Chapter 91: A Perfect Match
Lu Mingliang's eyes lit up—this was exactly the concept artist he'd been searching for!
The high price? Not an issue at all. President Pei had explicitly asked for the most expensive ones.
The most important thing was that this artist had already earned President Pei's seal of approval!
Ghost General's iconic art direction had been his work!
If he hired this guy, President Pei would definitely be pleased.
With that in mind, Lu Mingliang immediately messaged Ruan Guangjian.
. . . . . . .
At that moment, Ruan Guangjian was relaxing at home.
As a senior university student, most of his classmates were scrambling to prepare for job hunting after the New Year holiday.
But not him.
Multiple top-tier companies were already fighting over him.
Ghost General had catapulted him into fame. Now, pretty much everyone in China's concept art scene knew his name.
That game had proven just how popular and promising his unique Epic Ink-and-Oil Painting style could be.
MMORPG developers from major studios had thrown olive branches his way, eager for him to lead concept design on new titles—characters, environments, entire worlds.
Even on the asset platform, dozens of illustrators were hoping to collaborate with him, offering to let him lead on art direction.
But Ruan Guangjian had turned down almost all of them.
He had a different vision.
After graduation, he planned to open his own art studio and bring in a few of his dormmates to start a business together.
He was off to such a great start that he could afford to skip freelancing altogether and go straight to entrepreneurship.
His asking price on the platform had skyrocketed, and he now stood proudly among the highest-paid concept designers on the site—all thanks to Ghost General.
Lately, he'd only been taking on a few low-effort, high-paying jobs—wanting to enjoy his last semester and prepare for his studio launch.
At that moment, he was casually working on a promotional illustration for a mid-sized game company.
Just a single image—but the fee?
100,000 yuan.
Of course, the quality of the illustration had to be extremely high. Even working fast, it would take a week; slowly, it might take two.
But this was proof of how far he'd come.
He wasn't busy during the holiday anyway, so he'd accepted the commission. A leisurely two-week job for a six-figure paycheck—what's not to love?
He opened the asset platform and saw a few new messages had come in.
Out of habit, he clicked through them one by one, giving each a quick glance before closing.
Most were jobs he wasn't interested in.
He wasn't planning to accept much work anyway.
Suddenly, Ruan Guangjian's eyes caught on a particularly striking message.
It was from Tengda Network Technology Co., Ltd.
Of course he remembered that name—that was the very studio behind Ghost General!
He still vividly recalled how generous and accommodating President Pei had been during development. Not only had President Pei given him full creative freedom without the slightest interference, he had even paid extra on top of the agreed amount!
Other job offers? Easy to refuse.
But a job from President Pei? Absolutely not. That was sacred.
After all, Pei Qian had practically discovered him.
If it hadn't been for Ghost General, Ruan might still be grinding out portfolios, desperately searching for a job like any other struggling graduate.
More importantly, working with President Pei has always been a win-win. A great game brought prestige to its artist as well—and at that point, money was secondary.
Ruan Guangjian responded immediately.
To his surprise, the person reaching out wasn't President Pei himself, nor even one of the later Ocean Fortress leads. It was someone completely new: Lu Mingliang, recently promoted to Lead Executive Designer.
Damn, they cycle through talent fast around here.
After exchanging a few messages, Ruan Guangjian got an update on Tengda's recent activities.
In short? Business was booming.
Back when Ghost General was in development, Tengda had still been a modest indie studio at best. Pei Qian himself had barely counted as a full-fledged game dev.
But now? Tengda had scaled up considerably. After the smash success of Ocean Fortress, they were already rolling out another new project—
—the very one Lu Mingliang wanted to collaborate with him on: Game Producer.
Ruan Guangjian paused for a moment before responding.
"Could I take a quick look at the basic design doc first?"
"No offense intended," he added quickly. "I mean, I would never turn down one of President Pei's projects. I just don't want to overpromise."
"I'm only asking because I'm worried my skills might not be up to par. If I can pull it off, I'll take the job myself. But if I can't, I'll personally recommend someone in the circle who's better suited."
Lu Mingliang swiftly sent over the document.
Ruan Guangjian skimmed it—and instantly slapped the desk in admiration.
Now this... this was classic Pei Qian.
The concept was wildly imaginative.
Even though Ruan Guangjian wasn't an expert in game design, he could still sense the biting satire, the pitch-black humor embedded in every mechanic.
This wasn't some shallow game that pandered to players with easy dopamine.
It looked like it was trolling the player at every turn—but in truth, it was putting players in the shoes of game devs themselves, laying bare the absurdities and dysfunctions of the entire industry!
It wasn't just entertainment.
It was art.
And the visual transformation of abstract ideas into concrete imagery within the game?
Absolutely essential for expressing that sense of artistry.
And as it happened, that was exactly Ruan Guangjian's specialty.
Perfect.
After a moment of thought, Ruan made up his mind.
"Alright, I'm taking the job!"
"President Pei's projects—I'd never refuse!"
"As for the pay... no need to go by market rates. I still remember how President Pei voluntarily raised my fee last time. I owe him. Just give me something to cover the effort—this one's personal."
A fire ignited in Ruan's chest.
Working for other companies? That was just work.
But working for President Pei? That was an artistic calling.
A subject like this—it was practically begging to let his talent shine.
The two of them hit it off immediately, and agreed to officially start work after the Spring Festival. The first task? Creating the game's most important concept design illustrations.
. . . . . . .
February 12th.
It was almost Chinese New Year 2010. All matters at the company had been sorted out, and the seven-day holiday was about to begin.
Pei Qian had already packed up and was getting ready to head home.
His parents were alive and well, and in good health.
That said, they had always subscribed to a laissez-faire parenting style—and as a result, weren't exactly a strong presence in his life.
In the days immediately after his return, Pei Qian had made a call to check on them. After confirming they were fine, he hadn't followed up since.
As for his startup and the game company?
He hadn't told them anything.
There were two reasons for this.
First, how was he supposed to explain where the initial 50,000 yuan came from?
His monthly allowance was just 1,000—barely enough to eat. No way he could've saved up 50,000 to start a company and develop a game.
What was he going to say? That he took out a shady naked loan?
Second, his father—Old Pei—was extremely traditional, bordering on rigid.
And when it came to video games? He had a serious grudge.
Pei Qian still remembered that time at a family dinner, when his father drunkenly declared:
"Games are a menace to society! They should be banned, all of them!"
Sure, 70% of it was drunken bluster… but the remaining 30%? That was his honest belief.
Old Pei was the kind of parent who represented a whole generation—one responsible for fueling the moral panic that led to "anti-gaming boot camps."
Of course, Old Pei wasn't out there exploiting parents and kids like those so-called "experts" profiting off addiction panic.
He was just… from another time.
A generational gap, plain and simple.
But even so, if Pei Qian told his parents he'd started a game company, made money, and was selling flashy 888-yuan skins?
Yeah, no doubt about it—a storm would hit that household.
The very thought gave Pei a headache.
In the spirit of "less trouble is better than more," he decided: best to keep it under wraps for now.
<+>
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