Chapter 10: Entrepreneurial Goals - Part One

There were certainly no internet cafés in the slums, so Gu Cheng had to venture next door to Jiangnan District. He returned to an internet café near his company, booted up a machine, and spent a while browsing industry news. Combining what he saw with his shallow knowledge of history from his previous life, he pieced together the current situation.

It was late March 2000. The NASDAQ index had already surpassed its peak and was beginning to weaken, though the bubble had not yet fully burst. According to historical records, the bubble seemed to have lasted until the next American president, “Little Bush,” took office before collapsing. So, discounting the butterfly effect, he had about eight months left.

That wasn’t much time—not even enough to spin tales and swindle money from gullible, deep-pocketed venture capitalists, let alone prepare for an IPO. In other words, Gu Cheng didn’t need to consider any business centered on traffic; only those that generated real profits.

But what would actually be profitable?

It was only the year 2000. Music was all pirated; there were no paid platforms for online literature; single-player games were entirely pirated; and as for video, there weren’t even places to download—it was only available as five-yuan CDs at audio shops, since internet speeds couldn’t handle it.

So, the choice was really down to one thing: online games.

Online games couldn’t be pirated (private servers aside). Historically, during the early days of the Chinese online gaming industry, a flood of successful East Asian games entered the Chinese market and made a fortune.

Gu Cheng intended to return to China eventually, so now was the perfect time to look for any overlooked opportunities for game agency in East Asia.

That was it.

He closed the browser, opened the hard drive where his online games were stored, and tried to find a few games noted in history books.

Most online games popular in the late nineties were turn-based, like Age of Stone. The networks were so poor then—many still used 56K dial-up—that any high-end online game would lag terribly. Turn-based games were more tolerant of poor speeds and dropped frames; even if a round lagged for ten seconds, it wouldn’t disconnect.

After 2000, as internet speeds improved, real-time MMORPGs began to appear.

Gu Cheng browsed for a while and discovered the most popular real-time online game in East Asia, still in closed beta, called Dragon-Raja.

“Wait, wasn’t ‘Legend’ supposed to be the hottest East Asian online game of this era? Could the history books have gotten it wrong?” Gu Cheng muttered aloud as he sat in front of the computer, pondering.

A nearby gamer, sporting blond hair reminiscent of Benimaru Nikaido from King of Fighters ’97, clearly overheard Gu Cheng’s mumbling and chimed in, “You’re clueless. What’s so fun about ‘Legend’? If you really want to play, look for it among the LAN games, not in the online game folders.”

Gu Cheng glanced awkwardly at the youth, who looked like a university student around twenty. Perhaps to show off his experience, the young man grabbed Gu Cheng’s mouse, clicked a few times, and found the folder for “Legend”: it turned out “Legend” was still a LAN game at that time, grouped alongside Blizzard’s Diablo II.

The “veteran” clearly thought solo online gaming was dull. Though he helped Gu Cheng find “Legend,” he kept promoting Dragon-Raja: “See, ‘Legend’ is garbage. Nothing fun about it. Why not join me and play Dragon-Raja? PK’s fantastic, graphics are good, and there’s plenty of room for teamwork.”

“Thanks, I’ll try them all,” Gu Cheng politely declined but promised to give Dragon-Raja a try later.

He’d only seen these games in history books, never played them himself. His professional instincts from his previous life reminded him: never make hasty judgments, nor blindly trust historical accounts.

Everything had to be experienced firsthand, analyzed personally, to uncover the core reasons why a game might become popular.

After less than an hour of play, Gu Cheng was feeling sleepy.

The sluggish movement and monster-killing actions of turn-based games, the complete lack of storyline and world-building, the crude art style, feeble magic effects—was this really the “Legend” that had so many people addicted enough to lose sleep and spend money?

With these doubts, Gu Cheng stole a glance at the screen of the “veteran” next to him, who was playing Dragon-Raja:

The dazzling spells of the dual Witch/Saint class, rich career counterbalances and skill combinations, far more complex than Legend’s simple trio of Warrior, Mage, and Taoist. PK teamwork was intricate.

Magic spells required chanting, had cooldowns, and chanting could be interrupted and countered by opponents, leading to a period of immobility afterward—concepts that, historically, only matured with “World of Warcraft,” yet they already appeared in Dragon-Raja.

