Chapter 115: A Very Unwilling Teacher Qiao
Chapter 115: A Very Unwilling Teacher Qiao
Teacher Qiao’s fanbase had completely exploded—no one could accept that video!
But whether they accepted it or not didn’t matter anymore… they couldn’t even find him.
They tried everything: tagging him in the fan group, sending DMs, even calling him (a few mods had his phone number)—but all attempts failed. The calls wouldn’t even go through.
Clearly, Teacher Qiao had gone full turtle mode.
His fans cycled through the five stages of grief:
From confusion → to anger → to disappointment → to indifference → and finally, just sitting back with popcorn to watch the drama unfold.
Teacher Qiao’s bizarre display became the perfect highlight for April Fools’ Day.
But as it turns out—that wasn’t the end of it.
Across various video platforms, a wave of creators started releasing promotional videos for Game Producer!
And they were all cursed as hell. While the videos varied in titles, voiceovers, and how the game footage was edited, the scripts were completely identical.
Every single one had that same awkward mix of Chinese and English, complete with "Sluuurp sluurp sluurp"-style sound effects.
The fanbase completely lost it.
“What the hell is this nightmare?!”
Sure, most of these creators weren’t super popular, but they spanned a wide range of genres—gaming, memes, lifestyle, tech, science—and their reach was massive.
And the different titles meant that people kept clicking by accident.
Once viewers realized what they were watching—those familiar visuals and the cursed narration—their hearts sank.
As expected, after the creators’ signature intros, it was the exact same over-the-top promotional shill every time:
“It’s called Game Producer, GAM~E, game, game designer!”
“Awesome!”
After watching two or three of these, many viewers felt like their brains had been hijacked. All they could think of was:
“Waaaooo~, awesome~, sluuurp sluurp sluurp~”
And like Teacher Qiao, none of the other creators dared show their faces.
Well, obviously. They knew the backlash would be brutal. Who’d be stupid enough to stand up and face the wrath of their own fanbase right now?
So they all went radio silent, letting the angry comments pile up in their videos. Once the storm passed, they’d just act like nothing happened.
Just as Pei Qian predicted, these paid-promotion videos were massacred.
Low views, horrific like-to-dislike ratios, and comment sections that could only be described as warzones. Most people took one look at the comments and immediately noped out of watching the video.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Inside the Tengda Office...
Pei Qian sat back, happily scrolling through the videos, reviewing the view counts and community feedback.
Perfect.
He had spent a ton hiring all those content creators, and the result? The ads were universally hated. They flopped in reach and did nothing to boost the game’s visibility.
Beautiful.
Locking down the script for every creator really was a genius move.
Pei Qian knew these video creators were talented. If he let them off-leash, who knows—one of them might’ve pulled another Lonely Desert Road-level viral tragedy.
That could not be allowed to happen again.
So, he simply had everyone use the exact same script, which would leave absolutely no chance of winning over any players!
Pei Qian was very satisfied. Half of his plan had already succeeded!
Next, it all depended on whether the game would fail as expected!
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Inside a rented apartment.
Qiao Liang lay on his bed, staring at the dozens of missed calls on his phone, feeling utterly defeated by life.
‘Sigh… Dirty money is really hard to earn…’
He didn’t even dare open the fan group chat. He didn’t need to—he could imagine the chaos in there with just a single brain cell.
‘The more I try to endure it, the more it eats away at me. The more I retreat, the angrier I get.’
‘Agh! So much regret!’
Thinking back now, that 10,000 yuan payout really was a thick stack—so thick it blinded him.
He had thought making 10k would make him feel good, but now that he was lying there like a corpse, even that didn’t bring any joy.
Games weren’t fun anymore. Instant noodles didn’t taste good either.
Could this… be the guilty conscience one feels after taking dirty money?
After mulling over it for a while, Qiao Liang sat up in bed, turned on his computer, and downloaded Game Producer.
“No way—I have to die with clarity today!”
