Chapter Six: A Brief Encounter

The two sitting in front of the computer exchanged a glance. Yin Jian felt nothing in particular; he had no idea what significance this message held. But Zhou Shun did!

Though he’d been struggling for the past two years, he had read plenty of posts where people boasted about their achievements. He was well aware of what this message meant.

His fingers trembled—this was a contract notification from the platform, something rarely seen even on the forums. In his mind, such a message was like a legendary prize he’d chased but never caught. He’d been working toward this goal for two full years. Now, even though the contract wasn’t meant for him, the excitement surged in his chest.

Because it was no longer a distant legend—it had materialized right before his eyes.

He glanced at Zhou Shun, whose expression shifted rapidly: excitement, sadness, satisfaction. Yin Jian hesitated, wondering if he should call for medical help; surely these were symptoms of some affliction.

“Should I open it?” Before Yin Jian could decide, Zhou Shun turned and asked. After all, this wasn’t his house, nor his account—it would be rude to open anything without permission.

Relieved that Zhou Shun only wanted to open the message and nothing more, Yin Jian nodded, granting the small request. He would need Zhou Shun’s help later, anyway.

“Go ahead,” he said.

Receiving the reply, Zhou Shun took a deep breath and—with trembling fingers—clicked on the envelope. His exaggerated behavior was only human; people always crave what they can’t have. And when that desire builds up, the force of its release can be terrifying.

The envelope in the upper right corner of the screen quickly expanded when Zhou Shun touched it. A freshly issued contract notification appeared before them.

“Dear Designer, your work ‘My Little World’ has passed review and meets the contract standard. Please wait for further instructions regarding the signing process. During this period, do not change the game’s name on your own; if necessary, contact your operator. Platform Operator: Stone (click to add as a friend and consult further questions).”

“Stone?” Zhou Shun’s excitement gave way to a frown as he finished reading.

“What’s wrong?” Yin Jian asked instinctively. “Is there something wrong with this operator?”

“No, nothing’s wrong. I just haven’t heard the name before—probably an apprentice operator,” Zhou Shun explained.

“Apprentice?” As Yin Jian’s face showed confusion, Zhou Shun quickly gave him a crash course on the platform’s operations department and its personnel structure.

“An apprentice operator could leave at any time, and their resources are far less than those of a formal operator. If you sign with them, you might get no recommendations at all and launch your game naked.”

Yin Jian frowned. “What happens if you launch without recommendations?”

Instead of answering directly, Zhou Shun opened the platform, pulled up a series of rankings, and pointed at their sale prices.

“Do you know why some games sell for thousands per copy, while others only fetch a few hundred or even dozens?”

“Isn’t it set by the designer?” Yin Jian ventured.

“Wrong! Completely wrong!” Zhou Shun waved his hand. “The final price is determined by how far your game gets in recommendations. First, there’s the trial recommendation—covering your planetary region. If you beat other games released around the same time and advance to a higher recommendation, your game can be priced at fifty yuan. If not, it’s capped below twenty yuan. And if you don’t even get a trial recommendation, it’s priced below ten yuan.”

“Even if your game does well after launch and breaks out of its region, the price can’t be changed. That means your ceiling is locked.”

“Someone else’s game sells a hundred copies and earns ten thousand, while yours only gets a thousand.”

After this explanation, Zhou Shun felt his throat dry, so he took a few gulps from Yin Jian’s cup before continuing, “But even if an apprentice operator is unreliable, you’re still better off than most designers. Those who can’t get contracts have to work for love alone.”

Just like me.

Zhou Shun thought this to himself, gazing at Yin Jian with a hint of envy. The other’s luck was incredible—his very first game attracted even a rookie operator.

...Wait a minute. If a newcomer’s first game could get noticed, what about me, the veteran?

Surely my contract is just around the corner! It’s settled!

Yin Jian listened thoughtfully, about to thank him, but Zhou Shun set down the cup and hurried toward the door.

“I won’t sit any longer—I just remembered something.”

Watching Zhou Shun leave in such a rush, Yin Jian blinked. He hadn’t even mentioned the matter of the rent yet—how could he leave so quickly?

Still, it was good for him; it was an awkward subject, after all.

“I’ll bring it up next time,” he muttered, moving to the door to close it.

But just as the door was about to shut, a hand caught the gap.

Yin Jian jumped—it would be terrible if he crushed someone’s hand. He quickly opened the door again, and saw Zhou Shun, sweating and panting.

Thinking he’d come back for the rent, Yin Jian prepared to explain, but Zhou Shun spoke first, gasping, “My—my—my green cap, I forgot it.”

Apparently, he’d run so fast he could hardly breathe.

Yin Jian turned and spotted the green baseball cap on the sofa. He strode over, picked it up, and handed it to Zhou Shun.

“Let’s add each other as friends. If you have any game-related questions in the future, you can ask me,” Zhou Shun said, taking the cap.

Yin Jian nodded and sent a friend request. Zhou Shun accepted, put on the cap, and prepared to leave, but then turned back with a serious expression.

“Formal operators have very high contract requirements. If you want to be a game designer, you need to keep improving yourself. This contract might be a fluke; your game’s quality wouldn’t pass with an official operator. If you want to sign your next game, remember what I said: keep reflecting on what’s lacking in your games and fix those issues next time.”

He’d seen plenty of designers on the forums who got arrogant after their first contract. They didn’t put themselves in the right place, and after failing to sign several times, their confidence shattered and they left the field entirely, which was a shame.

Seeing Yin Jian sign a contract with his first game, Zhou Shun suspected he’d develop some pride. He had to warn him, or else his path might narrow.

“...Got it.” Yin Jian nodded. The landlord’s words were blunt, but well-intentioned, so he didn’t mind.

“That’s it then, I’m off,” Zhou Shun said, rushing out once more.

Yin Jian waited at the door for a while, saw no sign of him returning, and finally closed it.

“He’s quite an interesting character,” he muttered, sitting at his desk, preparing to add this operator called Stone and have a proper conversation.

But just as he sat down, a new message arrived.

He checked carefully—it was another contract notification.

This time, from an operator named Bamboo.

“Does this count as a double yolk?” Yin Jian stared at the two notifications in his inbox, scratching his head.

Zhou Shun hadn’t mentioned anything like this. Now he really didn’t know what to make of it.