Chapter 279: Teacher Qiao Is Holding It In
Chapter 279: Teacher Qiao Is Holding It In
October 4th.
After having dinner with Lin Chang yesterday, Pei Qian spent more time thinking about the new business plans.
Both the live streaming and smartphone industries required massive upfront investments and promised equally massive losses. Even if he decided to go for one, it would have to wait until after this month’s financial settlement.
Of course, “massive investment” could be scaled to match one’s budget—big money had its way of burning, small money had its own.
Take smartphones, for example. Even if Pei Qian wanted to make one, he couldn’t possibly stock tens of thousands of units. That was neither realistic nor necessary.
Big manufacturers stocked huge quantities partly to lower component costs through bulk purchasing and partly to avoid stockouts that might anger customers.
But Pei Qian clearly didn’t have to worry about that sort of thing.
If procurement costs were high, great—that just meant he could lose more money.
If stock ran out, even better—it’s not like President Pei expected the phones to sell anyway.
He could just limit production to 3,000 units. If even one more sold beyond that, he’d call it a loss.
After all, the whole point was to lose money—why get greedy? Just lose what you can afford to lose.
Of course, the exact plan would need to be thought through carefully. He had to be absolutely sure of failure before taking action.
When he arrived at the office, the first thing Pei Qian did was check on Turn Back Before It’s Too Late.
A single day’s worth of data wasn’t enough to draw conclusions, but as far as Pei Qian was concerned, as long as the numbers hadn’t improved significantly since the last check, that was excellent news.
He had just closed the backend and was about to watch some shows when there was a knock at the door.
Pei Qian looked up—it was Li Yada.
She pushed the door open hesitantly, adjusted her thick glasses, and nervously rubbed her index fingers together.
“P-President Pei, we have a… somewhat serious situation.”
“According to the rules of the official platform, if a game’s refund rate exceeds 20%, they’ll issue a warning; if it goes over 35%, the game will be forcibly taken down for revisions…”
“Right now, our game is approaching 30%. At this rate, things… might not look too good.”
Pei Qian froze.
Oh? Was that supposed to be… bad news?
That sounded like great news!
He’d never encountered such a situation before. After all, Tengda’s games had always been known for their fairness and reasonable pricing, so refund rates had never been an issue.
Even with Lonely Desert Road, the price had been so cheap that hardly anyone had bothered to refund it.
But this time was different. Turn Back Before It’s Too Late had attracted a massive crowd of casual and clumsy players. Although many had stayed for various reasons, quite a few had quit in anger and demanded refunds.
Not only were the reviews sharply polarized, but the refund numbers were also alarmingly high.
Still, for Pei Qian, that was fantastic!
If the game actually got taken down for “adjustments,” he could just take his time making “fixes” and reupload it later. The downtime would naturally cut into sales—and as long as it went back online a week before the financial settlement, everything would be fine.
It wasn’t even intentional sabotage—the system couldn’t fault him for that!
Pei Qian glanced at the backend dashboard. “Where’s the warning?”
Li Yada lowered her head. “Uh, the platform does have that policy, but I’m not sure why we haven’t received a warning yet.”
“Maybe… Tengda just has a really good reputation with the platform?”
“I just thought I should report it to you. Should we make some adjustments? Maybe reduce the early-game difficulty a bit?”
“No need!” Pei Qian raised a hand. “I already understand the situation perfectly. You don’t have to worry about it.”
“O-okay.” Li Yada nodded quickly and backed out of the office.
Staring at the refund rate that had barely reached 30%, Pei Qian felt a deep pang of regret.
Sigh, what a pity!
If only he’d pushed harder at the start, he could’ve hit 35% and triggered an auto takedown!
Now, not only was the refund rate not going up, it was actually trending downward, which made Pei Qian’s heart ache even more.
It made sense, though. As word spread online, new players already knew this was a brutal, high-difficulty game. They went in with expectations set—so naturally, the number of rage refunds dropped fast.
Pei Qian thought for a moment and opened his chat with “Little Fox Reviews.”
The last batch of paid commenters had done decent work; the game’s reputation had taken a real beating.
Since that worked out so well—time to double down!
He’d push the smear campaign harder, stir the pot more aggressively. If it could make more players refund, great; if not, at least it would scare off potential buyers and slow sales.
Of course, he couldn’t say any of that directly.
Just like before, Pei Qian could only give subtle hints.
. . .
Meanwhile, Hu Xiao was deep in painful self-reflection.
He regretted everything.
Watching the endless stream of “Heh” messages spamming his screen, Hu Xiao felt like his IQ, dignity, and entire sense of self-worth were being crushed.
How on earth did I not refund that game?!
Someone had literally paid people to badmouth the game, and somehow he ended up spending his own money—a whole 108 yuan—to buy it. The irony was killing him.
