Chapter 67: Mastery in Motion

Luo Qianqian, so fierce and domineering in front of her husband, was quite restrained when it came to business negotiations outside. Even though Pan Jieying asked her questions with utmost politeness, she didn’t dare to play dumb or act brash, instead exchanging rounds of neighborly pleasantries and mutual probing before getting to the point.

During their idle chat, Luo Qianqian learned that Pan Jieying was now in her first year of graduate school, studying for an MBA, and only twenty years old. This string of impressive facts, coupled with Pan Jieying’s youth and beauty—qualities that utterly eclipsed Luo Qianqian—gave Luo an unfamiliar, bitter sense of having stumbled upon someone else’s perfect child, her confidence completely overshadowed.

To meet someone younger, prettier, smarter, and even more hardworking than herself—it was a bitter dose of reality, almost too much to swallow.

By the time she finally stated her purpose, there was no trace of pride left in her voice. “President Pan, I’m here today on behalf of Shengda Network. We have a new proposal for cooperation with your company. The model may sound a bit outlandish…”

Pan Jieying replied with gentle grace, displaying great magnanimity. “Please speak freely, Sister Luo. We’ve never regarded any local competitor as an enemy. The online gaming market is huge; it needs both national blockbusters and niche, vertical products. As long as it’s mutually beneficial, Shengda can be our partner too.”

“Then I won’t beat around the bush,” Luo Qianqian took a deep breath. “We’re operating ‘Dragon Clan’ and have found our point card distribution channels lacking. So, we had the wild idea—could we partner with Legend Entertainment to integrate ‘Dragon Clan’s’ online point card sales into Legend’s ‘Cybercafé Owner Recharge’ system? Of course, we’re not asking for a free ride. We’re willing to pay channel fees, or even sponsor a one-time development cost.”

Pan Jieying was momentarily taken aback—this proposal was even bolder than she’d anticipated.

Luo Qianqian herself felt a bit embarrassed. To come knocking on a competitor’s door with such a pie-in-the-sky scheme—only someone as thick-skinned as her could pull it off.

Pan Jieying hesitated for a long time, and Luo Qianqian began to feel she’d made a fool of herself.

Time seemed to drag on. Gritting her teeth, Luo Qianqian sighed, “I suppose this kind of cooperation really is too unreasonable…”

Pan Jieying, shy by nature, snapped out of it and replied, “Well, I’m not saying it’s completely off the table. But I don’t normally handle the online payment channels. How about this: if you’re not in a hurry, I’ll have our company’s Mr. Gu meet with you in a few days—how does that sound?”

“You don’t handle it? Aren’t you the legal representative of Legend Entertainment?” Luo Qianqian was slightly surprised. So Pan Jieying was just a figurehead at the front desk after all?

No wonder—a girl of only twenty couldn’t possibly have built such a business.

With this in mind, Luo Qianqian pressed on, “Why wait a few days? Is this Mr. Gu not in the country? We’re willing to come to him, it won’t take much of his time.”

“He’s here in Qiantang, just very busy these days. Please be patient, Sister Luo.” Pan Jieying explained, but sensing it was hard to clarify, she simply picked up her phone and called her cousin.

The voice on the other end mumbled for a bit, then hung up.

“Alright,” Pan Jieying said at last, “since you insist on meeting right away, I’ll have a car take you.” She summoned the driver, and together they set off.

The car was a newly purchased runabout, costing just over a hundred thousand.

…

About half an hour later, the car arrived at an elegant manor on the banks of West Lake. The estate, backed by the lush Xixia Ridge and nestled among thick woods and bamboo, boasted a flower garden and lawn spanning an acre or two, with a three-story villa standing at its center.

“So this legendary Mr. Gu lives in such a place? Money alone can’t buy a spot like this. Could he be a privileged son of the elite, with connections in high places?”

Luo Qianqian glanced over the house, her mind reeling. She imagined Gu Cheng as a corpulent, well-fed magnate in his forties or fifties.

Yet the owner of the manor seemed to keep a low profile; Luo Qianqian saw only a single maid come to the door. The maid, apparently acquainted with Pan Jieying, admitted them without a word.

The maid led them to a dim, windowless room on the north side of the villa. From the hallway, the walls were draped in heavy black acoustic velvet. Luo Qianqian, unfamiliar with music production, didn’t realize this was the setup of a high-end recording studio.

“A dark room, soundproof walls, two young women being led in... Could this be the lair of some villain? I have a reputation—who would dare?” Luo Qianqian’s nerves prickled as she tried to steady herself.

With a click, the maid unlocked the final door and gestured for silence, signaling Pan Jieying and Luo Qianqian to take seats by the door.

Inside, a middle-aged, unattractive man with a squash-shaped face was hunched over a 480-channel mixer, fiddling with the controls. Beyond a half-glass partition, its reflection obscuring the view, a “pretty boy” was playing keyboard and singing.

His voice was magnetic, rich with a mysterious maturity and depth.

