After seeing him off, Li Xuan’s IV bag was about finished. The nurse removed the needle and reminded him that in six hours, he’d need another bag. Li Xuan’s face immediately darkened.
“Is he gone?” he asked when he saw Qi Boyuan.
“He’s gone,” Qi Boyuan replied, waiting for the nurse to leave and closing the door. “What do you think?”
“What do you think?” Li Xuan asked back.
Qi Boyuan thought for a moment, then said, “He’s a bit different from what I expected. You made a scene earlier, and most people would have thought you were trying to intimidate him, but he still insisted on taking you to the hospital. As for whether it’s sincere or not, I can’t really tell. It’s half and half… But let me ask you, why did you pass the ball to me?”
“He’s got a big heart,” Li Xuan said briefly. “The benefits are all laid out on the table.”
“What kind of evaluation is that? Is it good or not?”
“Hard to say, let’s wait and see.”
Sitting for too long with the IV was making Li Xuan’s back numb. He stretched lazily, and Qi Boyuan, seeing that his response was essentially noncommittal, moved closer. “Regardless of Song Wen, we really need to discuss the financing. What do you think?”
“Not for now.”
“What about the new game?”
Even with the success of ‘Nook’, they couldn’t just keep relying on it. Last week, Li Xuan had secretly met with Chu Tianheng. They’d finished the framework for ‘Nook’s’ later updates, including plans for new scenes. Over the next two weeks, they’d complete the rest of the important maps, ensuring content for at least a year. After the summer rush, ‘Nook’ would be handed over to Chu Tianheng, and Li Xuan’s focus would shift to the new game.
The new game was tentatively named ‘Reverse Track’, and Li Xuan hadn’t leaked any information beforehand. By the time they had the meeting, the initial draft of the plan was already done. Qi Boyuan didn’t even know how Li Xuan found the time to work on it. Unlike ‘Nook’, which was small and polished, ‘Reverse Track’ would be an action-adventure game, the most competitive genre in the market right now.
“What do you mean?” Li Xuan tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t you hear in the meeting?”
“I’ve run the numbers,” Qi Boyuan said. “‘Nook’s’ revenue can basically cover the company’s daily operations. If we squeeze a little, we could allocate some for the new game, but Li Xuan, action games are expensive to make. And back then, you had already made the demo for ‘Nook,’ but this one is still in its early stages. It’ll take at least a year to launch, and during that time, it won’t generate any revenue.”
“Six months,” Li Xuan said casually, but with a tone of certainty. “At most, I can get it live in six months.”
“Are you joking?” Qi Boyuan was surprised.
“Is it funny?” Li Xuan asked in return. “Just don’t worry about it. Focus on ‘Nook.'”
“You’re the boss; how can I stop you?” Qi Boyuan frowned, eyeing Li Xuan again to make sure he wasn’t joking. “Six months… impossible.”
“Which of my words haven’t come true?” Li Xuan asked, raising an eyebrow.
At least in terms of work, they had all come to pass.
“Alright, alright.” Qi Boyuan was rendered speechless, pulling out his phone to tap away furiously on the calculator. “Even if it’s six months, even assuming ‘Nook’ maintains its current growth rate, we’re still going to have funding issues.” He couldn’t help but sigh as he continued, “Do you think I’m happy about considering investment? Don’t I know that once we bring in investors, we’ll lose the operational freedom we have now? …How about we postpone the new game for a few months, push it to next spring? It’s not like it’s unheard of for a studio of our size to rely on one game for years. Plenty of people milk a single game for as long as they can…”
Qi Boyuan had already brought this up at the last meeting, but Li Xuan’s stance was as firm as ever: “We can’t wait. Do you know how many game studios are out there right now? Forget next year—even the situation shifts daily. Just because others cling to one game doesn’t mean I will, and honestly, not many of those survive long-term; most fail early. If you want to work at a company built for retirement, why did you start this venture with me? With your qualifications, even the salary I’m paying you now is easily doubled elsewhere.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t join me to coast to retirement, and I won’t let anything like that happen at Yuan Yi.”
