February 8, Monday.
The Lunar New Year was drawing near, and Pei Qian could feel the "holiday vibes" permeating the air.
As for the New Year of 2010, he didn't have much memory of it—even the Spring Festival Gala lineup had long since faded from his mind.
And considering how this world had already diverged in some ways from his previous life, the Gala would likely have some differences too.
Of course, no matter how different it got... it probably still wouldn't be any good.
On campus, students had finished their final exams and were heading home one after another. It was winter, the trees were bare, and the drifting leaves gave the whole place a melancholy feeling.
Pei Qian arrived at the office and sat down.
He took the tea from Assistant Xin and sighed—another dull day.
Then, he called out the system panel.
[Wealth Conversion System]
[Host: Pei Qian]
[Profit Conversion Ratio: 100:1 | Loss Conversion Ratio: 1:1]
[System Funds: 1.78 million Yuan (↑780,000)]
[Personal Funds: 21,647.8 Yuan]
"Whew..."
Pei Qian blew on his tea without a flicker of emotion.
As expected.
Just one week had passed, and the original 1 million in system funds had already grown to 1.78 million.
After the upgrade to servers and bandwidth, Ocean Fortress had seen another surge in player numbers. The game was dominating the platform's top charts, and revenue continued to rise.
The money was being spent fast—but it was coming in even faster!
Even though expenses like rent, salaries, and operating costs were constant, the company's account balance just kept growing.
Thank goodness he had timed the last settlement perfectly. Otherwise, trying to hit a net loss now would've been really tough.
Right now, Pei Qian was focusing his spending in three major directions:
Huang Sibo's side: a committed investment of 1 million.
Ma Yang's side: opening a commercial space. With Pei Qian's usual spendthrift attitude, the initial investment was bound to be at least 2 million.
The game Game Producer: even the development phase alone would easily hit 2 million minimum, with no upper limit.
If that wasn't enough spending? Then just spend more!
Meanwhile, regular operational costs—including rent and salaries—were around ¥1 million per month.
Add that all up, and the expenses were significant. At this point, his system funds were clearly not enough to cover it all.
But the problem was: this cycle lasted three months.
With Ghost General and Ocean Fortress printing money like they were, even earning 3–4 million per month was a very realistic possibility!
Trying to keep the system funds under 1 million by the next settlement—to register a net loss again—was still going to be a challenge.
Pei Qian did the math again and felt a mild headache coming on.
He had even thought about whether he should use the surplus system funds and convert them at the 100:1 ratio.
Wouldn't that be better?
But with a little calculation, he knew—it wasn't worth it.
Sure, the two games were pulling in solid revenue. Making nearly 10 million in three months was no stretch.
But converting that at a 100:1 ratio?
That's only 100,000 in real income.
Sounds okay, but in the grand scheme of things? Totally not worth it.
But here's the real issue: expenses.
What's Pei Qian supposed to do—become a stingy accountant?
Even if he did nothing, the company's operational costs alone were close to a million yuan per month. After three months, he'd be left with maybe a five or six million surplus—which, at a 100:1 conversion rate, only translates to fifty to sixty thousand in reward funds.
At that point? Just a little bit of loss would be enough to offset that amount!
And besides—if he were aiming for a profit-based conversion, would he still be willing to use the system funds so freely? To write off luxurious expenses like it's nothing?
Absolutely not.
His lifestyle and the company's working conditions would take a nosedive.
A quick comparison shows that converting profit and converting loss are two entirely different beasts. Pei Qian wasn't stupid.
So—losing money is the only correct path forward!
This time, Pei Qian set himself a modest little goal:
Out of the 1 million in system funds, lose at least 700,000.
That shouldn't be too hard, right?
After all, he had three layers of insurance working in parallel.
Just as he was mulling this over, a knock came at the door.
"Come in."
Lu Mingliang stepped in, holding a printed design document in his hands.
"President Pei, the concept draft for Game Producer is ready for review."
Pei Qian blinked.
"Already? You didn't go over the 9 PM limit for overtime, did you?"
Lu Mingliang quickly waved his hands.
"No, no! Lately I've just felt so inspired, which makes me work super efficiently, I definitely didn't exceed your limit!"
Pei Qian had always been strict about enforcing anti-overtime policies.
He took the document and started reading seriously, occasionally asking questions:
"What were you thinking for this part?"