“Wait a sec… was I played?”
“Did the guy plan this from the start, expecting some idiots wouldn’t refund?”
“That’s way too devious!”
“When he messages me again, I’m going to demand an explanation! I’m not letting this go!”
Hu Xiao fumed silently—until a new message popped up from “Hardcore Review.”
“Buy another 100,000 yuan worth of paid commenters. Increase the push!”
Hu Xiao froze for a moment, then quickly replied:
“Got it, bro! No problem!!”
Seeing another hundred grand land in his account instantly turned his mood around.
How could such a generous boss possibly be running a scam?
Clearly, he’d just been overthinking it!
. . .
. . .
October 5th.
Beijing.
In a small rented apartment, Qiao Liang was practically crawling up the walls in frustration.
He felt miserable.
Ever since the release of Turn Back Before It’s Too Late, he’d been following every scrap of news.
But the more he saw, the more anxious he became.
Online reviews were wildly inconsistent—praise and hate in equal measure—and most players clearly didn’t grasp the essence of the game at all.
Even the video creators barely scratched the surface; they failed to mention the deeper narrative layers and thematic brilliance buried within the design.
Instead, everyone was arguing over trivial nonsense—whether the game was too hard, whether they should refund it.
To Qiao Liang, such discussions were utterly meaningless.
Turn Back Before It’s Too Late was a treasure trove—and these people were standing at the cave entrance, arguing over whether the doorway was too narrow.
Idiots!
Thinking of President Pei’s kindness—that unforgettable crab feast President Pei had treated him to—Qiao Liang’s heart burned with loyalty.
He wanted so badly to stand up and help President Pei right now.
He had the answers. He knew how to explain the game’s brilliance.
But the cruel truth was—he couldn’t.
He had the perfect answer key in his hands… and yet he wasn’t allowed to use it.
Because Qiao Liang had already promised President Pei that he would wait a full week after the game’s release before uploading his video, he couldn’t spoil anything during that time. For this one crucial week, players had to experience Turn Back Before It’s Too Late on their own—without hints, guides, or spoilers.
So, Qiao Liang could only turn his frustration into motivation. He threw himself even deeper into the game, playing it over and over to gather as much material as possible for his upcoming video.
Having already cleared multiple playthroughs, Qiao Liang was thoroughly familiar with the combat system. Now his attention shifted to the story—the lore, the hidden connections, and the deeper meaning behind it all.
After all, narrative and worldbuilding were key components of any game, and Turn Back Before It’s Too Late was clearly packed with hidden depth.
After playing for a while, Qiao Liang opened a document and began drafting his video script in advance.
“If you look closely, you’ll notice that the monsters shown in the trailer all appear later in the main game, though each of them is slightly different.”
“For example, the corpse lying by the river twitches once in the video—hinting that it’s already turning into a monster. In the game, you’ll find an item by that same corpse. But if you try to pick it up, the body suddenly lunges and grabs you, killing you instantly.”
“In the video, the old monk in the ruined temple outside the city is shown chanting sutras, holding off the wandering spirits. But in the actual game, when players arrive there, they’ll find the monk has lost his mind and will attack on sight.”
“Killing the old monk grants a prayer bead and a staff. The former is an important consumable item in the early game, while the latter is a mediocre side weapon with mostly collector’s value.”
“Since the prayer beads are quite useful and the monk isn’t a tough opponent, it’s recommended that players head to the ruined temple as soon as they reach town.”
“The deranged scholar burns down his own house—when the player arrives, it’s reduced to ashes. In a nearby corner, you can find his corpse and a tattered letter to his family, which reveals fragments of the village’s tragic past.”
“Some story triggers can change the game’s ending. It’s still unclear exactly how many endings exist, but there are at least two confirmed.”
As he played, Qiao Liang took meticulous notes on every discovery, every hidden clue, every narrative fragment.
The more he wrote, the more he realized that this game was deeper than he’d ever imagined!
On his earlier playthroughs, he’d been too focused on beating bosses and clearing levels to notice these subtle details. But now, after multiple completions, with the challenge gone, he finally had the chance to dig into the lore.
And the deeper he dug, the more fascinated he became. The richness of it all was intoxicating—like uncovering treasure piece by piece.
Qiao Liang even started to suspect that there must have been an entire story design team behind the game—how else could something so intricate and coherent exist?
Of course, to be fair, compared to big-budget, story-heavy Western AAA titles, Turn Back Before It’s Too Late didn’t have a lot of narrative content. It was scattered and fragmented.
But that treasure-hunting feeling—piecing it together bit by bit—made it unbelievably addictive.
After writing a long section of his video script, Qiao Liang decided to take a short break.
He made himself a bowl of instant noodles, sat down, and opened his fan group chat to see what everyone was talking about.
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