Pei Qian gently patted Ma Yiqun’s shoulder.

“I think the reason you weren’t appreciated at Infinite Chinese Web was definitely because the editors were jealous of your talent. Your writing was too ahead of its time, and readers didn’t recognize it. That’s not your fault.”

Ma Yiqun had a sudden realization: “Mr. Pei, have you read my books?”

“No,” Pei Qian shook his head, “but I can see your talent in your eyes.”

“If our website wants to succeed, we absolutely cannot copy Infinite Chinese Web’s formula. Otherwise, even if we develop well, we’d just be a miniature version of the Infinite Chinese Web. How could we ever overtake them that way?”

Ma Yiqun felt somewhat dazed.

It seemed that what Mr. Pei said made a lot of sense.

Ma Yiqun didn’t feel his talent had been buried, since web novels were a fully competitive market.

Not being recognized by editors could be considered temporarily overlooked, but not being recognized by readers meant you truly weren’t good enough.

Ma Yiqun believed his books’ failure clearly fell into the latter category. That’s why he had so little confidence in his abilities.

But one thing Mr. Pei said was very correct.

For the website to succeed, it absolutely couldn’t copy Infinite Chinese Web’s formula. Otherwise, readers would just go directly to Infinite Chinese Web—why would they visit a copycat site?

So to overtake the competition, they needed innovation and change.

This showed that Mr. Pei truly had a far-reaching vision and had placed great expectations on him!

Mr. Pei wanted to surpass Infinite Chinese Web, not just settle for minor success!

Ma Yiqun nodded vigorously: “Yes, Mr. Pei! I’ll do everything in my power to make this website successful!”

“Um, Mr. Pei, what is this website called?”

Pei Qian smiled slightly: “Ending Chinese Web Novel.”

Meaning he wanted to make it the graveyard of web novels.

Ma Yiqun felt deep respect.

Mr. Pei wanted to make it the endpoint for all web novels?

To make all writers come to this website to write their books?

Look at Mr. Pei, always able to come up with such grand yet fitting names!

“Go on then. If you encounter any problems, report them to me promptly.”

…

After sending Ma Yiqun away, Pei Qian turned his attention to Shangyang Games.

He first checked the data for “Hot-Blooded Battle Song” that Ye Zhizhou had sent him. It was still dismal.

Stable, yes, very stable.

After all, with the game being so generous now, all the old players were having a great time. Staying stable for a few months was no problem at all.

But the income was truly minimal.

After cutting so many payment options, even the former whales had nowhere to spend their money. The game’s graphics were too outdated, there was no promotional budget, no new players were coming in, and even though some old players had returned, the amount of money they spent on recharges was still completely inadequate.

Now that the overhaul of “Hot-Blooded Battle Song” was complete and the version had stabilized, Pei Qian needed to assign them new tasks.

If they continued to remain idle like this, there was no telling when the system might issue a warning.

However, Pei Qian had already made arrangements for this.

Previously, he had planned a two-step strategy for Shangyang Games. The first step was to cut the payment options in existing games, keeping only one; the second step was to develop new games.

Everyone would come up with a game proposal, create a design document, and Pei Qian would select one as Shangyang Games’ new project for development.

During the settlement period, everyone at Shangyang Games had been busy with these design documents, and now they were all complete.

Pei Qian needed to pick one design document to decide what game Shangyang Games would develop next.

This way, Tenda Games and Shangyang Games would take completely different paths.

For Tenda Games, Pei Qian would personally take charge, pointing out a direction likely to fail, trying his best to make the games develop according to his expectations.

For Shangyang Games, he would try to maintain its original state as much as possible, with minimal intervention.

Currently, Shangyang Games’ approach seems more successful, so it is natural to continue with it.

Pei Qian found a random drawing software, numbered all twenty-plus design documents, and drew a number.

“Number 6.”

Pei Qian opened document number 6 and skimmed through it.

The entire document was only 4 pages long, describing a strategy game, but the rules were very incomplete.

If the settings needed for this game were 100%, this document covered at most 20%.

