“I’ve long heard that Mr. Pei and Tenda Games have recently emerged as dark horses in our Jingzhou City, with each game you release becoming a hit and frequently trending on hot searches. It’s truly enviable,” Du Ruijie remarked with deep emotion while sipping his tea.

Pei Qian responded politely, “Not at all, I envy Mr. Du quite a bit.”

Du Ruijie was taken aback. “What do you envy about me?”

“Uh… I envy that good things happen to good people like Mr. Du.” Pei Qian had initially wanted to say “I envy your ability to lose money,” but instantly realized how inappropriate that would sound, so he quickly improvised.

Du Ruijie laughed heartily. “Mr. Pei, you have a way with words. Come to think of it, my luck has indeed been quite good.”

“If other companies faced this situation, they would probably go bankrupt quickly. I’m truly fortunate that Mr. Pei is willing to take over.”

“Mr. Pei, I’m very grateful that you’re willing to rescue Shang Yang Games from this crisis, so I won’t play any games with you. Today, let’s be completely open and honest.”

“To be frank, the company’s poor management is primarily my responsibility as the owner. If Mr. Pei can truly revive Shang Yang Games, I would have no problem simply giving you the company.”

“However…”

“First, this company was established as a partnership between me and another friend, and we’ve both invested a lot of effort. Second, the employees of this company are like brothers to me, and I hope to find them the best possible future…”

Du Ruijie continued talking eloquently while drinking his tea.

Though his diplomatic speech sounded nice, Pei Qian knew that this Mr. Du was still thinking about how to raise the price.

The part after “however” was the key point.

After all his talk, Mr. Du was essentially emphasizing how difficult it had been to run this company, how excellent the employees were, and how the two games still in operation hadn’t completely failed yet—with a little effort, they could start generating revenue again…

Pei Qian listened silently, smiling without speaking.

Du Ruijie spoke grandly for ten minutes, introducing the situation at Shang Yang Games while mixing in his agenda, making a great show of it all.

Pei Qian didn’t take the bait; he had no interest in these details.

Mr. Du probably thought Pei Qian was young and therefore tried to mislead him a bit to get a higher price.

But he never expected that Pei Qian had no interest in these matters and wouldn’t manage them at all—that was Assistant Xin’s job.

Assistant Xin stood quietly behind Pei Qian, listening and constantly taking notes in her small notebook, just waiting for Pei Qian’s command to start negotiating the price down.

“Mr. Pei, that’s roughly the situation. Let me give you a fair price, rounding it off, one million. What do you think?”

Mr. Du wore an expression that said, “This is such a great deal.”

Pei Qian didn’t respond directly, but casually asked, “I remember your company’s former lead game designer had the surname Liu. Where is he?”

Du Ruijie was momentarily stunned, then shook his head slightly. “Oh, Old Liu. He submitted his resignation a few days ago, probably having found another job.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Pei. Xiaobin has always been our numerical game designer, with very solid work capabilities. He’s already been promoted to lead designer and can replace Old Liu! Oh no, he might even do better than Old Liu!”

Resigned?

This…

Pei Qian felt a bit frustrated.

Old Liu must have discovered the company was about to fail and found a new job in advance.

It made sense—with Old Liu’s experience as a senior game designer and his impressive resume, finding work wouldn’t be difficult.

It was just a shame—such a good company, and it wasn’t even in his hands yet, but it was already incomplete.

However, Pei Qian didn’t mind much and had no plans to bring Old Liu back.

What’s the big deal about missing a lead designer? Just find someone to fill in.

But Pei Qian glanced at this Wang Xiaobin and felt there might be an issue with him becoming the lead designer.

According to Mr. Du, Wang had previously been the project’s numerical designer, was very familiar with the project, and was highly capable.

This was probably true.

If so, Pei Qian definitely couldn’t let him be the lead designer—what if he turned out to be more capable than Old Liu?

He’d need to find someone else.

Pei Qian contemplated these thoughts slowly but didn’t express them outwardly.

“Could I try your company’s two games?” Pei Qian asked.

Du Ruijie nodded. “Of course. Xiaobin, go get a laptop for Mr. Pei to experience our games.”

Wang Xiaobin nodded and left to fetch a laptop.

Pei Qian noticed that Du Ruijie had a laptop on his desk.

This indicated that Du Ruijie himself didn’t play his own company’s games at all.

Pei Qian couldn’t help but feel envious.

Look at that! This was truly a mature company—the boss doesn’t get involved, and the company loses money on its own!

Unlike Tenda, where I keep a close watch and still encounter endless troubles.

Soon, Wang Xiaobin returned with a laptop.

Shang Yang Games currently had two games: one called “The Charming Taoist” and another called “Blood Battle Anthem.” Both were browser games, though the former was a nurturing management type, while the latter was a national war RPG game.

Pei Qian first clicked on “The Charming Taoist.”

As soon as he registered an account and entered, he was greeted by a nosebleed-inducing scene—a large, beautiful character illustration appeared in the center of the screen, a scantily-clad young lady that would make anyone’s nose bleed.

Both Du Ruijie and Wang Xiaobin’s expressions became a bit unnatural, with a sense of awkwardness like “an ugly daughter-in-law meeting her in-laws.”

They had long heard that Mr. Pei, opposite them, was not only a boss but also the chief designer of Tenda Games.

Just look at the recently popular “Game Producer,” which conducted an in-depth analysis and merciless satire of the domestic game industry. In terms of gameplay, visuals, and core spirit, it was on par with top international game studios.

In comparison, Shang Yang Games was still at the stage of pushing boundaries with suggestive content.

The gap in prestige was simply tremendous…

Showing this kind of game to design master Mr. Pei—what if Mr. Pei got upset and decided not to buy the company? What then?

Pei Qian browsed quickly and soon confirmed that this game was just clickbait…

It was just an ordinary browser management game with an added beauty system, unlocking a new beauty every so often.

It was utterly terrible in every aspect; no wonder it was almost shut down.

Pei Qian closed the game and silently clicked on “Blood Battle Anthem.”

The graphics looked much better than the former, but were still rough.

This was the standard “come fight me if you’re my brother” type of game. The 2D graphics made Pei Qian feel like he had traveled back to the Stone Age.

The fact that this game could still generate significant revenue a month or two ago and maintain Shang Yang Games’ monthly operating expenses of around 300,000 yuan was nothing short of a miracle.

After seeing these two games, Pei Qian suddenly felt contemplative.

He seemed to understand why he couldn’t lose money.

It was a lack of imagination!

As someone with memories from 2019, his taste and aesthetics had been refined by various classic masterpieces.

Even when deliberately making terrible games, the worst he could imagine were probably those heavily criticized pay-to-win games on the market.

But any pay-to-win game that Pei Qian could remember hadx fought fiercely in the market and survived to make money!

Pei Qian’s imagination stopped there; he really couldn’t conceive what a worse game would be like.

But now he knew.

They were like “The Charming Taoist” and “Blood Battle Anthem”…

Just playing for two minutes made you feel like your intelligence was being dragged through the mud.

Indeed, when it came to losing money, one must rely on professionals.

This deal seemed very worthwhile!