By any measure, Dragon-Raja seemed much more engaging than Legend, which was rather crude and unsophisticated. To put it bluntly, PK in Legend required no skill, just attrition, and could even be decided by the “automatic simulation” feature common in later browser games, leaving neither side dissatisfied.

Noticing Gu Cheng’s sleepy look, the “veteran” nudged him with an elbow. “Changed your mind? Let’s play Dragon-Raja together. By the way, I’m Kwon Soonwoo.”

“Oh, I’m Gu Cheng—a Chinese.”

Otaku have no borders; Kwon Soonwoo clearly had no racial bias. Hearing Gu Cheng’s nationality, he grew curious. “Chinese? Here for tourism? Then you have to try Dragon-Raja. The original novel is a must-read too, very classic.”

Gu Cheng smiled, offering no correction.

The two formed a team, gaming and chatting idly for a long time. Through Kwon Soonwoo, Gu Cheng gained new insights into how people of this era viewed online games and adjusted some of his own judgments.

...

After three hours of diligent gaming, Gu Cheng had evaluated several major online games. So far, he believed Dragon-Raja had the brightest prospects.

Feeling hungry, he decided to log off and get some food.

Unexpectedly, Kwon Soonwoo was still eager to hang out and dragged Gu Cheng to a nearby restaurant.

Kwon Soonwoo ordered grilled meat, rice sausage, and soybean paste soup.

Gu Cheng chose a bowl of cold noodles.

When the food arrived, Gu Cheng ate while still mulling over the issue of game agency.

Based on the gameplay he’d just experienced, Gu Cheng was now conflicted: if he brought in Dragon-Raja instead, would it become even more popular than Legend?

Seeing Gu Cheng lost in thought, Kwon Soonwoo nudged him again, “What are you thinking about? Come on, eat some grilled meat. Never seen a grown man eat only cold noodles.”

“Thanks, just got caught up in my thoughts,” Gu Cheng replied with a slight smile, helping himself to two thin slices of beef.

“You really don’t look like a tourist, so frugal,” Kwon Soonwoo joked.

Very few Chinese traveled abroad in 2000. Even if they did, none spoke Korean as fluently as Gu Cheng, so Kwon Soonwoo’s curiosity was understandable.

Facing his probing, Gu Cheng swallowed the beef and explained, “Actually, I’m not here for tourism. I was a trainee at an entertainment company, but I was let go.”

Kwon Soonwoo was just pouring a drink when he heard this, nearly spilling his bottle.

His curiosity intensified, and he scrutinized Gu Cheng’s appearance, believing his story: this guy was even more handsome than Song Seung-heon; perhaps he really could be an entertainer.

So Kwon Soonwoo said, “I interviewed for a trainee position two years ago, didn’t get in. Then I went to college, majoring in directing at Seoul Arts University. Studying while running a business importing and exporting audio and video copyrights.”

He didn’t consider his own story private, spilling everything out as if to even the score between them.

Words spoken without intent can be received with purpose.

Gu Cheng pondered: this guy runs a copyright agency? Would overseas game agency rights count as “copyright import-export business”?

Who would have thought that even a random gamer in an internet café would have some clout.

Gu Cheng immediately felt inclined to befriend him, raising his brows and preparing a line of questioning. “You’re just a sophomore and already run a company?”

“It’s nothing,” Kwon Soonwoo replied nonchalantly. “Honestly, the company just sits there, waiting for business to come in, all thanks to family connections.”

Gu Cheng silently drew in a sharp breath.

If you can just sit back and wait for business, you must be either a rich kid or an official’s child.

Gu Cheng wanted to probe further into how useful the other might be, but his previous life’s experience in business told him that it was unwise to get too deep with a new acquaintance.

Better to proceed slowly and build the relationship.

He decided to steer the conversation back to himself and get closer, “Since you’re so open, let me tell you about me. I graduated high school in ’98 and became a trainee at S-M Entertainment...”

Gu Cheng recounted his experience at S-M, picking out the key points.

“Damn! You were an S-M trainee? I got cut from S-M back then! It was ’98, my sister came along with me... Anyway, no point dredging up old memories.” Kwon Soonwoo started out stunned, growing more animated as he spoke.

