Chapter 41: Legendary Entertainment

Getting this sum of money didn’t bring Gu Cheng much joy. After all, times had changed—back in the day, ancient folks hoarding gold could only squirrel away a bit of pocket money at best. Even without this windfall, Gu Cheng might have had to jump through a few more hoops to secure a loan against the game’s copyright, perhaps losing a little on the valuation, but it wasn’t an insurmountable hurdle.

That evening, Gu Cheng sought out Cherise again, treated her to dinner, and formally invited her to work in China. He also promised that, should she accept, her salary would exceed her former pay, and she’d receive an additional month of paid leave each year to visit her family, with the company covering her room and board in China.

This offer extended to any former “Legend” project team members from WEMADE whom Cherise could recruit. Indeed, Cherise managed to bring over a few: two programmers, one art director, and a scriptwriter.

After selling the “Legend” project, WEMADE already had plans to lay off staff, which made poaching people much easier.

Meanwhile, once the money was wired back home, Pan Jieying finally had the funds to register a new company dedicated to the future management of the “Legend” online game.

The company’s name was direct and forceful: “Legend Entertainment.”

For now, Pan Jieying was listed as the legal representative, though it was clear Gu Cheng was the one truly in charge.

She spent several days renting office space, purchasing build and code servers, and then hired one or two people each for programming, testing, art, and administration—just enough to get the framework in place.

Countless small details demanded attention. Thankfully, Pan Jieying’s four years studying human resources as an undergraduate were not in vain.

Now Gu Cheng could finally transfer all of “Legend’s” source code from Dongyi back to China.

The shell company in Dongyi, registered only half a year prior, was briskly liquidated and closed.

With plane tickets booked, Gu Cheng and Cherise prepared to return home.

…

The next morning, an A320 prepared to land above Jianqiao Airport.

Watching the thinning clouds through the porthole, Cherise glimpsed patchwork fields and an aging city below, still struggling to believe her situation.

Was this shabby city truly about to offer her a job with better pay than she’d earned in Seoul? What kind of accommodation would the company provide? Would the meals be endless bowls of instant noodles?

“President Gu is so capable; he wouldn’t cheat us, would he? As long as we make ‘Legend’ well, there’s an extra month off each year for family visits,” Cherise consoled herself, taking deep breaths to ease the pressure in her ears.

Lost in these thoughts, she didn’t notice the plane had already come to a halt.

Pan Jieying was already waiting at the arrivals gate, having rented an SUV to bring everyone straight to the company.

En route, Cherise learned that the company was located in a newly built mixed-use complex called Lakeside Gardens in the western part of Qiantang City—three dual-purpose units that served as both office and lodging.

Gu Cheng caught the doubts flickering across the Dongyi employees’ faces and reassured them, “Don’t be put off by how rundown it looks now. That’s just because the old city hasn’t been redeveloped yet. In a few years, it’ll be no different from Seoul.”

Real estate, after all, was the least technical of industries. If you wanted skyscrapers, they were easily built.

During the drive, Pan Jieying barely paused for breath, using the opportunity to update Gu Cheng on the whirlwind of tasks she’d tackled recently—clearly, much had piled up for discussion with her brother.

They spoke in Mandarin, which the Dongyi employees didn’t understand.

“The money you sent over—700,000 was spent on three office units, and 2 million was invested as company capital. The biggest expense was a four-month, tiered lease on bandwidth and server hosting, sized for 50,000 simultaneous users—1.2 million. Then we spent 400,000 on code servers, build servers, computers, and office equipment. With five hires from Dongyi and twenty local staff, monthly payroll and social insurance come to about 100,000. So our startup capital should last until the end of the year. If we need to advertise the game, we’ll have to find more funding.”

The more-than-two-million yuan had already been allocated, each penny spoken for before Gu Cheng even set foot back home.

“I expected as much,” Gu Cheng said calmly, gazing out the car window. “If we’re short on marketing and advertising funds, we can always mortgage the units we just bought; real estate is solid collateral, and banks are happy to lend—no problem mortgaging a 700,000-yuan unit for a 600,000 loan. The servers and office equipment can also serve as collateral. Once that money’s spent, and ‘Legend’ has grown its player base, we can use the game’s copyright as collateral for loans. Layer by layer, we’ll keep the gears turning.”

