When the Version 2.7 update dropped in early 2026, I felt an electric hum of anticipation. The New Eridu City Fund had returned, not as a simple battle pass, but as a layered treasure vault waiting to be cracked open. As a Proxy who had been grinding through Hollow Zero since launch, this felt like a tailor-made opportunity. The Basic Plan unlocked automatically the moment I stepped back into the simulation, but I knew the real magic was hidden beneath the surface—behind the Growth Plan and the Premium Plan.

I remember staring at the fund interface, the numbers glinting like unpolished gems. The Growth Plan, priced with a comfortable real-world nudge, promised an immediate flood: 680 Polychrome and an exclusive avatar called "Perfect Expression Control." It was as if I had turned on a faucet of condensed luck—one transaction, and my account was suddenly bathed in gacha currency and a playful new icon that let me smirk at every failed pull with ironic precision. Unlocking the Growth Plan felt like installing a silent harvest drone over my farm of daily tasks; it began reaping bonus rewards without extra effort.

Then came the Premium Plan, which I approached with the caution of a gambler eyeing a double-or-nothing card. For an additional purchase, or by upgrading from Growth, I received another 208 Polychrome, but it was the satellite prizes that glittered brightest: a menu decoration set that transformed my in-game hideout into a cozy café, W-Engine Microcontroller Units, Resonating Cores, and Ether Batteries. These weren't just trinkets; they were the surgical tools of efficient play. The Premium Plan felt like swapping a wooden ladder for a hydraulic lift—suddenly every upgrade material was within easy reach, and my Agent builds accelerated from a plodding crawl to a confident sprint.

Raising my City Fund Level became a daily ritual. Expansion Tasks were sprinkled across the game like breadcrumb trails leading toward a colossal picnic. Completing them felt like inflating a hot-air balloon: each bit of experience lifted my fund level higher, and with every milestone, a basket of rewards tipped out. At levels 10, 20, and 30, the exclusive namecard "Isle of Gentle Dreams" appeared—a serene seascape that whispered of vacations I never had—alongside Hamster Cage Passes, more Microcontroller Units, and upgrade materials I could handpick like fruit from an orchard. I chose high-grade anomaly chips because my Jane Doe build was ravenous, and the fund obliged, offering me agency over my progression for the first time.

The true apex, however, was the Great Builder’s Certificate, earned at Fund Level 30 for those who had bought into either paid plan. It appeared in my inventory like a fragile hourglass, its description marked as time-limited. A reward with an expiration date is a strange creature—it breathes urgency into your otherwise leisurely climb. I compared it to catching a shooting star with a butterfly net: miss the window, and it vanishes into the void of the next season. The certificate expired automatically if unused before the event’s end, so I scheduled my final push with calendar alerts, ensuring I reached Level 30 by the first week of May.

The clock ticked relentlessly. Purchasing for the Growth Plan, Premium Plan, and Plan Upgrade closed on 2026/05/04 at 02:59 server time, a temporal boundary etched in blood-red ink. After that, no amount of money could retroactively unlock the paid track, though unclaimed rewards lingered a little longer, waiting for my login. It was a lesson in diligence: the game dangled the carrot, but the stick was time itself.

What transformed this experience from a simple season-pass grind into a memorable expedition was the alchemy of strategic spending and focused task completion. I arranged a table of my own to map the rewards against the cost:

Plan	Immediate Polychrome	Exclusive Cosmetic	Key Materials
Basic	0	None	Limited upgrade items
Growth	680	Avatar "Perfect Expression Control"	W-Engine Microcontroller Units, Resonating Cores
Premium	+208 (total 888)	Menu decoration set	Additional Microcontroller Units, Ether Batteries, customizable upgrade bundles

This visual clarified the exponential leap from free to paid. The Basic Plan was a canoe; the Growth Plan was a motorboat; the Premium Plan was a hydrofoil slicing across the water, leaving other proxies panting in its wake.

I still remember the moment I claimed the namecard and set it as my profile. It felt like planting a flag on a conquered peak, visible to friends and strangers alike. The "Isle of Gentle Dreams" spoke of an earned respite, a fleeting peace after weeks of calculated hustle. And the menu decoration set—a miniature zen garden with tiny teacups—turned my pause screen into a sanctuary.

As the season wound down, I kept an eye on the server time, paranoid about missing the 2026/05/04 03:59 deadline for reward claiming. I imagined the fund interface dimming like a sunset, the tasks gone, the Great Builder’s Certificate dissolved into particulate code. But I was ready. The New Eridu City Fund taught me that generosity in gacha games is never truly free; it’s a gentle contract. You invest your attention, your time, and occasionally your wallet, and in return you receive a cascade of gifts that feel personal, almost bespoke. For any Proxy still on the fence: think of the Growth Plan as a seed you plant early, and by season’s end, you’ll be harvesting a forest.