Chapter 84: The Wrath of the Commoner

Seoul Paradise was built beside a lake nestled in the Gwanak Mountain valley, so there were plenty of boats available, no need to queue. After riding the “Black Hole Train,” Gu Cheng shared his idea with Pan Jieying. Pan Jieying, understanding her brother’s concern that she might get sunburned, happily agreed. She thoughtfully reminded him, “Boating takes a while. You should buy some cold drinks to bring onboard.”

Gu Cheng readily accepted her suggestion. “Alright, what do you want to drink?”

“I want a toffee hazelnut latte! Extra ice! The large size, please, and buy a few so we can sip them slowly,” Quan Baoya responded without hesitation.

Pan Jieying also placed her order.

“Hey, you little rascal, you claim to love green tea, but now you’ve switched to iced coffee,” Gu Cheng teased.

Quan Baoya pouted and corrected him, “Green tea is for tough times; latte is for happy moments. Don’t mix them up!”

Gu Cheng went to buy drinks while Pan Jieying rented the boat. A few minutes later, the three of them boarded a small shaded boat equipped with both motor and oars.

Gu Cheng steered the boat, and Pan Jieying sat beside her brother, enjoying the tranquil lake view. Only Quan Baoya, upon boarding, slipped on her life jacket before settling in to sip her latte.

Gu Cheng glanced over and asked curiously, “You’re wearing a life jacket?”

Quan Baoya turned her head haughtily, “I can’t swim, alright? No laughing!”

“I’m not laughing. I can teach you someday.”

“I don’t want to learn!”

The boat drifted several hundred meters from the shore, and the figures on land grew indistinct. The young people aboard, freed from the anxiety of being recognized, felt utterly relaxed.

Gu Cheng switched off the boat’s motor, reclined in his seat, and savored the rare serenity.

Unfortunately, his phone rang, breaking the peace.

Gu Cheng checked the caller ID—it was a number he found deeply irritating, so he prepared to hang up.

Beside him, Quan Baoya didn’t understand the situation and assumed Gu Cheng was sacrificing business for the sake of enjoying their outing together. Considerately, she shook Gu Cheng’s arm. “Go ahead, answer it. Business matters are important.”

She didn’t want Gu Cheng to think of her as unreasonable or lacking in understanding. Though Gu Cheng was nothing to her in particular, she couldn’t fathom why she cared so much about his opinion.

Perhaps this was just the innocent confusion of a young girl.

Gu Cheng didn’t want her to worry, so, suppressing his annoyance, he answered the call and, without waiting for the other party to speak, launched straight in:

“Director Park, I’ve purchased Legend outright. We’re settled. I’ve also transferred the agency rights for Dongyi and Fusang markets back to you. I don’t see anything left for us to discuss.”

It was Park Youngkwan calling.

The voice on the other end was steady and composed; after Gu Cheng finished his tirade, Park spoke slowly: “Mr. Gu, there’s still plenty of new collaborations we could try. For example, I believe your company’s game development strength is rather weak—can’t handle big projects. Legend is a money-maker; don’t you plan to keep upgrading and develop expansions? You’ll need our development team eventually.”

Gu Cheng adjusted his mood and replied calmly, “If it’s that kind of cooperation, it’s not out of the question. Name your price—what’s the technical outsourcing fee?”

“Fifteen percent of future revenue income—no, ten percent,” Park Youngkwan suppressed his greed and finally offered what he considered a reasonable quote.

Legend Entertainment sold a point card and WEMADE would skim three bucks off the top—Park thought himself not greedy at all.

“Get lost. I only accept a one-time technical service fee, no revenue shares,” Gu Cheng rejected this approach outright.

Chen Tianqiao in history had suffered enough from these revenue-sharing models. Though ten percent seemed small, in practice, disputes would be endless.

Legend was a game won by marketing, with much of its nominal income spent as rebates to the thirty thousand internet cafe owners nationwide under the agency system. If Gu Cheng agreed to any “revenue share” model, he’d soon be hounded by lawsuits accusing Legend Entertainment of faking income or purposely lowering revenue.

How do you account for rebates to cafe owners? What about giving away a point card for each new Alipay account as a promotion?

The Dongyi side would claim, “That money should have come in, but the company controller purposely did related-party deals to benefit others and lower the revenue.” It wasn’t about money—it was about Gu Cheng refusing to let anyone dictate his business model or meddle in Legend’s internal affairs.

Moreover, he never felt he’d gotten much advantage from WEMADE; he always believed that for a game like Legend, five million wasn’t selling cheap. The later success was thanks to his own “Alipay” platform. Any similarly decent game, with Alipay’s channel and all the internet cafe owners nationwide promoting it, could soar.

So, the negotiation broke down.

He firmly rejected several of Park Youngkwan’s proposals, leaving the other side agitated. The tone, in a movie, would have signaled the villain preparing his big move.

Park Youngkwan finally spoke, his voice sinister, “So, nothing to discuss? I was going to let you save face. Don’t think I don’t know you were shady before you started! You’re worth hundreds of millions now—does it matter?”

Pan Jieying listened quietly, not speaking up. An MBA student, she was mature and wise, well-versed in the subtleties of business negotiation.

