Chapter 94: "President Pei's Daily Life" Goes Viral!
Back in his room, Pei Qian felt as if he had just taken a historic step forward.
In a sense… he had shattered Old Pei's prejudice!
Pei Qian knew well—if he had come clean to Old Pei directly, things would've been way messier.
But now? With Director Zhu delivering the message on his behalf, there was no personal stake, no hidden agenda. It sounded so much more convincing!
And sure enough, Old Pei accepted it.
Has his bias against video games completely vanished? Not quite.
But at the very least, he now acknowledged that not all games were created equal. Just like movies or novels, some games could be good, even wholesome.
That alone was a huge win!
Pei Qian was already making plans.
Once he made a game he could be proud of, he'd hand it over to Old Pei to try out. When the old man inevitably got hooked, that would be the perfect time to confess everything!
By then, Old Pei would have no choice but to accept the truth!
. . . . . . . .
Now that things had settled down, Pei Qian finally had a chance to check the comment section beneath the video.
At this point in time, Sweet Potato Video didn't have a bullet comment (danmaku) feature yet. That wouldn't happen for another two years.
Even if it did get implemented, it wouldn't matter—Sweet Potato would soon be outpaced by newer platforms and fade into obscurity.
Still, for now, it remained one of the video giants, hosting tons of quality content creators.
The comment section under President Pei's Daily Life was bursting with replies.
Sure, a few nitpickers popped up here and there, but overall? Overwhelming praise!
"Thought it was just another short video, but turns out it had way more depth. Absurd, hilarious, but oddly familiar… gave me chills."
"That young actor is amazing! Nailed the role of a rich, clueless nouveau riche. So natural! He makes those pretty-boy idols look like amateurs!"
"Brilliant use of dark comedy to reflect society. It really makes you think. The satire on industry chaos is biting and clever!"
"The expressions were spot on—filled with disdain for the mundane. Is this what the world of the rich looks like?"
"President Pei's vibes are off the charts. The lazy sprawl on the couch? Like a real CEO chilling in his lair. That's Best Actor material! I'm a fan now!"
"The guy above deleted every bracket from the script? That's some serious commitment to the role!"
"Sure, it looked low-budget—probably shot with a DSLR—but the depth and message? Miles better than all those flashy, effects-heavy shorts!"
"Low budget? Are you kidding me? That suit and watch alone cost a fortune! I zoomed in on the close-up—it's a real Rolex, not some knockoff!"
"Bet the budget was 200k, and 180k went into that watch. LOL"
"They mentioned spending 50k on a game where you drive for eight hours straight… could that be Lonely Desert Road?"
"Wait, the video ties into real events too? That's next-level meta!"
"Probably inspired by reality, right?"
"Honestly, it wouldn't surprise me if that game was made just like that!"
"Come on, no way. That's artistic exaggeration, alright? Lonely Desert Road may be silly, but the designer clearly put a lot of heart into it!"
. . . . . . . .
The buzz was only just beginning. Pei Qian could feel it in his bones.
And yet, all he could think was:
Oh no… not again.
The netizens in the comments were absolute clowns — their imaginations running wild. Plenty of them even began linking this short video to Tengda.
But suspicions were just that: suspicions. No solid proof, no waves made.
After all, Pei Qian always released games under the name Tengda Network Technologies Ltd. Unless someone dug into the company's legal registry, no one would ever know its owner was Pei Qian — let alone connect him to the guy acting in the video.
And right now?
Good luck digging. In this world, it was still 2010. Platforms like "Tianyancha" wouldn't exist for another four years.
So most viewers simply assumed Pei Qian was some up-and-coming young actor.
Of course, there were still a few trolls lurking in the comments:
"Low-effort garbage. Makes no sense at all!"
"This video's hilarious. The creator clearly has no clue! You think all big bosses wear custom suits and Rolexes? That's just a tired stereotype. Real bosses wear polo shirts and cargo shorts, alright?"
"Yeah, and 50,000 yuan to make a hit game? What a joke. Clout-chasing much? Even Lonely Desert Road had a higher budget than that!"
