Chapter 2

From the very beginning, Jiang Qiubai had never intended to delay the payment of salaries like the original owner of this body. Although disbursing wages would only worsen the already meager balance, even without paying, the existing funds could not support them for much longer. Weighing the two options, it was better to pay the salaries first and stabilize the morale of the team.

Of course, Jiang Qiubai also wanted to make amends for the mistakes of the original owner. After all, from the memories he’d received, the original owner had always planned to delay as long as possible, and if he couldn’t, simply run away. Truly disgraceful.

But before paying the wages, he had to reshape his image.

Back when the previous owner had confidently embarked on the path of game development, he hadn’t hesitated to spend heavily to poach talent from big companies, aiming to quickly build a mature team. Yet halfway through, he realized the budget was insufficient and had no choice but to recruit several fresh graduates from a nearby university, painting grand visions to lure them in.

After more than half a year of working together, these employees had mostly been assisting with miscellaneous tasks, but having stayed for so long, they were at least familiar with the existing game content. Adapting to changes should be quick for them.

Jiang Qiubai had made up his mind: he would try to retain as many employees as possible.

“You all know by now that our studio has run into some trouble; the remaining funds aren’t enough to complete this game.” Jiang Qiubai’s voice and eyes were equally sincere. “So I’ve decided to pause the current game’s development, consolidate our existing assets, and rush a new game to market as soon as possible to relieve the company’s financial pressure.”

Everyone knew the studio was on the brink—it was the unspoken truth that no one dared say for the sake of the boss’s pride. Now that Jiang Qiubai had taken the initiative to reveal it, his frankness actually made the employees see him in a new light, especially since he’d proposed a new and seemingly feasible solution.

“If anyone wants to leave, I won’t force you. But if you’re willing to stay—” Jiang Qiubai stood up, meeting their eyes one by one, his expression firm and full of confidence. “I promise, once the new game succeeds, everyone’s salary will double, with separate bonuses on top.”

The crowd straightened, spirits rising.

Double the salary?

And bonuses too!

It sounded too good to be true. But who was this man before them? He was known as one of the three great modern masters—an expert at painting grand pictures.

Jiang Qiubai’s promises had always been large and round, with frequent talk of promotions, raises, and reaching the pinnacle of life. Since joining the studio, if nothing else, they’d been overfed on empty promises.

Who knew if this was just another illusion Jiang Qiubai was spinning?

Seeing that, while tempted, no one was willing to be the first to speak up, Jiang Qiubai didn’t press them. Instead, he shifted the topic back to wages: “In a moment, each of you can come in to collect your salary. Whether you choose to leave or stay, you’ll all receive the full amount due—every cent.”

His words were like a shot of adrenaline, winning him another wave of goodwill.

With that, Jiang Qiubai returned to his private office.

Only then did the others relax, quietly discussing among themselves.

“Did the boss take the wrong medicine today? He’s offering us such good terms.”

“Who cares, let’s just get our salaries first.”

“Hey, are you guys leaving after you get paid?” someone asked, still undecided.

“Of course I’m leaving! Stay here for the New Year?”

“Don’t talk nonsense; the company won’t even make it to New Year’s. Didn’t you hear him? ‘After the new game succeeds.’ Anyone with sense knows that with him, success is impossible.” This one was determined to leave.

“I actually think the boss’s new plan might work. Once the game is out, it should help with the studio’s finances.”

“I agree. Let’s wait a few months and see. If it doesn’t work, we can leave then.” This one thought Jiang Qiubai’s plan was worth a shot.

“It’s not that I don’t want to leave, but which company would want me after this…”

“I sent out over a dozen resumes last month and got rejected every single time. If I leave, it’s to nowhere.” This one had no choice.

A moment ago, united in opposition, the group now splintered at once. The wavering one gritted his teeth: “Old Liu, are you leaving? I’ll go with you.”

He’d often been looked after by Old Liu and wanted to stick together.

“Me?” Old Liu gave a bitter smile and shook his head. “I’m getting old; I don’t have the energy to start over. I’ll stay and take things one step at a time.”

That meant he was staying.

“Then I’ll stay too.” The other made up his mind.

In less than a minute, everyone had decided: apart from the three resolute about resigning, the rest planned to stay a few more months and see what happened.

They agreed to have one last meal together after work. Old Liu was the first to enter Jiang Qiubai’s office.

