Chapter 4

The blows he had suffered in just a few minutes felt as though they would take Jiang Qiubai a lifetime to heal. His attitude shifted from, “Let’s see what other messes the former owner left behind,” to, “Alright, I get it, let’s just leave it at that.” Under these circumstances, Jiang Qiubai almost felt that confessing he was a transmigrant might actually reassure the employees who stayed. Of course, that was only a fleeting thought; such a bizarre, supernatural truth was not something he dared announce in public.

“Boss?” Old Liu was aware that his earlier words were tantamount to exposing Jiang Qiubai’s shortcomings, but there was no helping it—things had been just that absurd before.

Jiang Qiubai rubbed his forehead and decisively changed the subject. “It’s nothing. For now, let’s focus on how we can make use of the resources we already have.” He glanced at the clock. “Manager Liu, please help the departing employees pack their things. Once they’ve left, have the remaining staff bring their usual work materials to the conference room for a short meeting.”

Yes, though this studio was not large, it was well-equipped in every way. Jiang Qiubai had spent a fortune renting and renovating it, even boldly signing a five-year lease, never imagining he would be unable to keep it going. This peculiar confidence was laughable, yet it was also what gave him the nerve to believe he could produce a new game after paying salaries.

“Understood.” Old Liu didn’t say much, simply carrying out the instructions.

Once Old Liu had left, Jiang Qiubai opened his computer to research information about the gaming industry in this world. At the same time, he brainstormed how best to utilize their existing game assets.

It wasn’t all that difficult, really. Though the original owner had been ridiculous, the overall framework of the game was sound. All it needed was a tweak to the reward system—replace clothing prizes with weapon skins, add an appropriate storyline and a newbie tutorial, and it could be fashioned into a passable FPS game.

But only just passable—releasing it wouldn’t be a problem, but profitability was another matter entirely.

After all, even back when PC games dominated the market, FPS titles were never the most popular; they remained a niche. And that was before VR technology had matured.

And therein lay Jiang Qiubai’s confusion. Strangely, this world was almost identical to the one he came from, except for games—or, more accurately, electronic technology—which had progressed at breakneck speed. In just a few years, VR and AR technology had matured, and there were even rumors that holographic tech was entering its first round of testing.

In contrast, the development of games here was quite peculiar. The hugely profitable titles like Glory of Kings, League of Legends, or Crossfire from his old world simply didn’t exist here. On this world’s monthly game rankings, the number one spot was held by “Tales of Ming Dynasty Heroes”—a single-player game sold for a one-time price.

It wasn’t as though anyone was stifling the industry. In fact, people here viewed games with a tolerant attitude, seeing them as a way to relax after school or work, and even honored them as the “Ninth Art.” The state was supportive as well, having established a dedicated committee to review games, set up rankings, ensure fairness, and nurture new talent.

Thus, while the technology here had reached ‘platinum rank,’ most game companies’ design levels remained ‘bronze’—the most popular games were single-player or MMORPGs. The primary revenue for games here came from prepaid cards or the initial purchase price.

Perhaps that’s why people didn’t oppose gaming; after all, it really wasn’t very expensive to play. Such benevolent game developers, Jiang Qiubai mused.

Unfortunately, he came from a world where game companies racked their brains to empty players’ wallets—and right now, he was seriously short on cash.

So his mind was full of ways to earn the most profit with the least cost.

At most, he could ensure that while enticing players to spend, he also improved their experience and satisfaction—somewhat conscientious, but not excessively so.

Having grasped the general situation of the gaming industry here, Jiang Qiubai decided to focus his new game on the player experience. Only by making the game truly enjoyable would players willingly spend money.

When it came to gameplay, the most outstanding feature of the game left by the original owner—apart from the environments—was its sense of impact, the so-called “feel” of the controls. This, he thought, could be preserved in the new game.

A flash of inspiration struck him—a slogan that had brainwashed countless netizens in his previous life sprang to mind, and Jiang Qiubai’s eyes lit up with an idea.