But Quan Baoya didn’t understand; she only knew “harmony brings wealth.” Seeing Gu Cheng’s fierce refusal, she handed him a bottle of tea and gently urged, “Easy now, it’s just business, no need for that.”

She soothed him a little. Suddenly, the voice on the other end went silent, then, after a few seconds, burst into confident laughter.

Gu Cheng was baffled and prepared to hang up.

“Mr. Gu, what a refined pastime—accompanied by beauties, boating for pleasure. Tsk, tsk. No wonder your two early ventures went so smoothly. Looks like you don’t even need me to spell out the leverage I have.”

“You sent someone to spy... follow me?” Gu Cheng snapped instinctively.

But immediately he realized he’d fallen into a trap and cut himself off mid-sentence. The other party was bluffing, gambling for a reaction! By snapping back, he’d essentially admitted it.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Get lost!” Gu Cheng added, his mind in turmoil, and hung up decisively.

Quan Baoya, currently the most popular female singer in Dongyi, had a voice easily recognized by fans. Park Youngkwan might not chase celebrities, but, eager for leverage over Gu Cheng, he’d done his homework—listening to their records countless times. Just now, Quan Baoya’s voice sounded vaguely familiar from his recent marathon listening.

He wasn’t professional enough to be certain, so he decided to bluff Gu Cheng.

Gu Cheng, caught in the relaxed mood of boating on the lake, let his guard down and took the bait.

“It doesn’t matter; he has no evidence. Even if he did, so what? I’m a grown man, not trying to be the nation’s younger brother or a fresh-faced idol. I filmed a drama once and don’t plan to do that again. If he stirs up rumors about me, it won’t affect my commercial value, nor can he threaten me.

But I do have to guard against him using this to threaten Baoya. She’s still a kid—if she gets smeared, who knows how much it could scar her.”

Gu Cheng thought this over. Boating together hardly counted as a scandal; he knew he’d behaved properly, hadn’t even held Quan Baoya’s hand, so there was nothing to fear.

The more he thought, the more annoyed he became. He wanted to smoke to calm down, but with girls beside him, he restrained himself. Instead, he finished the half bottle of green tea Quan Baoya had handed him.

Quan Baoya, still unsure what had happened, saw Gu Cheng’s grim face and sidled up to Pan Jieying, asking softly, “Ying, did I mess things up?”

“It’s fine, really. How could this be your fault? That guy on the phone was just being nasty and talking nonsense,” Pan Jieying comforted her kindly, wrapping her arm around Baoya. Since learning yesterday that Baoya and her cousin had reconciled, Pan Jieying’s “maternal” instincts had overflowed, and she regarded Baoya almost as a future sister-in-law.

Of course, Pan Jieying’s attitude had also loosened—she was no longer so anxious about her brother’s romantic life. After all, Gu Cheng’s net worth was ballooning daily. Last year, pursuing Baoya might have seemed ambitious; now, the situation was reversed. As the sister of a “treasure boy,” Pan Jieying naturally didn’t object to her brother meeting even more outstanding girls.

After finishing the tea, Gu Cheng felt calmer and advised, “It’s alright, let’s enjoy ourselves. Don’t let that garbage ruin our mood. If you want to hang out with me these days, just keep your whereabouts discreet. I’m not worried for myself, but I don’t want anything to hurt your reputation.”

The young people lay back on the deck, letting the gentle waves rock the boat, trying to reclaim the peace that had been disrupted.

Quan Baoya longed for Gu Cheng to explain what he meant by “I’m worried for your reputation.” But she was shy, and Pan Jieying was present, so she couldn’t ask.

Her heart twisted in youthful confusion; in the end, she just tapped her fingers together, then nudged Gu Cheng with her elbow and whispered, barely audible, “Brother Cheng, you’ll teach me how to protect myself, won’t you?”

“Yes. Don’t think about it anymore. Here, have a toffee hazelnut latte and cheer up.”

Cool and refreshing, bittersweet, with her favorite nutty aroma—whenever Quan Baoya tasted it, even the biggest sadness faded away.

...

Elsewhere, Park Youngkwan, twisted with frustration at failing to disgust Gu Cheng, finally felt a rare surge of excitement.

He didn’t have evidence, but now he knew Gu Cheng was recently in contact with a popular young star. His leverage for future dirty tricks was stronger.

Fortunately, he hadn’t played his final card yet; there was still room to add more layers to his scheme.

His plot to blackmail Gu Cheng was ultimately about money—he hoped Gu Cheng would cede some share of Legend. He wasn’t so petty as to expose a scandal the moment he found leverage. The threat worked because it remained unplayed; if he fired his “nuke,” both sides would be locked in a fight to the death.

He thought about it and decided to use this to provoke Kim Youngmin from S-M Company.

In recent talks with Director Kim, and from his previous investigations, he’d discovered that Gu Cheng’s original dismissal from S-M Company as a trainee involved some dubious circumstances. Apparently, both Gu Cheng and S-M management were implicated, so the company chose to let bygones be bygones.

But if S-M’s leadership saw clearly that letting Gu Cheng continue unchecked could threaten their top-earning female star, would the company still choose to avoid conflict for fear of mutual destruction?