February 8, Wednesday.
Min Jingchao, Ye Zhizhou, and the entire FV eSports Club group departed from Jingzhou to Magic City airport, flying direct to Los Angeles once again, making up for their vacation time.
Before leaving, everyone hastily processed their ongoing work.
Especially Min Jingchao – yesterday he had followed Mr. Pei’s instructions and hurried the designers to change the hero character from Mission & Choice’s collaboration with GOG from Qin Yi to “Lark,” switching from a specific character to a more symbolic, broader character concept.
On Ye Zhizhou’s side at Shangyang Games, he assisted Wang Xiaobin in roughly drafting a game design proposal to go with the Smart Fitness Drying Rack.
Zhou Pengyuan, as DGE Club’s coach, assigned training tasks to the new batch of DGE players before leaving. Practice matches and high-ranking RANK games must continue daily – he’d check when returning from Los Angeles, and any players who hadn’t completed their tasks would need extra practice.
Others also delegated their work to colleagues, ensuring they could completely disconnect from work and fully enjoy vacation upon returning to Los Angeles.
Of course, FV Club’s players didn’t need to delegate much work – they were still reveling in championship glory.
FV Club and its players’ popularity had skyrocketed. Wu Yue, as club owner, had been so overwhelmed with various streaming contracts and commercial endorsements lately that he was getting annoyed – the perfect excuse to return to Los Angeles for several more days, clearing his mind.
The group joyfully departed Jingzhou for Magic City.
Among them, only Bao Xu stood out from the crowd.
He had just finished consuming his year-end grand prize five-day trip and returned to Jingzhou less than a few hours ago, only to pack again for departure.
On the high-speed rail to Magic City, everyone else excitedly discussed their upcoming US travel itinerary, while only Bao Xu slumped in his seat, staring blankly at the rapidly retreating scenery outside the train window.
…
Meanwhile, Cui Geng exited Jingzhou’s train station, hailed a taxi, and headed toward the location of Endpoint Chinese Network’s study class.
Watching the familiar city scenery outside the window, Cui Geng sighed heavily, feeling an inexplicable melancholy.
“My life… how can I fill it with motivation?”
Cui Geng posed this soul-piercing question.
At this moment, he actually held three identities: second-generation demolition beneficiary, top author at Endpoint Chinese Network, and special observer for Tenda Group.
All three identities shared a common trait – severely weakening his motivation to strive. Combined, they maintained him in a state of “intermittent complacency and perpetual living off others while waiting for death.”
Whenever he finally gathered energy to work seriously, within a few days his fighting spirit would completely dissipate.
Cui Geng remained in a constant state of traveling between his hometown and Jingzhou.
Not that he enjoyed the business traveler lifestyle, but he felt that staying in the same environment too long bred laziness. Changing environments could reinspire him to strive again.
Even if just for a three-minute enthusiasm, it was better than stagnant water.
But this proved minimally effective.
Even worse, “The Butterfly Game” had concluded some time ago.
The good news: the novel ended properly without falling apart. Though the final sections were written extremely slowly, it eventually reached nearly three million characters, delivering an ending satisfying most readers.
For Cui Geng, this was a historic breakthrough. For readers who’d been delayed countless times, it was deeply moving.
The bad news: all his accumulated inspiration was essentially depleted. Though he’d written several openings for new books, after reviewing them multiple times, he found them completely unsatisfactory and deleted them all. To this day, he hadn’t started a new book.
This further plunged Cui Geng’s creative work into an extremely awkward position, with his creative passion steadily declining.
Of course, beyond his identities as demolition beneficiary and web novel author, Cui Geng had another identity: special observer for Tenda Group.
This observer role helped him collect much material for “The Butterfly Game” and assisted HR’s Wu Bin in organizing the annotated version of the “Tenda Spirit Manual.”
But Cui Geng was self-aware – he knew he was just an ordinary web novel author, understanding neither business nor management. So he only occasionally visited Tenda’s various departments to collect material, never overstepping to offer outsider guidance that might interfere with Tenda departments’ work.
Thus his “special observer” identity merely provided him a pass to freely enter Tenda Group’s departments.
Recently, Cui Geng had spent extensive time at Endpoint Chinese Network’s study class, but produced nothing – the new book remained elusive.
So during Spring Festival, Cui Geng returned home for peace, daily just sleeping in and reading novels, completely setting aside thoughts of new books.
Yet barely days after the holiday’s tranquility, Cui Geng received news from chief editor Zhu Xing’an about Endpoint Chinese Network’s planned “Inspiration Class.”
Moreover, they issued a cordial invitation asking if he’d be willing to write on buyout terms, adding that Mr. Pei specifically cared about this matter and named Cui Geng as priority notification.
Upon hearing about writing on buyout, Cui Geng instinctively resisted.
I’m a top author who doesn’t lack money – I write with my own pursuits!
The web fiction industry had developed for some time, with buyout and revenue-share consistently existing as two payment methods.
Authors had consensus: except for rare authors who could maintain quality and achieve win-win with buyouts, most buyout authors either suffered losses or crashed.
These buyout authors might create hit works, but buyout terms meant all revenue beyond fixed fees had nothing to do with them – a huge loss for authors. Others, trying to avoid losses, didn’t give 100% effort, gradually falling behind trends, ruining both books and themselves. Even returning to revenue-share, their readership would vanish.
