Chapter 157: What a Disgrace to Tengda!
Chapter 157: What a Disgrace to Tengda!
May 21st.
Pei Qian reviewed the report that Ye Zhizhou had sent over—Shangyang Games was still steadily losing money, with no sign of improvement.
In the report, Ye Zhizhou gave a detailed account of the game’s rising active player count and payment rate, clearly treating these as performance successes to report to President Pei.
Of course, all of these “achievements” were guided by President Pei himself.
But Pei Qian didn’t even look at those. He went straight to the total revenue column.
Hmm, still flatlining!
Pei Qian had already expected this and replied with his usual line: “Not bad. Keep it up.”
Ye Zhizhou, now fired up, went back to work with renewed vigor.
Pei Qian was quite satisfied with the state of Shangyang Games. Whether the game had a good or bad reputation didn’t matter—as long as he kept a close eye on it and ensured revenue stayed low, everything would be fine.
Ye Zhizhou, meanwhile, believed that President Pei was in total control.
And to be fair, he was—but what Pei Qian thought he was managing, and what Ye Zhizhou thought he was managing, were two completely different things.
Knock knock knock
There was a knock on the door.
Pei Qian looked up. It was Huang Sibo.
“Huh? A rare guest,” Pei said.
He hadn’t seen Huang Sibo in a while. Over time, Pei Qian’s petty resentment had mostly faded.
Come to think of it, Feihuang Studio hadn’t really done anything that wrong.
Sure, they’d made nearly 2 million yuan, but after Pei Qian’s strict revenue-splitting policy, only about 400,000 of that ended up in Tengda’s hands. Plus, Zhu Xiaoce had given Pei Qian a hefty paycheck and provided him with a great excuse to buy new home appliances.
So Pei Qian wasn’t really mad anymore.
Huang Sibo carried a bag of fruit and said, “I was just passing by and thought I’d visit—and also say goodbye, President Pei.”
“Oh? Goodbye?” Pei Qian was puzzled. “Where are you going?”
Huang Sibo smiled. “Didn’t we already decide that Feihuang Studio’s next project is a documentary? Director Zhu and I, along with a few production staff, are going to Shanghai for the shoot. The entire production will take place over there, probably through next month.”
“So, I just wanted to stop by and let you know before we leave.”
‘Shanghai, huh?’
Pei Qian nodded. “Yeah, Shanghai’s a great place.”
But he knew very well—shooting in Shanghai isn’t cheap.
Even without the post-production crew, Feihuang Studio still had five or six people. With train tickets, accommodation, meals… the costs would add up fast.
Pei Qian hadn’t provided any additional funding for this shoot—the entire budget came from the profit of President Pei’s Daily Life, which totaled just over a million yuan. And part of that money had to go toward upgrading their filming equipment.
Shooting a casual short video like President Pei’s Daily Life could get away with a DSLR or a phone held vertically—but for a documentary? Professional gear was non-negotiable. Otherwise, it would just look amateurish.
With that in mind, Pei Qian wasn’t as resistant anymore. In fact, he felt a little curious.
Even though he had mentally prepared for the possibility that Huang Sibo and Zhu Xiaoce might end up making money again, it was still worth asking.
After all, a small profit was still profit—a big profit would be a disaster.
If it was just a small win, he could offset it with losses from other projects. But if they made a lot, then… well, he was doomed.
“Okay. Just make sure to be safe during the trip,” Pei Qian said, pretending to be casual. “So… what kind of documentary are you filming that requires going all the way to Shanghai?”
Huang Sibo scratched his head and chuckled awkwardly. “President Pei, I’ll be honest with you—please don’t take this the wrong way. There’s a good chance we’ll lose everything on this one.”
Huh?
Lose everything??
Pei Qian immediately sat up straight.
‘If you're going to talk to me about this, then I’m suddenly wide awake!’
“Come, have some tea.”
Pei Qian immediately poured a cup of tea and handed it to Huang Sibo, his attitude shifting in an instant.
Huang Sibo didn’t notice the change in Pei Qian’s demeanor. He calmly sipped the tea and explained the recent work plans of Feihuang Studio.
“President Pei, Director Zhu and I were deeply moved by your words. We decided to step out of the comfort zone of short videos and do something truly meaningful.”
“After that, we brainstormed a lot of ideas. Some were topics we’re good at, others seemed potentially profitable, but none of them felt urgent—like something we had to do.”
“Eventually, we found one topic we felt we must do: a documentary about esports players!”
Pei Qian became even more interested. “A documentary on esports players?”
At this, Pei was genuinely intrigued—and also relieved. Huang Sibo wasn’t lying: this topic was very likely to lose money!
Think about the year—2010!
Back then, esports players were still sleeping on sidewalks, drinking tap water, and living off instant noodles.
Not like ten years later, where they’d be sipping wine, driving Ferraris, and earning tens of millions annually.
Capital hadn’t flooded into the scene yet. Gaming was still seen by society as something dangerous or wasteful. Whether someone was playing professionally or just for fun, most people lumped them all together under one label: “not doing real work.”