When it came to work, Li Xuan always had a way of convincing Qi Boyuan. Most of the time, he didn’t even need to say much. His wildly idealistic ideas and audacious ambitions made you question if he was insane—or if your own perspective was simply too limited.
If he weren’t an IT genius, he might’ve ended up running a pyramid scheme.
“If you insist on starting the new game, fine.” Qi Boyuan relented, as he had so many times before. He tapped the calculator a few more times and shoved the screen in front of Li Xuan’s face. “But we need at least this amount prepared.”
Li Xuan glanced at the screen, his expression relaxed. “Sounds about right.”
“What do you mean by ‘sounds about right’? Are you funding it yourself?”
Li Xuan rubbed his temples and gave a simple “Mm.” He had already run the numbers. Over his years of tireless freelancing during university, he had accumulated enough cash, stocks, and property to cover the projected shortfall for the new game.
“You’d better have double that amount.”
“I don’t.”
Li Xuan’s reply was crisp, and as Qi Boyuan’s expression soured, he slowly added, “If I told you I had double, you’d demand triple. It’s a never-ending cycle. No point.”
Alarm bells went off in Qi Boyuan’s mind. “What do you mean, ‘no point’? You’re not leaving any safety margin? If things are this tight, there’s no room for any unforeseen events.” He sighed, regretting the day he volunteered to handle finances. Adjusting his glasses, he pressed on, “And let’s not forget that Yuanxin is still keeping an eye on us. Didn’t you say there might be other issues? If something really happens, how are we supposed to manage? …Like last week when our servers got attacked. You think I don’t know just because you fixed it all?”
“Exactly—I fixed it. Whatever comes up, I can handle it.” Li Xuan’s tone was steady, his expression casual. “Why bother with safety nets? Fortune favors the bold.”
“You’re not chasing fortune—you’re chasing adrenaline. If you wanted to secure wealth, you’d take the investment and stop while you’re ahead. What you’re doing is thrill-seeking.”
“Thrill-seeking?” Li Xuan chuckled, his eyes gleaming like a wolf spotting its prey on the desolate plains.
That look sent shivers down Qi Boyuan’s spine, but he couldn’t deny it was the same daring energy that had convinced him to abandon grad school and go all in with Li Xuan on this startup.
“Stop obsessing over the budget.” Li Xuan yawned lightly, covering his mouth with a hand. “We won’t hire anyone else for the next six months. The budget can be trimmed further.”
“No new hires?! Six months to launch, and you’re writing it all yourself? What, do you have forty-eight hours in a day?”
“When I can’t finish, I’ll put you to work.” Li Xuan smirked. “If you’re in the mood for calculations, why not count how much cash you still have? If we really run out, you can chip in. Sell some stock if you have to.”
Qi Boyuan glared at him. “You call me scheming, but you’ve got more tricks up your sleeve than anyone else. Why don’t you include Senior’s savings in your plan?”
“I already have.” Li Xuan nodded at the number on the phone screen.
Qi Boyuan was left speechless. “…You’re unbelievable. Even Senior, as level-headed as he is, falls for your tricks… Fine. I can’t win an argument with you. At least let me make a final statement as a rebuttal, okay? A closing argument?”
Li Xuan gestured for him to proceed.
“If you’re dead set against investment, fine. But we should keep some connections with potential investors as a contingency. If—and I mean if—we face a cash crunch later, having options is better than scrambling at the last minute. Those two VCs you rejected last month? Their managers are still in contact with me. We can feel out their interest, like we did today.”
“Sure.” Li Xuan nodded. “You handle it.”
“Do you mean you?”
“No. Meeting even one investor is exhausting. Whoever suggests it does it. End of discussion.” Li Xuan was decisive. “Anything else to talk about? If not, let’s head back to the office. There’s a lot of work, and Senior can’t handle it all on his own.”
Qi Boyuan couldn’t argue with that; dumping everything on Chu Tianheng was indeed unfair. “Fine.”
“Don’t forget to have someone send me my laptop.”
“With that hand of yours…”
“My fingers are fine.”