“Please, have a seat.” Jiang Qiubai was no longer the lethargic figure he’d been before; hands folded, chin resting on his knuckles, he greeted Old Liu with warmth.

Faced with this new, unfamiliar Jiang Qiubai, Old Liu sat down a little awkwardly.

Jiang Qiubai quoted a figure: “Is this correct?”

Though the accountant had already left, all the previous records remained, and Jiang Qiubai had calculated everyone’s salary from the spreadsheets.

“Yes, yes.” Old Liu nodded, rubbing his fingers nervously, his heart racing.

“Supervisor Liu, I’ve seen your capabilities and contributions to the studio during this time.” After handing over the salary, Jiang Qiubai got to the point. “If you’re willing to stay, I’ll give you a share of the profits from the new game after it’s released.”

Among all the employees, Supervisor Liu was the one Jiang Qiubai wanted most to retain. From the original owner’s memories, Liu was a diligent and reliable workhorse, and from the way the others treated him, he was clearly well-liked. If someone like that could stay, managing the studio would become much easier.

“Boss, do you really think the new game will succeed?” Old Liu didn’t haggle over salary; he clenched his fists and looked seriously at Jiang Qiubai.

“With me here, it will.” Jiang Qiubai met his gaze without flinching, his jet-black eyes brimming with confidence.

“Alright, I’ll stay.” Old Liu nodded firmly, finally making his decision. “If the studio’s still in trouble, I can forgo my salary for now.”

“That won’t be necessary—we’re not there yet.” Jiang Qiubai felt a warmth in his chest and smiled. “Go back and sort out the documents, and send in the next person.”

Old Liu did as asked, returning to his desk, his heart still pounding.

What he hadn’t dared say during the group’s discussion was this—

When he saw the sincerity and resolve in Jiang Qiubai’s eyes just now, for a moment he completely believed in him.

Believed that he could lead everyone to success.

But reason told him that this possibility was vanishingly small, almost negligible.

So he was willing to stay and work hard for that look in Jiang Qiubai’s eyes, but he couldn’t let it sway anyone else’s judgment.

The next person to enter was one of those eager to resign, who, after receiving his salary, immediately expressed his desire to leave. Jiang Qiubai did not try to persuade him, but instead offered his best wishes for the future—a clean and amicable parting.

After a round of hustle, all the wages had finally been settled, and the remaining team members confirmed.

Looking down at the account balance, which was about to hit zero, Jiang Qiubai sighed softly.

He had to act quickly—today, he needed to decide on the new game’s direction.

Outside the office, those preparing to leave were packing up and saying their farewells. This was no time for a group meeting, so Jiang Qiubai called Old Liu in alone.

“Have you finished organizing the previous game’s materials?” he asked.

Old Liu looked a little embarrassed. “Still working on it. There are a lot of design drafts.”

“No rush; take your time.” Jiang Qiubai replied casually, then asked, seemingly offhand, “By the way, what was our original plan again?”

The original owner’s memories held little about the game. He had started the studio simply because he thought making games would be profitable, rarely involving himself in anything but funds approval.

Jiang Qiubai vaguely recalled a few exquisite scenes related to the game—it seemed these had left a strong impression because of the money spent on them.

They looked quite good, he thought with a wry smile. Perhaps the original owner had intended to create a visually stunning AAA title.

In that case, it would be easy to adapt. With his previous game design experience, Jiang Qiubai’s mind quickly began to formulate ideas.

“We originally wanted to make an FPS—first-person shooter—dress-up game for girls, but then we realized that hand-drawing all the scenes would be too much work…” Old Liu replied carefully, knowing Jiang Qiubai had never paid much attention to these details.

Well, that did make sense…

Wait.

FPS? Dress-up for girls?

How on earth were those two things connected?

“Say that again?” Jiang Qiubai couldn’t help interrupting.

Old Liu, thoroughly confused, repeated himself.

Unbelievable.

Jiang Qiubai nodded, grinding his teeth inwardly.

What kind of bizarre, mismatched concept was this?

If the original owner didn’t go bankrupt, who would?

“So what’s the main plot of this game?” Jiang Qiubai asked, clinging to a final shred of hope.

If the story was decent, maybe it could be salvaged.

“Boss, didn’t you tell us before: do FPS games… really need a plot?” Old Liu replied hesitantly.