Weekly Update 31/2025 (Patreon)

This week, ladies and gentlemen, I have officially completed the full remaster of Week One. It’s finished, cleaned, polished, and ready (no morning screens yet). Next week, I’ll be tackling Week Two, which should progress more quickly.

I’ve also been considering how to organise the Steam release. The plan is to launch the game in two-week chapters — each a self-contained part of the story, complete and playable on its own, but carrying over variables from the previous chapters. This neatly aligns with Steam’s rules for “finished adult titles” and keeps development manageable while preserving story flow. Additionally, I will render the next short story.

Now, on a completely unrelated note, I must share with you the dramatic events that unfolded at our home this week.

This was no ordinary evening. This was war.

I live in a forested area. Just before midnight, my wife went outside to walk the dog. Moments later, she returned — silent, eyes sharp, and walking with that unmistakable military stride. She said nothing. Instead, she calmly took the largest kitchen knife we own and declared:

“There’s someone in the yard."

You see, not long ago, a house in our village was burgled — so this wasn’t paranoia. This was a threat assessment. Within seconds, I laced up my boots and grabbed my deadliest weapon: an iron fire poker. Not elegant, but effective.

As veterans, we immediately went into stealth mode — low silhouettes, soft steps, complete silence. We flanked the suspicious area near the woodshed, approaching from a perfect 90-degree angle. Crossfire prevention was crucial; after all, we were armed… with a knife and a fire poker. The textbook would’ve been proud.

We spotted movement — a shadow near the treeline. Enemy contact.

Time to shift formation. We advanced in a chain, staying low and unseen. Every leaf underfoot was a potential compromise. Every breath, measured. And then… it happened.

A mere few meters away from me, the bush erupted with a sound so guttural, so unholy, it could only be described as the Devil’s motorcycle. A wild boar — massive, furious, and very much alive — exploded out of the brush, squealing like a banshee with a vendetta.

Now, I haven't run that fast since basic training. Hell, I didn't know I could run like that anymore.

I covered my wife (tactically letting her sprint ahead, of course — battlefield priorities), and we both made it back to the house in one piece, adrenaline still dripping from our ears...and pants...

Moral of the story: rendering scenes in Nemiegs' headquarters is dangerous.

Have a great week, everyone.

And as always — thank you for your support, patience, and the messages that keep this strange little world of Special Request alive.

Nemiegs