Chapter 108: Ma Yiqun's Job
Chapter 108: Ma Yiqun's Job
The losses from the “Moyu Internet Café” gave Pei Qian a comforting sense of relief.
Both “President Pei’s Daily Life” and “Game Producer” were beginning to show ominous signs of going off the rails.
If the internet café project also blew up in his face, his poor heart wouldn’t be able to take it anymore.
Thankfully, Ma Yang never lets him down!
Pei Qian managed to calm down a little.
Right now, the thing he was most worried about was “Game Producer.”
The continuous losses at the internet café—300,000 yuan a month—looked impressive on paper, but in the grand scheme of things, it was just the cherry on top. It couldn’t decide the outcome.
As for “President Pei’s Daily Life”... He had only one hope: please, for the love of all that is holy, don’t become a meme.
‘I need to keep a close eye on Game Producer from now on. There can’t be no more surprises!’
‘I have to learn from the Ocean Fortress disaster.’
‘Last time, I didn’t even play Ocean Fortress deeply. I just saw the story mode and the 888-yuan Fire Qilin and thought it was doomed to fail. But nope—total backfire!’
‘This time, I’ll play it from beginning to end!’
Just thinking about it made Pei Qian feel a little melancholy.
. . . . . . . . . . .
March 25th
Game Producer was officially finished and entered the post-production stage—bug fixes, polish, the whole deal.
Pei Qian specifically requested the latest build from the game development department, installed it on his personal computer, and began playing it from scratch.
Even though he already knew every choice and every possible ending like the back of his hand, he insisted on experiencing the game in full.
The release date was set for April 1st.
April Fool’s Day. Because why not?
If he discovered anything before then that might make the game go viral… well, he’d still have a few days to rush out an emergency patch.
As for promotion...
Pei Qian had basically given up.
This wasn’t like before—Tengda had already become a fairly well-known game company.
Thanks to the reputation of Ghost General and Ocean Fortress, Tengda had accumulated a decent player base.
Up to now, all of Tengda’s games have been released on its own official platform. So the moment Game Producer dropped, fans of Ghost General and Ocean Fortress would definitely come flocking over!
Under those circumstances, whether they promoted it or not wouldn’t change much.
The key was the game itself.
Pei Qian had loaded it with as much player-trolling content as possible—that was his ultimate lifeline!
And so, Pei Qian began his playthrough.
Every single decision point.
Every single ending.
Every single line of snarky narrator dialogue.
He experienced it all—slowly, painfully.
“…Wait, Lu Mingliang voice acting is actually pretty good? How did he manage to nail that obnoxious, punch-me-in-the-face tone so perfectly?”
“So boring.”
“This is seriously not fun at all.”
“And this damn narrator keeps mocking me! Can I go beat up Lu Mingliang in real life for some catharsis?”
“How much longer until I’m done with this run…”
“Hang in there, Pei Qian… just a little more…”
His mind began to drift. Game Producer had a powerful repelling effect on him.
Even with Ruan Guangjian personally handling the concept art—the game’s visual style was unique and beautifully executed—Pei Qian still found it utterly lifeless.
Why?
Because every choice, every sarcastic quip, had been written by himself!
Walk into a room, face a dozen options.
To the average player, every door, every decision leads to mystery and discovery.
But to Pei Qian? He already knew exactly what would happen behind each one.
With a 100% spoiler aura hanging over him, how the hell was he supposed to enjoy the game?
It felt just like watching a detective drama… where you already knew who the culprit was, how the case ended, and all the twists in between. Naturally, the thrill of the process dropped off a cliff.
And so, Pei Qian pinched his nose and trudged through the entire game from start to finish, trying out several endings and arriving at one undeniable conclusion:
It’s boring as hell!
The gameplay had nothing special to offer. It was just controlling a character as they wandered through room after room.
Every time you entered a new room, all you could do was take in the interior layout… and get hit with some creatively crafted narration roasting the player.
Beyond that?
There’s literally nothing else to do!
“Mm, yes, not bad. This time, the game is truly well-made.”
“Only when I handle it personally can I rest easy.”
Pei Qian finally relaxed. From what he could tell so far, the game didn’t need any modifications.
Just release it, let it flop, and sit back while the money drains away. Perfect!
. . . . . . . . . . .
Meanwhile, the rest of the company was keeping busy.
Ma Yiqun, who had just officially joined the company, received his very first task at Tengda:
Play Game Producer.
That’s it. Just play it.
Lu Mingliang instructed him to watch, to learn—but gave no room for opinions, no space for feedback, and definitely no chance to participate in the development process.
“This company… really is something else.”
Ma Yiqun couldn’t help but sigh in awe.
The comfortable office space, the friendly work atmosphere, the salary way above industry average…
He’d already heard all about it from his close friend Huang Sibo, so none of that surprised him.
What did surprise him, though, was the way this company worked.
He still remembered his first day at Shangyang Games.
The moment he stepped in, before he’d even warmed up his seat, Old Liu had already tossed him a mountain of scriptwriting tasks.
No guidance. No onboarding.
Vague requirements, unclear standards.
Besides the deadline, Ma Yiqun was on his own.
In short: get to work, rookie.
But over here at Tengda? Totally different.
His only assignment was just four words: “Watch carefully, learn attentively.”
Want to jump into action right away?
Too bad. Not gonna happen.
‘Is this… what they call true vision?’
‘Back at Shangyang, the work was basically copy-paste. Even newbies like me could jump in instantly. Hiring fresh grads was just a way to get cheap labor to move bricks.’
‘But here at Tengda, the work requires serious skills and thoughtful design. A newbie like me can only learn. And it’s going to take a long time to even catch up…’
‘It’s like I’m back in high school—nervous and under constant pressure.’
Ma Yiqun found himself filled with admiration for Tengda.
After finishing one full run of Game Producer, he had a strange, lingering feeling.
He had never seen a game like this before.
It didn’t seem to fall into any known genre on the market. If someone tried to pitch this at Shangyang Games, it would’ve been shot down instantly.
Too risky. No market precedent. Definitely no funding.
But here at Tengda, projects like this seemed... ordinary.
The boss himself led the charge on innovation, and the employees worked together like a well-oiled machine.
That kind of unspoken coordination… wasn’t something you could develop overnight.
At Shangyang, Ma Yiqun was used to hearing phrases like:
“Is there a successful template for this?”
“Which game are we copying?”
“Are the monetization hooks deep enough?”
But here at Tengda?
Not once.
It was like everyone here was silently working toward a shared vision, an unspoken goal.
If he had to sum it up in five words, it would be this: “Don’t get it, but wow.”
Ma Yiqun realized—he had a lot to learn.
‘No wonder they won’t let me do anything yet… I’m still way too green!’
‘I have to work hard, really digest what I’m seeing, and do my best to keep up with Tengda and President Pei’s way of thinking!’
And so, Ma Yiqun made a silent vow to himself.
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