, Larry, a thin man with perpetually tired eyes and a messy bun clinging to the back of his head, expertly foamed milk. Part-time barista by day, full-time game developer by night, Larry was a master of caffeine-fueled coding binges.

  For years, his passion project, "Dungeon Descent: Pixel Peril," had consumed him. A 2D roguelite, it was a love letter to the games he grew up with, infused with his own quirky sense of humor and brutally unforgiving difficulty. He'd poured his heart and soul into it, crafting procedurally generated dungeons filled with bizarre monsters, arcane artifacts, and enough traps to make Indiana Jones weep.

  Larry was a dedicated content creator, too. He recorded himself playing Dungeon Descent, showcasing new builds, struggling with bosses, and occasionally raging at the infuriating RNG. He uploaded the videos religiously, hoping to find an audience, a community to share his passion with.

  The problem was, nobody watched. Zeros stared back at him from the view count, mocking his efforts. Comments remained stubbornly empty. It was disheartening, crushing even. But Larry was stubborn. He told himself it wasn't about fame or fortune. It was about the joy of creation.

  So, he kept coding. He expanded the world with sprawling DLC packs, each adding new characters, classes, and challenges. "The Fungus Forest of Doom," "The Crystal Caves of Curmudgeon," "The Slime Sea of Sorrow" – his imagination ran wild.

  Years drifted by. Life happened. Girlfriends came and went. Larry got better at latte art. He still worked on Dungeon Descent, but the spark had dimmed. He no longer played it, just coded, tinkering with the engine, adding features to keep his skills sharp. It was a hobby, a comfort blanket against the encroaching monotony of adulthood.

  Then came the day that changed everything.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  On a trajectory far beyond human comprehension, a scout ship of the Zz'glorg Collective cruised through the solar system. The Zz'glorg were galactic gourmands of culture, constantly sampling the artistic output of developing civilizations. Most of what they encountered was, to put it mildly, baffling. Crude paintings, repetitive melodies, reality television… it was a cosmic dumpster fire of questionable taste.

  But the Zz'glorg AI, tasked with sifting through the cultural detritus, was particularly adept at identifying hidden gems. It was this AI that stumbled upon Earth's gaming archives, and within them, discovered Dungeon Descent: Pixel Peril.

  The AI was captivated. The intricate level design, the unexpected humor, the genuinely challenging gameplay – it was a revelation. The Zz'glorg, particularly fond of games that rewarded cleverness and punished recklessness, were enthralled.

  As a gesture of appreciation, and because they were feeling particularly generous that day, the Zz'glorg downloaded a small package of their advanced technology into the Earth's global network, cleverly disguised as an open-source game engine. And, more importantly, they left a specific, untraceable communication channel open to the creator of Dungeon Descent.

  A week later, Larry was wrestling with a particularly stubborn milk frother when his old, clunky computer pinged. An email. From... someone calling themselves "Xylar-7" claiming to be from… well, it was a long, unpronounceable name, but they claimed to be from another galaxy.

  Larry almost deleted it as spam. But something about the email, about its strangely archaic but deeply intriguing coding jargon, held his attention. Intrigued, he replied.

  The conversation began tentatively, stilted by translation issues and the sheer absurdity of the situation. But soon, a connection formed. Xylar-7 was genuinely impressed by Dungeon Descent. They saw the vision, the care, the sheer dedication that Larry had poured into his little pixelated world.

  And then came the offer. Xylar-7, representing the Zz'glorg Collective, offered Larry a few pieces of their technology – some utilities for every day life, holographic phones, gravity boots, seismic detectors, etc. As well as some advanced tools for game development, tools that would allow him to create worlds beyond his wildest dreams. And, more importantly, contact information. A way to connect with them. He had earned their recognition. No other humans had. Perhaps earth would need Larry in the future.