“Trying to grasp something, feeling the silence in your palm... The most devoted man is like the sea, loving bravely in the storm, yet still calm when he cries; yearning lingers so long, waving goodbye as you set sail, to the paradise you think I can’t provide…”

Behind the pretty boy, someone played an unfamiliar wind instrument, while the drum and rhythm tracks—though audible—had no visible performer, presumably mixed in by the man outside.

Thanks to excellent soundproofing, those outside the booth couldn’t hear the live singing; what they heard was the playback, routed from the mixer.

So this was a recording studio.

“That middle-aged fat man must be the legendary Mr. Gu, right? I can’t believe Pan Jieying would stoop to consorting with such an ugly old man for money. Disgusting…” Luo Qianqian’s thoughts took a malicious turn.

But the longer she looked, the more familiar the fat man seemed—she must have seen him in the news.

…

After twenty minutes, the take was finally complete.

The fat man removed his headphones, glanced back, and nodded to Pan Jieying. “Xiao Pan, here to pick up your brother again? And this is…?”

Pan Jieying smiled. “A business associate. Sorry to trouble you, Teacher Gao—Ah Cheng is too busy, so we borrowed your studio for a quick meeting.”

“Teacher Gao?” Luo Qianqian was startled to realize this wasn’t the legendary Mr. Gu after all. She examined the squash-faced man more closely, then gasped in a low voice, “Ah! Aren’t you the famous musician, Teacher Gao Dasong?”

Suddenly, she remembered: at the end of last year, entertainment news reported that one of Teacher Gao’s ex-girlfriends had hanged herself, leaving him in a precarious situation. The public, unaware of the facts, assumed the female singer took her life out of heartbreak after being abandoned by him.

After that, Teacher Gao disappeared for several months; the “Chaoyang public” never spotted him again. Who would have guessed he’d retreated to his hometown to work on music in seclusion?

Luo Qianqian, who fancied herself something of a literary youth, immediately pulled out a notebook. “Teacher Gao, could I have your autograph? I adore your song ‘The Desk-mate of Mine.’”

Gao Dasong signed his name and gestured for the ladies to wait in the lounge. Not long after, Gu Cheng finished tidying up and joined them.

Pan Jieying went straight to the point. “Ah Cheng, this is Ms. Luo from Shengda Network I mentioned on the phone. She’d like to discuss trialing our cybercafé owner recharge system…”

Luo Qianqian finally got a good look at Gu Cheng and was filled with a sense of defeat.

If an internet tycoon could be young, talented, and successful, shouldn’t he at least look like her husband, Chen Tianqiao—a bit piggish?

After all, only the plain should work harder, right?

But this young man before her, handsome as jade, with bright eyes and a tall frame—how was this possible? Successful, talented, and so good-looking—what chance did mere mortals have? Fate really was unfair!

“Ms. Luo, is it? I know you. Chen Tianqiao is your husband, isn’t he?” Gu Cheng said lightly, as if nothing could surprise him. “Trialing our system is certainly negotiable, but it’ll take time, and it won’t be cheap. First, the timeline: to integrate a third-party payment channel, we’ll need at least two or three months to develop and refine the client. So don’t expect anything this quarter; if we can launch for you in April, that’s already the limit.”

Luo Qianqian was surprised by Gu Cheng’s candor, agreeing hurriedly, “Of course, we understand. If we were to develop a system ourselves, we wouldn’t be any faster.”

Gu Cheng sneered, “Sincerity isn’t just talk. Developing a third-party payment interface carries upfront costs. So, if you want to sign with Legend, you must also agree: for the duration of the contract, Shengda Network will not develop its own online payment system.”

His words sent Luo Qianqian’s heart racing—was he demanding Shengda “cripple itself,” to ensure it didn’t compete with Legend in e-payments?

“But… if we ‘cripple ourselves’ and your system turns out to be lousy, wouldn’t we be doomed?”

Gu Cheng shrugged. “If our system isn’t up to par, I’ll pay penalties too. It’s strictly reciprocal—just that simple.”

Luo Qianqian breathed a sigh of relief, thinking: the key is the penalty clause, or rather, the amount Shengda would have to pay upfront.

Those details would have to be negotiated.

She sighed. “Alright, I understand your cooperation model. Could you give me a ballpark figure? I’ll need to get Tianqiao’s approval.”

“Alright. The upfront development fee: at least one million, paid in advance. I guarantee you’ll be up and running in the second quarter. If our system fails to process payments or can’t be delivered on time, we’ll pay you a million in damages.

“As for ongoing channel fees, you can discuss those with my sister. But my bottom line is this: they can’t be lower than what your first-tier distributors get for paper point cards. Right now, a 30-yuan card nets five yuan for the distributor, from the bookstore down to the newsstand. If you come to me, I’ll need five yuan per card. How much you give the cybercafé owners is your business, as long as it’s not better than what Legend gives its own partners.”

With that, Gu Cheng waited for Luo Qianqian to call Chen Tianqiao for confirmation.

No doubt, upon hearing this, Chen Tianqiao’s jaw would drop in astonishment.

He’d always regarded Legend as a rival, but Legend had never truly considered him competition at all.