Chapter 143: Losing Money—Leave It to the Professionals
Chapter 143: Losing Money—Leave It to the Professionals
“I’ve heard for a while now that President Pei and Tengda Games are the rising dark horse of Jingzhou. Every game you launch becomes a hit, constantly trending online. Which is truly enviable,” said Du Ruijie, sipping his tea with emotion.
Pei Qian replied modestly, “Not at all. Actually, I envy you, Mr. Du.”
Du Ruijie was taken aback. “Envy me for what?”
“Uh... I envy that fate favors you,” Pei Qian had almost blurted out “I envy your ability to lose money”, but quickly caught himself. That would’ve been way too inappropriate, so he changed course on the spot.
Du Ruijie laughed heartily. “President Pei, you really know how to joke. But I suppose you’re right—I must be lucky.”
“If this were any other company, we would’ve gone under already. I’m lucky that you’re willing to take over.”
“President Pei, I’m truly grateful that you’re saving Shangyang Games from ruin, so I won’t beat around the bush. I’ll be upfront and honest.”
“To be fair, the company’s mismanagement is mainly my responsibility. If you really can bring Shangyang Games back from the dead, I’d be more than happy to hand it over to you.”
“However...”
“First, this company was co-founded by me and a friend. We both poured a lot of heart and soul into it. Second, all the staff here are like brothers to me. I hope to find them a good place to land—”
Du Ruijie kept chatting away as he sipped his tea.
It all sounded pretty noble on the surface, but Pei Qian knew full well that Du Ruijie was trying to raise the price.
That “however” was the real point.
All that talk was just to emphasize how hard he’d worked to build the company, how great the team was, and how the two remaining games still had potential and could recover with just a little effort—
Pei Qian just sat and listened with a polite smile, saying nothing.
Du Ruijie went on for ten minutes, explaining Shangyang Games’ situation while mixing in a healthy dose of self-promotion, putting on a full performance.
But Pei Qian wasn’t biting. He wasn’t the least bit interested in any of that.
Du Ruijie must’ve thought Pei Qian was young and could be talked up a bit to push the price higher.
Little did he know—Pei Qian had no interest in any of this. That was all Assistant Xin’s job.
Assistant Xin sat quietly behind Pei Qian, notebook in hand, carefully taking notes and just waiting for Pei Qian’s signal to start negotiating the price down.
“President Pei, that’s pretty much the full picture. I’ll give you a fair price. Let’s round it off—one million. What do you think?” Du Ruijie said, wearing a “this is such a steal” expression.
Pei Qian didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he casually asked,
“I remember your company’s Lead Executive Designer used to be someone named Liu. Where is he now?”
Du Ruijie froze, then shook his head.
“Oh, Old Liu? He just resigned a few days ago. Probably already found a new job.”
“But don’t worry, President Pei—Xiaobin here has always been our data balancer. He’s highly capable and familiar with the projects. We’ve already promoted him to Lead Executive Designer. He can definitely take over Old Liu’s work—or even outperform him!”
‘Resigned, huh…’
Pei Qian was slightly annoyed.
So Old Liu saw the writing on the wall and bailed early.
Makes sense, though. With his resume and experience, finding a new job wouldn’t be hard.
Still, a bit of a shame. This great company hadn’t even changed hands yet, and it was already incomplete.
But Pei Qian didn’t dwell on it. He wasn’t planning on hunting Old Liu down again.
So what if they lost a Lead Executive Designer? Just find someone else to fill the spot.
That said, Pei Qian glanced over at Wang Xiaobin and had some doubts.
According to Du Ruijie, he’d been the main numbers guy on the projects and knew the work inside and out—probably true.
Since that was the case, Pei Qian definitely couldn't let this Wang Xiaobin be the Lead Executive Designer.
What if he turned out to be even better than Old Liu?
He'd have to be replaced.
Pei Qian quietly did the math in his head, not revealing any of this on his face.
“I’d like to try out your company’s two games,” Pei Qian asked casually.
Du Ruijie nodded, “Of course. Xiaobin, go grab a laptop for President Pei so he can experience our games firsthand.”
Wang Xiaobin nodded and headed out, returning shortly with a laptop in his arms.
Pei Qian noticed that Du Ruijie already had a laptop on his own desk.
Which meant... Du Ruijie didn’t even play his own games.
Pei Qian couldn’t help but admire that.
Now this is a real company.
A mature business that could keep losing money all on its own, even with the boss completely hands-off!
Unlike Tengda, where he had to keep a constant eye on things—only to be met with one surprise success after another.
Before long, Wang Xiaobin returned with the laptop.
Shangyang Games currently had two web games in operation:
One called Flirtatious Taoist, a simulation-management game.
The other is Blood War Anthem, a nation-war-style web game
Pei Qian opened Flirtatious Taoist first.
As soon as he finished creating an account, he was hit with a full-screen CG of a barely dressed woman in tatters—so risqué it could cause a nosebleed.
Both Du Ruijie and Wang Xiaobin looked visibly awkward, like a bride meeting her in-laws for the first time.
They had heard about Pei Qian: not only a boss but also the lead designer of Tengda Games.
Just look at Game Producer—a recent hit that sharply dissected and satirized the domestic gaming industry. Whether in terms of gameplay, visuals, or thematic depth, it matched international AAA standards.
Compared to that, their game looked like it had one foot still stuck in the gutter, banking on cheap tactics and softcore bait.
The gap in class couldn’t have been wider.
Letting a design legend like President Pei try this game? If he got offended and backed out of the deal, then what?
Pei Qian quickly clicked around and instantly confirmed:
This was pure clickbait garbage.
It’s just your standard web-based sim-management game, with a “beauty system” tacked on. Every so often, you’d unlock a new girl to ogle.
From any angle, this thing was a mess—no wonder it was on the verge of being shut down.
He promptly closed the game and opened Blood War Anthem.
At first glance, the visuals looked slightly better—but only slightly.
This was your classic “Come Slash Me, Bro” web RPG. The 2D graphics made Pei Qian feel like he’d been teleported back to the Stone Age.
And yet… this game had been profitable up until a month or two ago?
It had actually generated enough revenue to cover 300,000 yuan per month in operating costs?
That, in itself, was a miracle.
After sampling both titles, Pei Qian found himself deep in thought.
He felt like he finally understood why he was always failing to lose money.
A lack of imagination.
With the memory of 2019 still in his head, his taste and standards had been sharpened by years of playing genre-defining masterpieces.
Even when he tried to make a bad game on purpose, the worst he could imagine were those pay-to-win games that got a lot of hate online.
But those games? If they were hated enough for him to remember them, then that meant they had still survived in the market.
They still made money.
His imagination just didn’t stretch far enough.
He couldn’t even imagine a game worse than those.
But now he could.
It was games like Flirtatious Taoist and Blood War Anthem.
Two minutes in, and you could feel your IQ being dragged across the floor.
Yes.
When it comes to losing money—you really have to leave it to the pros.
And this deal?
Looked better by the minute.
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