Fine wasn’t the word for it. The cut was shallow enough not to require stitches, but it was far from nothing.
“You’re practically indestructible.” Qi Boyuan shook his head. At the door, he turned back as Li Xuan called out to him. Exasperated, he asked, “What now? Want me to bring you a desktop tower for maximum productivity?”
Li Xuan ignored the sarcasm. “If you’re following up with investors, keep in touch with Song Wen. No need to shut that door completely… Play along—it’s your specialty. He’s more interesting than those corporate types.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Qi Boyuan muttered curses under his breath but nodded. “Got it.”
Before leaving, Qi Boyuan didn’t forget to order a meal for him. When it was delivered, Li Xuan was browsing the recent comments about ‘Nook’ on the game forums.
The server placed the meal box down, but Li Xuan paid no attention. Still staring at the screen, he grabbed the bowl and took a sip of soup, only to frown immediately.
Hospital meals were either light or extremely nourishing. Qi Boyuan had obviously chosen the latter. The soup, simmered with pig stomach and pork bones, was filled with herbs like Angelica and white peony root—It was a concoction that reminded him of someone he used to know, someone who also loved to make such soups. Wherever she went, the air seemed perpetually filled with the smell of traditional Chinese medicine.
“You need to nourish yourself to recover properly,” Shu Xin would always say.
Li Xuan abruptly stood and rushed to the bathroom, suppressing his gag reflex as he vomited everything.
He hadn’t eaten much to begin with, and now his empty stomach churned painfully. Leaning on the sink to catch his breath, the nausea finally subsided. After leaving the Li family, he seldom thought of Shu Xin. Compared to Li Mingge, Li Xuan had always considered her the less crazy one.
But maybe it was the soup. Shu Xin’s eyes suddenly surfaced in his mind—deeply sunken into her skinny face, her gaze suffocating.
“I know she loves me, but sometimes I feel like she hates me,” Li Xuan heard that voice again. “But if tomorrow I don’t make it off the operating table, I still hope you can take care of her for me.”
A self-fulfilling prophecy.
Li Xuan forcefully shook his head. He had repaid everything he owed long ago. These memories no longer concerned him.
Checking his phone, he noted the date. It had been nearly a month since the last “threat.” In the meantime, Nook’s servers had been attacked by hackers three times, each incident employing skilled professionals who clearly had substantial backing. Fortunately, his proactive security measures had held strong.
The bigger the tree, the more it catches the wind. Li Xuan knew ‘Nook’ had attracted many eyes, not just Li Mingge’s. Yet, few would go to such lengths without personal grievances.
Li Mingge hadn’t given up trying to coerce him into returning, still waiting for him to relent—because Shu Xin needed her “son.”
No reminders were necessary. Li Xuan never forgot the sword hanging over his head, but he also never truly cared.
Threats? So what? In the mirror, his face remained expressionless. Qi Boyuan’s concerns might hold some truth—this wasn’t the best time to start a new game. But Li Xuan had made his decision and chosen his path. No one and nothing, including Li Mingge, could alter it.
He poured the entire bowl of soup down the sink. Some water soaked into the bandage on his hand, so he called a nurse to rewrap it.
“You shouldn’t let it get wet.” This time, it was a middle-aged nurse who, as she replaced the bandage, nagged incessantly about precautions—more talkative than the doctor who stitched his hand.
“Are you done? Thank you,” Li Xuan interrupted her, sounding weary. “I’d like to rest now.”
“Go ahead and sleep.” Misunderstanding him, the nurse put away the medical kit. Perhaps out of pity for his solitary state, she thoughtfully closed the curtains for him.
Li Xuan hadn’t intended to sleep, but the dimmed room stirred his exhaustion from days of inadequate rest. Before he knew it, he had dozed off, slumped awkwardly in the chair.
It was a deep but uneasy sleep. The moment his phone rang, his consciousness snapped awake, though his eyelids felt heavy. It took him a while to fumble for his phone and press the answer button. The voice on the other end was familiar.
“Hello, Li Xuan?”
His sleepiness vanished instantly. He glanced at the caller ID.
“…Yang Xu?”
