Chapter 93: Don’t Force Me to Reveal My Trump Card

The moment he uttered, “In my eyes, you’re just an ancient relic,” Gu Cheng knew he was in trouble.

Perhaps he’d been too relaxed just now, speaking without thinking.

Sun Zhengyi’s face was written with shock.

He had helmed SoftBank for twenty years, and in his memory, it had been ages since anyone dared speak to him like this. The last time someone dared to banter so freely was eighteen years ago, when he, then an entrepreneur, sought investment from the Toshiba conglomerate.

“Sorry, Mr. Sun, I wasn’t targeting you,” Gu Cheng’s brain spun frantically, immediately searching for words to mend the situation. “I just meant everyone here… No, I mean, all people are ancient relics in my eyes.”

He’d intended to expand the scope of the insult to “everyone present,” but as he said it, he saw Cai Zhongxin sitting there with an embarrassed, helpless look, as if he were drowning. Gu Cheng could only grit his teeth and widen the blast radius.

He’d started this bravado, and now he had to finish it, tears or not. Even four years from now, Mark Zuckerberg showing up in pajamas to meet Sequoia Capital couldn’t top this level of audacity.

“Fine, fine. I’ve invested for twenty years and never seen such arrogance. Truly, the young are to be feared.”

Sun Zhengyi’s eyebrows twitched uncontrollably, his blood pressure surging for a while before he managed to spit out, “So, Mr. Gu, you’re dead set against accepting any venture capital? That’s fine, let’s keep things strictly business. Show me some real substance—prove to me that the equity in Legend Entertainment is enough to secure two hundred million!”

No sooner had Sun Zhengyi finished than he immediately added, “Let me make myself clear. If you only bring me current gross profit margins and cash flow statements, I won’t recognize them. Games are far too uncertain—the technology could change, trends could shift overnight. Once they’re outdated, they’re outdated.”

His point was perfectly reasonable: games are not essential needs. No matter how popular, if they rely merely on being “fun,” even if they’re booming now, their decline could be swift and sudden within a year or so.

Perhaps the trigger for decline is simply a competitor introducing a more entertaining game. Or maybe, a qualitative leap in development technology and presentation occurs within the next couple of years.

Gu Cheng had already prepared to present financial statements: every month, Legend sold over a million prepaid cards, bringing in thirty to forty million in revenue. But mere financials could not prove the game’s sustainable life.

Cai Zhongxin, who had reservations about Gu Cheng’s initial arrogance, took the chance to offer earnest advice: “Gu, Mr. Sun is a veteran in the investment world—few can match his insight. You really oversimplified the problem at first! Sure, Legend might be worth two hundred million right now. But you’re not repaying Mr. Sun today, are you?

You’re borrowing now, and you’ll pay back in at least two years. Who knows if Legend will be worth that much then? By that time, you’ll have invested the two hundred million elsewhere; Legend’s profits will have been funneled into other ventures. When Mr. Sun comes to collect two years later, if you can’t pay and offer an outdated game as collateral, that won’t do, right?”

Gu Cheng considered it and decided Cai Zhongxin’s words made sense, so he responded readily, “I admit I didn’t explain clearly. The collateral doesn’t have to be just Legend Entertainment’s equity. I can restructure the equity, bringing Legend Entertainment, Dingdang Web, and Chengpin Audio & Video under a holding company.

I can pledge the holding company’s total equity as collateral for the convertible bonds to Mr. Sun. Furthermore, I guarantee all funds from this financing will be used strictly within the scope of businesses under the holding company. There will be no affiliated transactions or fund transfers elsewhere; we can sign detailed appendices regarding the use of funds.”

Cai Zhongxin, reassured by Gu Cheng’s promise, turned to glance at Sun Zhengyi.

Sun Zhengyi’s expression remained scornful and irritated. He snorted coldly, “Those are details—we can discuss them later. Today, you need to prove to me that ‘Legend will still be valuable in two years.’ If you can’t convince me, let Cai find you Sequoia or Goldman Sachs instead.”

Titans have their tempers. To sit down after being slighted, the prospective investment must have truly solid fundamentals.

(Of course, there are exceptions—don’t overanalyze. For example, Shen Nanpeng from Sequoia China is famously easygoing. If he sees a promising project, even if the founder tells him to get lost, he’ll persist: ‘Give me one reason you won’t accept my investment.’)