Sure, you could film a documentary on esports players—you could find content, sure—but how would you monetize it?
President Pei’s Daily Life made money because the video platform Aili Island happened to be seeking high-quality content and signed a special revenue-sharing agreement.
Short videos could be updated consistently, drawing long-term traffic. And being an exclusive series across three seasons gave the IP leverage when negotiating with platforms.
But a documentary was a different beast:
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It might not attract attention.
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It couldn't be continuously updated to bring in consistent traffic, so platforms wouldn’t sign exclusive or revenue-share deals—at best, you’d qualify for a basic creator bonus: like ¥20–30 per 10,000 views.
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No ads, no product placements.
Documentaries had to be serious. Their value came from being real.
You couldn’t be interviewing an esports player and suddenly interrupt with, “Wanna win? Sit on an Ao-Feng™ gaming chair!”
That would completely ruin the credibility.
Simply put, most documentaries don’t make money—with a few rare exceptions.
Like Bite of China.
Pei Qian had actually been worried when he first heard they were doing a documentary, afraid it might be Bite of China–style content. But now, he could relax—it wasn’t.
Which made sense. Zhu Xiaoce might be talented, but he wasn’t a time traveler.
Creating one viral hit? That’s skill.
Creating multiple hits in a row? That’s cheating.
Hearing all this, Pei Qian finally relaxed.
The specifics of the documentary didn’t even matter. As long as it involved high costs and low returns, it was a great project.
His face softened. “Lose everything? That’s nothing. Feihuang Studio has me behind you—I’ll cover your losses. Go ahead, go wild!”
“Money? Pffft. We’re not living such a vulgar life here!”
Huang Sibo sipped his tea, his face glowing with excitement. ‘I knew it—President Pei would definitely support us!’
“Don’t worry, we’re well aware of the risks. That’s why we’re planning to take a green train to Shanghai, and for accommodation and food, we’ll cut corners wherever possible—”
Huang Sibo hadn't even finished speaking when Pei Qian’s face instantly fell.
“What do you mean by that?”
Huang Sibo was stunned. He rarely saw President Pei get angry, so he stammered,
“N-no, it’s nothing, really. I just meant we’d… keep the costs down a bit…”
Pei Qian gave him a disappointed, steel-hard glare. “Cut costs? Huang Sibo, know your place!”
Huang Sibo nearly jumped. His hands trembled and the teacup wobbled dangerously.
It was rare to see President Pei lose his temper like this. What did I say wrong?!
Pei Qian spoke with a stern tone:
“Feihuang Studio is a wholly owned subsidiary of Tengda. You and the entire team at Feihuang—you’re all Tengda employees! And you want them to ride a green train, skimp on food and lodging? What if someone gets sick?”
“Even if they don’t, what then? Being exhausted from traveling, eating poorly, sleeping worse—their work efficiency drops, the documentary turns out terrible, the entire project fails—whose fault is that?”
Huang Sibo’s hands trembled.
“M-mine… It’s my fault.”
“No, no, no, no, no—”
Huang Sibo quickly realized he had been led into a trap by President Pei’s logic.
“President Pei, don’t worry, I’m just trying to be cost-conscious! I’m not some ruthless sweatshop boss! I’d never risk anyone’s health!”
But Pei Qian still looked deeply disappointed:
“You’ve embarrassed Tengda! What kind of example do you think I’ve been setting for you all this time?”
Huang Sibo was speechless.
Pei Qian continued seriously:
“Listen to me: fly, don’t take the train. Time is money, got it? When you arrive, book proper accommodation and meals at standard business travel rates. If you’re not sure what that means, ask Assistant Xin.”
“When you get to Shanghai, don’t rush. If you can’t finish filming, extend the shoot. Take your time. As long as it’s done by June 18th, that’s all that matters.”
“If you go over schedule, so what? A few more nights of hotel expenses—how much would that even cost? If you run out of money, come to me. It’s not a big deal.”
“Remember, Feihuang Studio has Tengda backing it. If there’s a problem, speak up immediately!”
Huang Sibo quickly nodded:
“Yes, President Pei. We’ll follow your instructions exactly.”
Only then did Pei Qian’s expression soften. He nodded with a deep, meaningful tone:
“You’re a long-time Tengda employee now. Don’t make me worry about such trivial matters.”
“Taking a green train to Shanghai? Tengda employees don’t stoop that low!”
Huang Sibo’s cheeks flushed red, a deep sense of shame washing over him:
“Yes, President Pei, you’re absolutely right. From now on, Feihuang Studio will always keep pace with Tengda, and operate according to your standards.”
Pei Qian finally nodded in satisfaction.
“Good. That’s more like it. If you run into trouble, bring it to me immediately.”
Only after repeating this several times did Pei Qian finally feel content.
‘Huang Sibo, seriously… such a promising money-losing project, and he’s out here trying to save costs?!’
Despite all his instructions, some people still tried to pinch pennies—even veteran Tengda employees!
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