“My legacy as Teacher Qiao may be ruined, but at the very least, I need to understand what the culprit is!”
He paid the 28 yuan to purchase Game Producer.
Even though he had received the game’s art assets early on, Tengda had never sent him the actual game demo.
Why? Because Pei Qian didn’t want to.
He had already written the script for the video, and once it was paired with the provided footage, that was more than enough to cobble together a low-effort ad. Why bother handing out the demo?
What if someone played the game, found it surprisingly good, and used clever editing to tone down the shill-feeling of the video? That would ruin everything!
So even Teacher Qiao himself had no clue what kind of game it actually was.
With the resolve to “die knowing the truth,” he launched the game to begin his experience.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
It seemed that, perhaps because it was the first time entering the game, there was no title screen or options menu—instead, after a black screen, the game began directly.
Surprisingly, even before any visuals appeared, a narrator’s voice spoke up:
“This is a story about game development.”
“You are a fledgling game producer, with the grand ambition of saving the domestic gaming industry.”
“Your job is simple: come up with an idea on a whim, make a game, leave passersby astonished, competitors envious, media outlets gushing with praise, sales exploding—then take that money and start developing your next title. Rinse and repeat.”
“Eventually, you’ll become a celebrity developer—burning company funds to chase idols, sweeping game of the year awards, gracing the cover of Time magazine, and bringing your company to a trillion-yuan valuation, reaching the pinnacle of life.”
“Alright, wipe that drool off your mouth.”
“All of that is a distant fantasy.”
“Right now, you have only one goal: make a successful game—one that can simply… survive in this brutal market.”
As the narration continued, the game visuals began to change.
The game adopted a first-person perspective, and along with the voiceover, the viewpoint advanced continuously down what looked like a corridor.
When the narrator reached the part about "bystanders astonished, peers envious, media praising, sales exploding," the sides of the corridor displayed scenes like enthusiastic fans, rival designers casting envious glances during award ceremonies, crowds of reporters with flashing cameras, and news headlines celebrating blockbuster sales.
These scenes resembled silhouettes—almost like pages from a pop-up book unfolding one after another in sync with the narration.
Moving through this corridor-like space gave a strong sense of immersion.
At times, it felt like being surrounded by passionate players; at others, like being bombarded by frenzied photographers.
But Qiao Liang still felt a vague sense of detachment, as if he hadn’t fully immersed himself in the game.
That surprised him.
The footage he had received earlier had no narration, and because it wasn’t player-controlled, it had come across as confusing and aimless.
But now that he was experiencing it firsthand, it felt completely different!
The first-person view combined with free exploration provided a decent sense of immersion and discovery, and the silhouettes surrounding him created a truly atmospheric environment.
Another interesting aspect was the narrator’s voice.
It was a very distinctive male voice—somewhat sharp, with a narrow and thin vocal range, and a hoarse, smoky texture.
If you listened closely, it might actually start to feel a little grating—almost like it could trigger the urge to punch someone. But if you didn’t pay much attention to it, it was easy to tune it out and just focus on the actual narration.
This blend of immersion and detachment created a uniquely compelling experience.
On one hand, the game let you slip into the role of a game producer—feeling the joy, sorrow, and excitement of the job: the thrill of fan cheers, the elation from media praise.
On the other hand, it constantly maintained a layer of objectivity and distance, as if viewing the journey from a god’s-eye perspective.
It was a bizarrely fascinating experience—even though Qiao Liang had played countless single-player games, this was something he had never encountered before.
“Weird… this game… is actually kind of good?”
Qiao Liang was increasingly certain that President Pei was holding a grudge! This whole promotion ad thing was revenge!
This game could’ve easily been promoted properly. A high-quality sponsored video would’ve been totally appropriate.
So why make him produce that kind of garbage video?
Wasn’t that a personal attack?!
With three parts curiosity and seven parts indignation, Qiao Liang continued playing the game.
Comments (0)
Please login or sign up to post a comment.