Gu Cheng sighed, grateful he’d prepared in advance. He called his assistant, and before long, Pan Jieying entered the meeting room with a laptop full of videos.

Gu Cheng connected the laptop to the projector, narrating as he did so:

“Mr. Sun, here are materials we gathered while operating Legend. You know, when we launched Legend, we promoted a proxy recharge system, so over thirty thousand internet café owners nationwide are helping us push the game. In the process, they shared various materials reflecting Legend’s current popularity.”

Sun Zhengyi watched the projection with icy eyes, seemingly unconvinced these would prove anything.

Gu Cheng, meanwhile, played the role of commentator.

“This was an event we held in July: we rewarded the most outstanding players in each server for their online hours and leveling achievements. One player from Server 1, Subserver 2, ID ‘Crown Prince Dan,’ was the only one to reach level thirty-five across all servers.

Since the public beta last year, he’s been online twenty-four hours a day, over 160 hours a week, only offline during server maintenance. He hired people to run three accounts—two as helpers to speed up monster hunting. These three accounts contribute six hundred yuan in prepaid card sales per month, and he’s spent nearly five thousand yuan in the game.

Recently, the company awarded him a new weapon—the Dragon Slayer—that will only appear in the upcoming expansion. The next few videos are footage from internet café surveillance across the country after the Dragon Slayer was issued.”

Sun Zhengyi listened to Gu Cheng’s preamble with utter disdain, nearly yawning. He was an investment titan, dealing in millions by the minute—how could he have time for a commentary on an online game’s popularity?

But then, the next second, he saw a black-and-white surveillance recording with audio from an internet café. A player suddenly shouted, “Crown Prince Dan! I see Crown Prince Dan—the Dragon Slayer!”

Immediately, a crowd of players swarmed over, staring at the screen. The player had apparently pressed “inspect equipment,” then simply followed the character around so the spectators could examine the Dragon Slayer.

A group of tough youths commented and savored the moment, reluctant to leave. Within half a minute, several pulled out their phones to make calls.

“Brother X, we have someone from Server 1, Subserver 2 here—yes, Crown Prince Dan’s server, I saw the Dragon Slayer myself. Stop talking, hurry up, take a taxi over!”

Within ten minutes, groups began pouring into the café, crowding around the computer in layers. Just because the neighboring café had no Server 1, Subserver 2 players, they couldn’t witness the Dragon Slayer firsthand.

This video was discovered by Gu Cheng’s ground team during a café visit. After hearing of the event, they asked the café owner for the footage, and reportedly, the company rewarded the promoter with an extra bonus. Since then, the sales team became even more enthusiastic in collecting evidence of Legend’s explosive popularity.

The original intent was just for the market research department—Liu Shuqin and her friend Pan Jieying—to use as material for soft marketing, like submitting to gaming magazines such as Popular Software. Unexpectedly, Gu Cheng now used it to impress investors.

Sun Zhengyi was stunned.

In Japan, gaming was simply gaming—a private escape for otaku, with no social impact. Even the most passionate tech geeks might share high scores or occasional gameplay videos, nothing more.

But here, acquiring a single piece of equipment could make every player on the same screen stop and spectate; could fill an entire café with people clamoring to witness it; could even prompt players from neighboring streets to take a taxi over to see it—all unimaginable to Sun Zhengyi.

He’d invested in Sony, Yahoo, traveled across Japan and America, but had never seen such fervor.

And it didn’t stop there.

Gu Cheng continued, offering another perspective: “Mr. Sun, this video is from an event organized by a player named ‘Little Shrimp.’ He’s the leader of a guild called ‘Alliance of Yesteryear’ in Legend. While not as obsessive as Crown Prince Dan, in just half a year he’s built a guild with over two thousand members. Whenever someone needs help with events or leveling, he generously organizes assistance…”

“And this account belongs to a real-world entrepreneur named Shi Yuzhu. He developed the infamous nutrient ‘Brain Platinum,’ a notorious moneymaker. But even someone adept at swindling money couldn’t resist showing off in Legend.

He spent three thousand yuan on a premium account, twenty thousand yuan on the top-tier ‘God of War’ set and weapons, and hired two secretaries to level up around the clock. Oh, and he was among the first batch of Alipay users in the country. He bought accounts and equipment by contacting sellers in-game, then paying via Alipay…”

Sun Zhengyi felt his mind falter.

He realized that after just nine months of wild growth, Legend was no longer something that could be measured solely as a game.

Behind it lay a tangled web of society.