Old Liu was efficient, and before long, he brought the remaining staff to the conference room. Jiang Qiubai had already been waiting. Once everyone was seated, he got straight to the point. “I’m sure all of you are aware of the studio’s current situation. I’m grateful to those who chose to stay.”

He continued, “Once the new game is released, I will allocate ten percent of that month’s profits as a bonus for everyone.”

Having stated the incentives, it was time for the demands.

“But before that, I need your full cooperation. Let’s work quickly and aim to complete the new game by the end of this month.” He explained, “We need to recover funds as soon as possible. The longer we delay, the worse it will be for us.”

It was the beginning of the month; counting every day, they had about twenty days. Jiang Qiubai’s words clearly implied that their days of clocking out on time were over.

Having spoken out of turn earlier, Xiao Yang—eager to make amends—was the first to respond, “No problem, boss! I’ll just live at the office until the new game is done!”

With that, the others, regardless of their true feelings, chimed in. “Exactly, we can work overtime for the new game.”

“From now on, the company is my home.”

“I’ll bring my bedding tomorrow and sleep right here.”

“I should probably talk to my wife first, but it shouldn’t be a problem.”

With a “since we’re already here” attitude, none of the six remaining employees objected. Only Old Liu, who already had a family, hesitated and said he’d need to consult his household.

“If it’s inconvenient for you, Manager Liu, feel free to head home early,” Jiang Qiubai said kindly. “We don’t have a new accountant yet, so I’ll keep track of all overtime. Once the new game is released, overtime will be paid at triple rates.”

That offer, plus the bonus, was more than generous. But all of it depended on the success of the new game. If it failed, these promises were nothing but blank checks.

Everyone assumed this was just another pie-in-the-sky promise from Jiang Qiubai, and agreed with a smile, but none took it to heart.

It wasn’t the first time he’d made such promises—only a fool would believe him.

Only Old Liu was seriously considering whether to apply to his wife for permission to move into the office—after all, triple overtime pay was truly tempting.

With that crucial point settled, everything else went smoothly. Jiang Qiubai quickly reviewed the progress of the original game and took stock of the available assets and current roles.

Among the staff, there were still one or two people each on programming, development, and numerical design—enough to carry the new game. The art team, however, had all left, but that wasn’t a big problem; there was still plenty of usable art material from before, and for future scenes, Jiang Qiubai planned to outsource them anyway.

He wasn’t demanding, so the outsourcing cost would be low.

Having made these plans, and seeing that the end of the workday was near, Jiang Qiubai decided to let everyone enjoy clocking out on time for the last day of the month. “That’s about it. Finally, let’s talk about what kind of new game we’ll be making.”

At this, everyone perked up. Aside from Old Liu, most of them were new graduates. The reason they’d been lured by the previous owner, aside from the attractive salary, was the constant promise of “making a hit game.”

They had chosen this field out of passion, and now was the time they wanted to make their mark. Who wouldn’t want their first game after graduation to be a hit? What a badge of honor that would be!

Unfortunately, they’d fallen in with the wrong company and watched their future fade—until suddenly the boss seemed to have changed overnight, become a normal person, and was ready to make games again.

This rekindled a faint spark of hope in their hearts.

“Boss, are we still making an FPS game this time?”

“These days, everyone seems to be doing VR or mobile games.”

“VR is too expensive for us, but maybe we could try a mobile game?”

“Yes, mobile games don’t need such high-quality visuals, so we could save on budget.”

Everyone started offering suggestions.

This was the prevailing view among game companies. With VR tech fully developed, the big players were either going all in on VR games or doubling down on the broader mobile market. Only newcomers chose to make PC games—since they weren’t as immersive as VR, nor as convenient as mobile games, the audience was small.

But that was precisely what Jiang Qiubai was after.

A small audience didn’t matter. With precise targeting, as long as those players were willing to pay, that was enough.

He tapped the table with his finger, moved his gaze to the computer, and pointed at an ad pop-up on the screen.

“This time, we’re making a web game,” he announced.

He already had the slogan in mind—

“Dragon Slayer Sword, just one click to claim!”