Whenever he came across something unclear, he'd ask right away.
Lu Mingliang, flustered but earnest, answered everything as clearly as he could—explaining his design logic down to the last detail, with zero omissions.
Does President Pei not understand?
No way.
This must be a test!
In Lu Mingliang's heart, he was sure this was all part of President Pei's examination.
He couldn't help but think back to when Huang Sibo was still around.
He remembered the first version of Ocean Fortress's design draft—Huang Sibo just sent it over, Pei Qian skimmed through it, and immediately gave the green light.
But now?
President Pei was scrutinizing every paragraph, asking about every section.
What did that mean?
It meant Huang Sibo's design was so good that President Pei didn't need to worry.
His own work, on the other hand, clearly wasn't up to par—President Pei was personally combing through it in detail to catch problems and steer it back on track.
Thinking about it, Lu Mingliang felt a surge of shame.
It's all my fault for being so weak! Even President Pei has to walk me through it hand-in-hand!
I've really got to work harder…
After reading the entire document and asking a bunch of detailed questions, Pei Qian finally relaxed a bit.
For one, he genuinely couldn't understand this kind of professional design format—it gave him a headache, and he needed Lu Mingliang's explanations just to follow along.
But more importantly—he had to make sure this draft faithfully captured his original idea, and didn't veer off course.
Ocean Fortress had been a brutal lesson. Because he didn't understand the design doc and missed a bunch of details, the final game completely strayed from his original sabotage plan.
That kind of disaster? Never again.
Following Pei Qian's original concept, the full design for Game Producer was now laid out.
The setting of the game? Inside a game company.
You'd see rows of work computers, promotional posters for games, anime figures, potted plants—an office filled with all the typical trappings. Game developers and staff would be scattered about as background extras, creating a realistic backdrop.
The player, in first-person view, would start at the "Project Initiation" point and walk through a branching path of decisions until they reached the "Game Launch" endpoint.
Each key decision point was represented as a room.
For example, when it came time to choose the genre of the game they wanted to make—
In that room, there would be multiple doors.
Each door had a different game genre labeled on it, along with an accompanying promotional poster.
Want to make a horror game? Walk through that door.
Prefer a life sim? Pick that one.
That choice alone would determine the genre of the game the player was "creating."
Afterward, the player would walk through a hallway to the next room.
This new room had another set of doors—each one corresponding to further design details.
For instance, if the chosen genre was a mobile card game, the player would now choose between different monetization models:
"Heavy monetization"
"Light monetization"
"Cosmetic only"
"Subscription-based"
Then, another room: marketing methods—
Partner with influencers
Old-school street promos
Paid banner ads
Cross-promotion with another IP
Then: setting and theme—
"Anime-style"
"Three Kingdoms"
"Mythological"
"Original IP"
Then: art style—
"2D card portraits"
"Side-scrolling models"
"Full 3D rendering"
Then: combat system—
"Turn-based"
"Real-time action"
"Auto-battle"
And on, and on.
Every single room was a choice node, and each room's decor and props visually reflected the options.
For example, the room that contained the theme options would be visually segmented to reflect each choice:
"Anime" would be filled with chibi-style characters and colorful posters.
"Three Kingdoms" would have traditional armor-clad generals standing tall.
"Original IP" would showcase unique, newly designed characters no one had seen before.
Everything was meant to be visualized clearly. Players would see the options and simply walk into the one they wanted.
After a series of such decisions, the player would finally arrive at the last room.
There, they'd witness the "launch results":
Maybe a dazzling media conference filled with reporters and flashing cameras, surrounded by fans going wild.
Maybe a cold, empty office space—company shut down.
Maybe a billboard in a bustling city and a teaser for a theme park based on the game.
Maybe a dusty game disc sitting on a forgotten shelf in the back of a record shop.
In the end, it would be one of many final scenarios, determined by the player's chain of choices.
No combat. No puzzles. No inventory. Not even dialogue options.
Just walking and watching.
Isn't that boring as hell?!
That was the point.
But the most diabolical part?
There'd be a narrator—following the player throughout the entire experience.
Sarcastic. Cynical. Ruthlessly mocking the player at every turn.
<+>
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[1] https://www.patreon.com/collection/1399284?view=expanded
[2] https://www.patreon.com/posts/129254813?collection=1399284
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