Pan Jieying frowned, clearly skeptical of Gu Cheng’s strategy. “You mentioned mortgaging the game’s copyright for a loan before, and I thought it was doable. But I’ve just heard some troubling industry news: Just days ago, a company called Tengyun in the south tried to get a loan from China Merchants Bank, using the copyright for a chat application called QQ as collateral. But the bank felt the software was too simple and not worth much. Tengyun’s boss, Ma Teng, emphasized the app’s ‘registered user count’ on their application, but the bank wouldn’t consider it—they said they’d never heard of making loans based on user numbers. I’m worried banks won’t see the value in ‘Legend’s’ copyright either, and we might not get the valuation we want.”

Gu Cheng, however, remained utterly untroubled, reassuring his cousin with confidence: “Don’t worry about that. QQ and ‘Legend’ are different beasts. When the time comes, I’ll teach you exactly how to talk to the bank.”

Pan Jieying wanted to press him further, but over these past days, her brother had established a solid foundation of trust in her heart. As long as Gu Cheng remained calm and said there was no problem, she felt anchored.

Chatting all the way, they soon arrived at the company. Pan Jieying led the group upstairs.

The Dongyi employees found everything fascinating.

The apartments had just been purchased and Gu Cheng hadn’t even set foot in them yet, so Pan Jieying offered a quick tour.

“I originally wanted to find offices downtown, but the prices were too high. This complex is mixed-use and much cheaper. I noticed several other small internet startups nearby, so I bought here.”

Back in 2000, housing prices were indeed low—600,000 yuan could buy two spacious 130-square-meter units in the suburbs, plus an 80-square-meter one. They came freshly painted, with tiled floors; move in some furniture and they were ready for use.

One 130-square-meter unit served as the office for the development team; the second was for management and meetings. The 80-square-meter unit was set aside as a dormitory for the Dongyi employees, who could also work there, avoiding crowding the local hires.

It was, indeed, a scrappy little operation.

After surveying the place, Gu Cheng turned and asked Cherise in Dongyi, “Is this apartment okay as your dorm? There are three bedrooms—split them by gender, add locks as needed. The dining room is communal.”

Cherise inspected the place carefully. Though five people in eighty square meters was a bit tight, it was already a decent setup for a dormitory. Even more impressive was that it had two bathrooms, showing how carefully Pan Jieying had selected the property—each door marked with makeshift red and blue stickers denoting gender.

“It’s fine—actually, it’s quite nice,” Cherise and the others were reassured.

Gu Cheng asked Pan Jieying, “Sis, how many staff do we have now?”

Without hesitation, she replied, “Counting Cherise and her team, after all hires are finalized, we’ll have just over twenty. We’ll add more as the game grows.”

Gu Cheng considered this. “Then let’s hire a cook too; the kitchen’s just sitting empty. Internet companies work late—local hires or Dongyi, it’s all the same. From now on, the company will provide three meals a day, plus a late-night snack for those working overtime.”

“Huh? Is it necessary to offer such generous benefits?” Pan Jieying clearly didn’t yet grasp the peculiarities of internet companies.

“Absolutely necessary. If they can cook Huaiyang or Northeastern cuisine, that’s fine. We’ll have them learn three extra dishes: spicy instant noodles, stir-fried rice cakes, and army stew. That should cover it. Dongyi cuisine is similar to ours, so they should be fine.”

Gu Cheng thought to himself: Right now, with such simple expectations, programmers still think of company meals as a ‘benefit.’

Fast forward twenty years, and if you told job seekers that your company provided five meals a day, most would turn around and run.

Too many meals at the office were the sign of endless overtime and hard labor.

Cherise, clearly of the “simple times” mindset, was quite moved by Gu Cheng’s announcement. “No need, no need! We love Chinese food—Lanzhou noodles and hot pot are delicious. No need for instant noodles or army stew.”

Gu Cheng thought: If they knew the company required them to deliver a stable, closed beta version within two weeks, they might not find his “generosity” so easy to enjoy.