Apparently, hearing that someone had defied S-M’s authority gave him a sense of satisfaction.

“You’ve got guts! Dared to stand up to S-M! Come on, let’s drink!” Kwon Soonwoo insisted on pouring Gu Cheng a drink. After they downed a glass, he continued, “So what’s your plan now? Going back home?”

Gu Cheng hesitated, feigning embarrassment. “Actually, I have some funds and know a bit about internet tech. I want to buy the rights to an East Asian online game and operate it in China.”

Kwon Soonwoo wore an expression of youthful incredulity, sizing Gu Cheng up and suppressing his disdain. “So you’ve got your eye on Legend? You’re really bold—a high school graduate daring to start a business. Aren’t you afraid of losing everything?”

Gu Cheng had a flash of inspiration and didn’t explain, but instead played along. “You started a business as soon as you got to college.”

Hearing this retort, Kwon Soonwoo’s attitude became a bit more cautious, as if he realized some things shouldn’t be said casually. Yet he couldn’t resist the urge to boast, lowering his voice, “I’m not like you. To be honest, my company specializes in importing and translating overseas films and music copyrights. My dad’s a deputy director in the Ministry of Culture and Sports, so when people have trouble getting a film approved, it’s easier through my company...”

Gu Cheng instantly understood.

He had been a trainee for a year and a half, and knew East Asia had a Ministry of Culture, Sports, and Tourism, equivalent to the combined Chinese ministries of culture, sports, and tourism. Kwon Soonwoo’s father being a deputy director was like having a parent at the relevant regulatory bureau in China.

Imagine the child of a Chinese media regulator running a brokerage for Hollywood films—business would surely flourish. When it comes to official-business relationships, East Asian countries are all alike. But since Kwon Soonwoo was exploiting the loopholes of “East Asian capitalism,” it had nothing to do with Gu Cheng, and he couldn’t muster any righteous indignation.

With this, the meal had reached its substantive conclusion. Any further probing would seem too obvious.

Gu Cheng dropped the topic, casually steering the conversation back to games to hide his real intentions.

“Kwon, you seem to really like online games. Can I ask your opinion? Do you think Legend could ever be more popular than Dragon-Raja in China?”

This question had been weighing on Gu Cheng’s mind, so he asked without hesitation. In reality, he didn’t expect Kwon Soonwoo to give a valuable answer.

It was just a way to change the subject.

Kwon Soonwoo was amused by Gu Cheng’s persistence. “That’s tough. If you didn’t want to play today, I wouldn’t even remember anyone around me playing Legend. Oh, maybe my cousin in Namyangju, who uses my old, discarded Win95 computer, plays Legend because it can’t run Dragon-Raja.”

“Can’t run Dragon-Raja?” Gu Cheng felt he was onto something.

“Yeah, why?” Last year I upgraded my computer, couldn’t bear to throw the old one out, so I gave it to my cousin back home in Namyangju.”

Gu Cheng instinctively asked, “What kind of internet do you have there?”

Kwon Soonwoo didn’t know why Gu Cheng was asking, but answered honestly: “We started with 56K dial-up, switched to VDSL this year. Why?”

“Nothing,” Gu Cheng replied, preoccupied. The conversation ended there.

After their meal, Kwon Soonwoo paid, including Gu Cheng’s cold noodles. Considering the other’s status as a rich kid, Gu Cheng accepted the treat.

“Thanks, I’ll treat you next time if there’s a chance.”

“No problem. I have to pick someone up, so I won’t join you.”

They parted at the restaurant door, Gu Cheng returning to the internet café.

He didn’t see Kwon Soonwoo heading in the opposite direction, who took a couple turns and entered S-M Entertainment.

Back at the internet café, Gu Cheng found a VPN proxy and accessed several websites, specifically to search for data about the current state of China’s internet infrastructure.

“In 2000, China had only 4.6 million ADSL broadband users installed? VDSL: 8.2 million, total internet users: 23 million... East Asia’s broadband users: 3.4 million, total internet users: 5.5 million...”

These numbers poured cold water on Gu Cheng’s hopes for Dragon-Raja’s entry into China. He felt he had pinpointed the reason why Legend later became such a phenomenon domestically.