Chapter 112: President Pei… Could He Be Holding a Grudge?
Chapter 112: President Pei… Could He Be Holding a Grudge?
Qiao Liang looked at the steaming bowl of instant noodles in his hands, then glanced at the number in the chat: a 3 followed by three zeroes.
“Three thousand yuan?!”
“Is this company made of money or what?”
Qiao Liang was stunned. His usual video sponsorships only brought in about 1,000 yuan.
Occasionally, he’d get a 1,500 or 2,000 yuan deal, but those often came with lots of demands—and they were rare.
And now this sponsor just offered 3,000 yuan right out of the gate?
If he finished this job, he could probably coast for more than half a month!
Qiao Liang immediately perked up. “No problem! Just tell me what kind of video you want.”
When the money’s good, everything’s negotiable.
Lu Mingliang sent over a document. Inside was the script Pei Qian had written for the video narration.
“Mr. Qiao, here’s the script. The requirement is that you follow this narration exactly and prepare corresponding video material. It's best if you can appear on camera, but if not, that’s fine too. The script must not be altered—this is non-negotiable. I’ll also be sending over some gameplay footage shortly.”
Qiao Liang downloaded the document.
After reading it, he was left with one overwhelming feeling:
Are you messing with me? Or straight-up trying to ruin me?
You want me to say these kinds of lines—which made him cringe just reading them—on video?
And preferably on camera?!
Wouldn’t that be social suicide?!
This wasn’t a sponsorship—it was a plot to kill his channel!
Qiao Liang replied at once: “Nope, nope, I can’t do this. Please find someone else. I may be a broke content creator, but I still have my dignity!”
The other side was silent for a moment.
“How about 4,000?”
…Mother—
Qiao Liang suddenly felt very conflicted.
Look at the kind of money these rich folks are throwing around. Just the bonus alone was as high as a full offer from other companies.
But still… this wasn’t easy money.
“Can I try out your game first?” Qiao Liang asked.
Lu Mingliang replied, “Sorry, the game’s still in testing and can’t be released yet. But we have plenty of video footage that should be enough for your editing needs.”
Qiao Liang was speechless.
The materials were provided. The script was written. The client had basically done everything for him.
On the surface, it looked like a super easy gig—no need to brainstorm a script, no need for fancy effects. Just hold your nose, read the lines, slap on some game footage, post it, and you walk away with 4,000 yuan.
Everything sounded great—except for one problem: the consequences of releasing this video.
This wasn’t just going to get him accused of “selling out.”
This was more like getting flamed for “eating literal garbage.”
Before Qiao Liang could decide how to respond, the other side had already sent over a bunch of video clips.
All footage from Game Producer, without any narration.
That was intentional—Pei Qian had specifically instructed Lu Mingliang to strip the voiceover, since the creators were supposed to record their own narration. Two voice tracks overlapping would make a mess.
Qiao Liang opened the first clip: the character was running.
Second clip: still running.
Third, fourth…
All running!
Only the background rooms were slightly different, and the character entered different doors. Qiao Liang couldn’t make sense of what any of it meant.
The game’s graphics were beautiful and polished, with a distinctive visual style.
In short, it looked like a very exquisitely packaged pile of crap.
After thinking for a while, Qiao Liang sent a message:
“Hey, just asking… can I post this video under my ‘Trash Game Roasts’ channel?”
The temptation of 4,000 yuan was just too strong. Strong enough for Qiao Liang to start bending his principles—just a little.
Of course, blatantly feeding crap to your audience is basically career suicide. That was a hard no.
But if he posted it under his "Trash Game Roasts" channel, there was still room to maneuver.
Even though the video had to follow the client’s script word for word, and he couldn’t mock it like he usually did, the title of the channel alone—"Trash Game Roasts"—would let the audience interpret it as satire or sarcasm. A kind of reverse humor.
That way, he wouldn’t get flamed by his fans!
And he’d still get paid. Win-win. What’s not to love?
Soon, Lu Mingliang replied:
“Sorry, that’s not allowed.”
Qiao Liang wasn’t surprised. Most sponsors didn’t understand the context and immediately rejected the idea of being featured in a channel with “Trash Game” in the title. After all, who wants their game publicly labeled as trash?
But in Qiao Liang’s eyes, “Trash Game Roasts” was his bread and butter. “This Month’s Recommended Games” was just a tool, something he did to appease sponsors.
The Trash Game Roasts channel got ten times the views of This Month’s Recommended Games. Most sponsors dismissed it because of the name, without realizing how much influence it actually had.
So Qiao Liang needed to present a case. Something persuasive to change their mind.
“I understand your concerns, but please rest assured—‘Trash Game Roasts’ is far more influential than ‘This Month’s Recommended Games.’ It would absolutely be beneficial for your game.”
“You might not believe me, so let me give you an example.”
“A few months ago, I did a spontaneous roast of an indie Chinese game called Lonely Desert Road. After that video, the game exploded in popularity! In just two weeks, it sold over 200,000 copies!”
“Let me check who made it... hang on.”
He had roasted so many indie games, there was no way he could remember every developer.
Qiao Liang searched for the game on the official platform and quickly found it.
He looked at the developer name:
Tengda Network Technology Co., Ltd.
“…Huh?”
Something felt off.
What was the name of the sponsor again?
He scrolled up through the chat—
It was Tengda.
Qiao Liang checked some of their other games: Ghost General, Ocean Fortress.
His mind went blank.
Of course he had heard of Ghost General and Ocean Fortress, but since he mainly focused on single-player titles, he had never looked into them deeply or paid attention to the developer.
Now he realized—they were all made by Tengda!
A few months ago, Tengda was just some tiny indie studio.
Now they were a big-spending sponsor.
This storyline… didn’t make sense!
Qiao Liang frantically tried to delete his previous message—but the time window had passed. It was too late.
“…Shit.”
Awkward. Big-time awkward.
He rushed to salvage the situation.
“Ah, yes! That was one of your company’s games! I didn’t realize it at first—but it seems we’ve already had a successful collaboration!”
“Given that, I’m sure your company is well aware of how influential the Trash Game Roasts channel is. Posting the video under that banner will definitely yield great promotion results!”
Soon, Lu Mingliang responded.
“Oh, so you’ve worked with our President Pei before? That’s great to hear!”
“Please hold on, I’ll check with President Pei for his opinion.”
President Pei?
That must be the boss of Tengda Network Technology Co., Ltd.
Wait a minute—could he be the developer of Lonely Desert Road?
Hmm… it was highly likely.
Back then, Tengda was still a nobody, and Lonely Desert Road was their first game. So whether this President Pei was the producer or at least a core member, he definitely played a major role.
So most likely… that President Pei was the one.
Which led to a very pressing concern:
President Pei… wouldn’t still hold a grudge, would he?
Because back then, Qiao Liang really tore into that game during his roast…
Suddenly, panic set in.
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