Chapter 113: President Pei Is a Petty Man
Chapter 113: President Pei Is a Petty Man
Back when Qiao Liang roasted Lonely Desert Road, he genuinely hadn’t meant to promote Tengda. It was just a spontaneous decision to make a video—for the sake of his own popularity.
Sure, the outcome had been a win-win: the game blew up in popularity, and Qiao Liang got a lot of traction. But at the end of the day, it was a harsh roast. With the way he ripped into it, would the developer really not hold a grudge?
All he could do now was hope the man had a magnanimous heart…
Soon, Lu Mingliang replied:
“President Pei is very pleased, but he says the video must be released under the ‘This Month’s Recommended Games’ channel. The script must be followed exactly. Also, it must come across as completely sincere—no sarcasm or irony. Performance needs to be heartfelt and convincing.”
Qiao Liang was stunned.
He’s out for revenge. No doubt about it.
This Month’s Recommended Games channel was blatantly known for being ad-driven—everyone in the audience knew that. But if he licked a game’s boots this shamelessly, there was no doubt he’d get flamed.
And because this particular channel was already about sponsored content, the viewers wouldn’t even assume satire or reverse psychology.
On top of that, President Pei wanted it acted sincerely?
It was easy to predict how the audience would take it: they’d see this as Teacher Qiao lowering the bar even further for sponsored content—betraying his own values!
This had to be intentional.
A grudge. An open, bare-faced act of revenge.
Nope. Not worth it. Not for any amount of money.
Qiao Liang started typing a firm rejection:
“Sorry, Mr. Lu, but your requirements are just too much. I really don’t think I can pull this off. Please find someone else.”
Lu Mingliang replied:
“6,000 yuan, Mr. Qiao.”
Qiao Liang: “…”
Oh come on. Seriously?
You’re just testing my psychological bottom line, right? You’re trying to humiliate me now?
This wasn’t about money anymore. Even if 6,000 was… incredibly tempting…
Qiao Liang’s heart wept.
That’s a lot of money.
If he lived frugally, 6,000 could last him two months.
Two full months of doing nothing but relaxing and playing games—how seductive was that?
He struggled internally.
Ugh. No. He couldn’t do it. He just couldn’t lower himself like that.
Qiao Liang thought it over carefully and began to type:
“It’s not about the money—”
Before he could finish, a new message popped up.
“Mr. Qiao, I just checked with President Pei again. He says he’s willing to go up to 10,000. This is the final offer. I know you value your reputation highly. If you truly can’t accept it, we understand and won’t pressure you.”
Qiao Liang’s hand shook.
He accidentally hit ‘Enter.’
“It’s not about the money—”
Two messages. Back to back. Looked like a firm rejection.
Lu Mingliang replied:
“Alright, then. I wish you success in your work. I won’t disturb you further.”
Panic. Immediate, overwhelming panic.
Wait! That’s not what I meant! Don’t go!
Qiao Liang’s fingers flew over the keyboard—unleashing the typing speed of a man who had been single for over twenty years.
“It’s not about the money—”
“President Pei is an old friend! Of course I’ll help him with this!”
He hit send.
Qiao Liang let out a long sigh of relief. Thankfully, Lu Mingliang hadn’t reacted faster and blocked him.
Lu Mingliang replied:
“Really? That’s great! I’ll send over more video material right away.”
Qiao Liang began receiving the new materials. And in just a few minutes, his emotions had gone through a whirlwind:
From anger, to anxiety, to dread, then finally… smug satisfaction.
Now, he was at peace.
So what if this hurts his reputation?
Everyone has to eat.
Surely the audience will understand. Yeah, that’s it!
…
“Qiao Liang accepted?”
“Mhm. Not bad.”
In the office, Pei Qian nodded in satisfaction as he listened to Lu Mingliang’s report.
“That’s what you get for mocking me before.”
“If it weren’t for you, I might’ve lost that 50,000 yuan. Who knows how the whole script would’ve turned out!”
President Pei had to make sure that Teacher Qiao was the first to post the video—he wanted to see just how "naturally" the guy would act.
Of course, it wasn’t entirely about revenge. A part of Pei Qian was also worried about history repeating itself, like with Lonely Desert Road.
According to Qiao Liang’s own logic: if this video ended up in his Trash Game Roast channel and the game blew up because of that… Pei Qian would rather smash his head against a wall.
So he made the safest move: publish the video under the This Month’s Recommended Games channel, which had the lowest traffic and fewest views. He’d even write “I’m totally shilling” right on the metaphorical label—problem solved!
Just thinking about this kind of simple, wholesome joy—achieved with a mere 10,000 yuan from the system fund—Pei Qian could barely hold in his laughter.
Still, he kept a composed front in front of Lu Mingliang. The persona must be maintained.
“Any word from the other content creators?” Pei Qian asked.
Lu Mingliang replied truthfully, “Some refused even after we offered more money, but quite a few still accepted—around half, actually.”
“At first, most were hesitant when they saw the script. But after hearing that everyone was being asked to say the same lines, that they weren’t the only ones doing this, and especially that they wouldn’t be the first to upload… plus the promise that the video could be deleted after a month—and a pay bump—they agreed.”
Pei Qian was very pleased.
As expected—no matter how humiliating the script is, there will always be people willing to read it if you throw enough money at them.
And for the rest of the content creators, this wasn’t even that big a deal. At most, it would just become a minor piece of black history.
Once other creators had already posted the video, it wasn’t such a big deal anymore. All they had to do was read the same script—nothing to lose sleep over.
But the very first uploader? That’s where all the early firepower from confused viewers would be focused.
And Pei Qian had already decided: Qiao Liang would take that spot.
…
In a rented apartment…
Qiao Liang forced himself—almost holding his nose—to watch the finished version of the video he had just made.
“What the hell did I just do…”
His feelings were a chaotic mess.
On one hand, he’d earned 10,000 yuan for making a video. The temptation of money had corroded his resolve.
On the other hand… he felt utterly humiliated.
Because eating sht*, metaphorically speaking, was a lot harder than he’d imagined.
In theory, this should’ve been an easy job: read a script, trim some clips from the provided footage, and call it a day. Two days of work, max.
But it had taken him five whole days.
Right up to the deadline, before he could say it was barely “passable.”
Just practicing the requested “Sluuurp sluurp sluurp...” had taken seven or eight tries—he had to make it sound natural and not utterly cringe.
All his time had gone into that.
And tomorrow was April 1st—April Fool’s Day.
Tengda’s new game would launch, and Qiao Liang would publish his video the same day.
Qiao Liang was actually a bit grateful—maybe President Pei did have a shred of humanity left.
Publishing on April Fool’s Day meant a lot of viewers might just assume the whole video was a prank. That way, the amount of hate he’d get might be a little less.
But then again…
Wouldn’t that also mean more people would watch it?
“Forget it. Whatever.”
“I took the money, I’ll do the job. Worst case, I’ll just post the video and then go offline—turtle up and play dead.”
“Once that 10,000 hits my account, I’ll vanish off the face of the Earth—play video games all day, disappear from the internet, wait out the storm!”
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