Some gameplay features were only briefly mentioned in a sentence or two, with no specific design details.

“…Well, the attitude is good, but this document can’t be used.”

On the surface, this document seemed to meet Pei Qian’s requirements for a “bad game,” but the problem was that it lacked too many settings.

Pei Qian couldn’t possibly supplement the settings himself.

Once they decided to make this game, everyone at Shangyang Games would naturally add massive content to this document, refining various rules. By then, the game would be transformed beyond recognition.

So this definitely wouldn’t work.

Pei Qian couldn’t imagine how this game would eventually be twisted, which presented a significant risk.

It would be better to have a design proposal with clear rules that were unremarkable, which would be more reassuring.

Pei Qian excluded proposal number 6 and drew again.

“Number 13.”

Pei Qian opened design document number 13 and found it was a single-player game with some decent ideas, and it even proposed some good level design concepts.

Looking carefully, it was written by Wang Xiaobin.

“…Surprising. You’re a numerical designer, yet you have dreams of revitalizing the domestic game industry?”

“Hmm… Spending money to help you fulfill your dream isn’t entirely out of the question.”

“But the key issue is that your design is a bit conservative. If we follow this plan, we probably won’t lose much money.”

Pei Qian flipped through it casually and decided to set it aside for now.

Although having Shangyang Games make a single-player game wasn’t a bad choice, Pei Qian mainly considered two aspects:

First, single-player games have a pretty low floor. With a relatively fixed investment, even if it’s not popular, it would sell some copies. The most likely outcome would be a small loss; if it did slightly better, it could break even.

Second, the proposal Wang Xiaobin wrote was very complete, without any particularly risky designs. They were all mature approaches already verified by foreign single-player developers.

With Pei Qian’s forward-looking vision, he could see at a glance that this design proposal, while not particularly reliable, wasn’t outlandish either.

In Pei Qian’s view, it was mediocre.

“Let’s draw one more time. If there’s something better, we’ll use that. If not, we’ll help Wang Xiaobin fulfill his dream.”

Though he said he would only draw randomly once, Pei Qian changed his mind and decided to be a bit more selective.

After all, the last time he let things run their course, Bao Xu and Huang Sibo had created “Sea Fortress” for him, and they still hadn’t spent all the money.

“This time it’s number 2.”

“Oh? A sequel to ‘Hot-Blooded Battle Song’? Written by Ye Zhizhou?”

Pei Qian opened the design document and examined it carefully.

“The gameplay doesn’t have many major changes, just some minor details added, and the story progresses a little bit. It continues the previous payment model.”

“Hmm? This is not bad.”

Pei Qian felt that both Ye Zhizhou’s and Wang Xiaobin’s proposals were decent, but each had issues.

The initial proposal, number 6, while sufficiently unreliable, was precisely too unreliable with too few details, making Pei Qian uneasy about proceeding with it.

He was afraid that the people at Shangyang Games might “add a billion little details” and transform it beyond recognition.

In contrast, the proposals from Ye Zhizhou and Wang Xiaobin were quite comprehensive, which also meant they were less likely to go off track.

“Let’s go with Ye Zhizhou’s proposal then.”

“Wang Xiaobin’s proposal is also commendable, the only issue is that it’s too safe, not risky enough. If your dream had been more imaginative, you might have won me over.”

Pei Qian finally kept Ye Zhizhou’s proposal, though Ye Zhizhou himself hadn’t decided what name to give this sequel.

Pei Qian quickly typed on the keyboard, adding a name.

“Hot-Blooded Battle Song: Power-Enhanced Version”!

Yes, since it was already a tacky game, why not make it even tackier?

For this game that would most likely lose money, Pei Qian had already thought of the promotion strategy—spend the most money, receive the most criticism, absolutely perfect!

After making the changes, Pei Qian sent the revised design document back to Ye Zhizhou.

“Make it according to this plan.”

After thinking for a moment, he added: “Tell Wang Xiaobin that his proposal was also good, but too conservative. During development, have him revise it. There might be opportunities to use it in the future.”