"Honestly, someone older should've played President Pei. The guy did a decent job, but he just looks too young. Doesn't feel realistic."
Though this kind of feedback was in the minority… it wasn't insignificant.
But Pei Qian? He didn't care.
"Tsk, people's imagination is just way too limited."
"I wouldn't believe you could make a hit game for 50,000 yuan either, but it happened! Who am I supposed to complain to about that?!"
Still, he kept a close eye on the video's view count.
And the trend… was not looking good.
At first, he'd clung to a sliver of hope:
What if people didn't like it? What if they were turned off by all the flexing and rich-guy vibes?
But nope. No such luck.
Now Pei Qian had only one prayer left:
Please, Director Zhu — do NOT accept any sponsored ads!
As long as there was no ad revenue, no matter how many views it racked up, it wouldn't convert into actual profit!
. . . . . . . .
Lunar New Year:
Day 5
President Pei's Daily Life updated with Episode 2.
Day 7
Pei Qian left home and returned to work.
He had originally wanted to replace all the old home appliances with new ones, but his parents flat-out refused.
To them, it was great that their son was earning money, but he'd only made 30,000 yuan — better to save it than blow it on unnecessary spending.
Pei Qian had no choice but to wait.
He figured he'd eventually haul the appliances over without asking. Once they were installed, it'd be too late to return them — his parents might grumble, but they'd still use them.
That was his ace-in-the-hole strategy.
Technically, he could've stayed home until winter break ended. But he had a company to oversee.
Not because he was afraid the projects would flop.
No.
He was afraid they wouldn't.
Last time, he managed to lose over 20,000 yuan. That taste of failure was sweet. This time, he was aiming higher. He wanted to burn through 700 or 800 grand.
Then he'd go back to his parents and say,
"That short video made me rich. So now I'm splurging on you guys."
At that point, they'd have no grounds to argue.
Perfect plan. Absolutely airtight.
. . . . . . . .
February 22
Episode 3 of President Pei's Daily Life went live.
Pei Qian opened it up with a heavy heart…
Each of the three videos had broken the 500,000 views mark.
What had once been a tiny account with only two or three hundred followers was now gaining fans by the minute.
And now? It was climbing the front page of Sweet Potato Video — prime recommendation spots, with clear signs of spillover onto platforms like Weibo and beyond.
Pei Qian silently closed the video.
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm.
"It's fine. Just a short video. Nothing to panic about…"
He'd already thrown a full one million yuan into this project. It'd take a miracle to break even.
And who said they were guaranteed to land sponsored deals? Even if they did, the price probably wouldn't be that high… right?
That's what Pei Qian kept telling himself.
Just as he was lost in these comforting lies, he vaguely heard voices drifting in from the office outside.
"Director Zhu's here!"
"Hey, Director Zhu! The video's a hit! Are you treating us to dinner or what?"
"Director Zhu, when are you gonna give me my own video segment?"
Truth was, most of the company's staff had appeared in the series already.
Take Xiao Lu, for example — he had a ton of screen time. In the very first episode, the intern who supposedly made a bestselling game with just 50,000 yuan? That was him.
Sure, no one was being paid much in terms of acting fees, but the enthusiasm was sky-high.
Money wasn't the point. After all, no matter how much Director Zhu paid, it couldn't possibly top Pei Qian's salaries.
The real value?
Face time. Exposure.
Who wouldn't want to be internet-famous?
So now that Zhu Xiaoce had shown up at the office, everyone swarmed him with friendly chatter and… strategic networking.
They all hoped to snag more screen time in future episodes — or better yet, get their own spinoff short series. Stuff like:
"A Day in the Life of President Pei's Intern"
Director Zhu, still holding his DSLR, smiled and gave his usual diplomatic reassurances.
"Don't worry! Everyone's gonna get more screen time in the upcoming episodes!"
"Eventually, each of you will have your own mini-series!"
"But hey, make sure you're still doing your actual jobs, alright? Or else President Pei's gonna have my head."
After pacifying the crowd with a few choice promises, Zhu Xiaoce finally arrived at the door to Pei Qian's office.
He knocked softly.
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