So hearing the buyout invitation, Cui Geng’s first reaction was refusal.
However, after Zhu Xing’an’s explanation, Cui Geng discovered Endpoint Chinese Network’s buyout differed greatly from other sites – completely different concepts.
The biggest difference: fewer words, higher pay!
Take Cui Geng – other sites poaching him would offer marginally more than his current earnings at best. Being already a top Endpoint author with substantial earnings, further increases had limited room. For outside sites, aggressive poaching carried too much risk for too little gain.
Yet Endpoint offered 10,000 to 50,000 words, capped at 50,000, with per-thousand-character rates triple his current earnings!
Moreover, this new buyout model granted priority access to “Inspiration Class” experience.
Though unclear about “Inspiration Class” specifics, the “Study Class” had dramatically improved his writing, elevating him from a chronic procrastinator to a proper author capable of completing works with innovation.
So could this “Inspiration Class” revive his nearly depleted inspiration?
Cui Geng felt extremely curious.
With these complex feelings, Cui Geng returned to Jingzhou.
…
Soon, the taxi reached its destination.
This “Inspiration Class” and the original “Study Class” occupied the same office building, just different floors.
The previous “Study Class” had been remarkably successful, running many sessions with expanding scale. Initially one room, now sprawled across three rooms.
Even so, Endpoint authors eagerly participated, with overflowing registrations requiring careful editor selection.
“Inspiration Class” slots were even fewer, exclusively for Endpoint’s top authors.
After arriving, Cui Geng expertly delivered luggage to the hotel first, then headed straight for “Inspiration Class.”
Though tomorrow marked the official opening, Cui Geng’s repeated Study Class visits made navigation effortless.
Reaching the “Inspiration Class” floor, Cui Geng spotted familiar editors busy organizing.
The editors, well-acquainted with Cui Geng, greeted him and let him freely explore the “Inspiration Class” area.
Cui Geng’s immediate impression: this space is huge!
Though occupying the same building, “Study Class” and “Inspiration Class” were on different floors with different areas.
“Inspiration Class” held half the students but occupied double the space of “Study Class”!
Looking closer, the equipment inside was completely different too.
“Study Class” featured standard computer desks and chairs, resembling an internet café at first glance, but actually had ergonomic chairs and specially adjusted desk heights – all to optimize author comfort.
But in “Inspiration Class,” no ergonomic chairs existed. Instead, high-end single-person recliners from famous international brands!
Comparing ergonomic chairs with these premium recliners, both were ergonomic and prevented fatigue during extended sitting, minimizing health impacts versus regular chairs.
Of course, even the best ergonomics couldn’t eliminate tiredness from prolonged sitting – periodic movement remained essential. But ergonomics reduced bodily strain.
The difference: ergonomic chairs suited office work, while single-person recliners suited leisure.
Many cinema VIP sections also used these premium single-person recliners for optimal viewing experience. Electric controls allowed sitting, reclining, or cross-legged positions with complete comfort.
Without office chairs, desks became unnecessary. Each recliner faced a floor-level TV cabinet supporting high-end OLED screens at optimal viewing heights and distances.
OLED TVs represented recent cutting-edge technology, significantly smaller than traditional TVs but costing tens of thousands. This price reflected OLED’s 1-millisecond response time, virtually eliminating screen lag, achieving pixel-level lighting control with naturally infinite contrast for superior HDR, plus pure colors and inherently wide color gamut… In short, vastly superior picture quality for movies and gaming.
Naturally, compared to equally expensive gaming monitors, OLED TVs had lower refresh rates. But for “Inspiration Class” movie viewing and console gaming, screen size mattered more than refresh rates.
Though smaller than traditional TVs, being personal units viewed closely, they offered optimal viewing experiences considering size and quality.
On the floor cabinets sat ROF consoles, gaming systems, and high-definition Blu-ray discs. Behind, wall-mounted shelving held movie Blu-rays and physical books.
Beside each recliner hung premium headphones, mouse, keyboard, and foldable laptop table.
Additionally, each recliner had a reading lamp, optional for when tired of screen viewing.
Cui Geng felt surprised, asking an editor: “Won’t writing be uncomfortable here?”
While recliners suited viewing and gaming perfectly, they might not work for writing.
After all, recliner positions weren’t designed for typing.
The editor explained: “Oh, those peripherals are for emergencies – searching content, recording sudden inspiration, etc.”
“For actual writing, use the work area over there.”
Looking over, Cui Geng saw another zone with standard office desks, ergonomic chairs, and mechanical keyboards, completely separated from this entertainment area.
Clearly, whether TVs, recliners, or Blu-rays, this zone focused entirely on movie watching for inspiration and material collection.
Given this setup, obviously no “dark room” mandatory writing time existed.
The editor continued: “Over there’s a large theater room with full acoustic treatment, cinema-grade projector and sound system, available by reservation for custom screenings.”
“For optimal movie experiences or watching complete films, use that room. For material gathering where quality matters less or selective viewing, your personal station works fine.”
Listening to the editor’s tour, Cui Geng felt stunned.
Could this be… paradise?