Today was Monday—the day the gaming platform distributed revenue shares and also the system's settlement day.
It should've been a day Pei Qian eagerly looked forward to. Yet, at this moment, he felt utterly defeated and nearly on the verge of tears.
The 50,000 yuan he had counted on so confidently had slipped through his fingers!
Still, he couldn't escape reality.
Though Pei Qian didn't voluntarily summon the system's interface, perhaps due to the scheduled settlement, it appeared automatically before him:
[Wealth Conversion System]
[Host: Pei Qian]
[Profit Conversion Ratio: 100:1 | Loss Conversion Ratio: 1:1]
[Settlement in Progress]
[System Funds: 125,463.5 yuan (↑75,463.5)]
[Personal Assets: 153 yuan]
[Calculating Wealth Conversion—]
[System Funds: 125,463.5 yuan]
[Personal Assets: 907.6 yuan (↑754.6)]
Seeing these numbers, Pei Qian collapsed onto his bed like a lifeless fish, his dreams shattered completely.
In just two weeks, the game had sold more than 200,000 copies!
For any normal game developer, this would be an unbelievable, dream-like achievement—the kind of success worth bragging about for a lifetime!
But for Pei Qian, this was nothing short of a nightmare.
New messages continued appearing on the interface:
[Next Settlement Date: 30 days later]
[System Funds Being Replenished, Target Amount: 300,000 yuan]
[Adding 174,536.5 yuan to System Funds—]
[Replenishment Complete.]
[Current System Funds: 300,000 yuan]
[Personal Assets: 907.6 yuan]
Pei Qian felt his soul leaving his body. It was as if his dreams had truly died.
This was just adding insult to injury!
When settling accounts, the 75,000 yuan profit only converted into around 750 yuan—a result already painful enough.
Initially, he'd comforted himself by reasoning that he could at least invest this extra system money in the next round and lose even more later on.
But now, Pei Qian realized that after each settlement, the system replenished the company's funds up to a set minimum amount.
The first time, it had been 50,000 yuan; this time, it had jumped to 300,000 yuan.
No matter how much money he had—whether 10,000 or 290,000—the system would always top it back up to that minimum of 300,000!
The previous stage's profit or loss didn't affect the next stage's initial capital unless he could have increased funds beyond that threshold by himself.
Pei Qian couldn't even calculate how much he'd effectively lost this time around. He just felt a deep, heart-wrenching pain.
"Look on the bright side," he tried comforting himself weakly. "At least I've earned an extra 700 yuan to slightly improve my quality of life…"
Looking at the 300,000 yuan in system funds, Pei Qian drooled with envy. Unfortunately, he couldn't freely spend this money.
Out of curiosity, Pei Qian checked his personal bank account online and confirmed an increase of precisely 754.6 yuan, matching exactly the number shown by the system.
Oddly enough, there was no trace of any transfer. It was as if his bank balance had automatically updated itself.
He was starting to understand how the system operated.
The system's powerful capability was directly modifying balances in both the company's and his personal bank accounts, without arousing suspicion from anyone or any institution.
Initially, the system-provided 50,000 yuan had appeared directly in the Tengda Network Technology Co., Ltd. account. As the company's owner, Pei Qian could freely spend that money investing in any business he chose.
Yet, if Pei Qian attempted anything improper—such as spending company funds on personal expenses or leisurely activities—the system would immediately retract the funds, terminate the current wealth conversion cycle, or even sever ties with Pei Qian entirely.
The specific determination of what constituted improper use was at the system's discretion, but generally followed common-sense rules.
For example, while Pei Qian couldn't use the money to treat friends to personal dinners, spending it on official company meals or team-building events was perfectly acceptable.
Once the game made money, revenue from the gaming platform would naturally flow into the company's account—just like any other game company. But even then, Pei Qian couldn't freely spend it!
During each settlement, the system calculated company account changes and converted the profit or loss into Pei Qian's personal assets according to set ratios, directly adjusting his bank account balance.
Only those funds transferred directly to his personal account were freely spendable without any system restrictions.
"The next settlement is in one month."
"I absolutely must find a way to lose the entire 300,000 yuan this time—not even a single cent can remain!"
Pei Qian bolted upright from his bed and opened his laptop, hurriedly searching online: "How to lose money fast."
All the search results, however, frustratingly returned advice on "how not to lose money."
"Useless search engine!" Pei Qian lamented, tilting his head back in despair.
"Afternoon classes are canceled today—let's game!" someone called out in the dormitory, prompting enthusiastic responses from others.
Ma Yang once again leaned down from the upper bunk. "Brother Qian, are you joining us? You've been skipping our gaming sessions for a long time. Seeing you all gloomy recently… did something happen with your love life?"
Love life, my foot! Pei Qian grumbled internally. This was far more serious than romance—he'd lost out on 50,000 yuan of free cash!
Yet Pei Qian couldn't explain or discuss his real worries.
After all, the system explicitly forbade him from revealing or even hinting at its existence to anyone.
"Fine, I'll join you guys for one match," Pei Qian sighed, opening his laptop and launching Divine Revelation.
Earlier, Pei Qian had looked into this game and discovered it was similar to DOTA. While he wasn't a pro, he wasn't terrible either.
Given his understanding of similar games from his previous life, he figured he'd easily carry at least a few casual dorm matches.
Ma Yang cheered excitedly, "With Brother Qian joining us, we'll definitely crush the dorm next door!"
Soon, the room filled with the frantic clicking of keyboards and mice, punctuated by occasional shouts:
"NICE!"
"You're amazing!"
"Epic play!"
"Ma Yang, where the heck are you?!"
"Stop farming creeps, Ma Yang! Why are you never around during team fights?!"
Immersed in the tense and exciting game, Pei Qian momentarily forgot the painful loss of his fifty thousand yuan.
Though unfamiliar with the specific mechanics of Divine Revelation, Pei Qian's skills translated smoothly, allowing him to easily dominate the game.
Thirty minutes later:
"Defeat!"
Pei Qian stared blankly at his exploded base on-screen, then glanced at his personal stats in the corner:
11-2-7
"How… did we still lose this…"
Pei Qian felt nauseated.
He'd clearly been playing extremely well, dominating the early game effortlessly.
Yet somehow, as the mid-game progressed, the situation slowly fell apart, culminating in one disastrous team fight that allowed the enemy team to push straight to victory.
Pei Qian's eyes scanned the stats of his teammates, immediately catching sight of Ma Yang's remarkably consistent "2-2-2" record.
Unfortunately, Divine Revelation didn't display participation rate statistics, but Pei Qian imagined Ma Yang's would be horrifyingly low.
Thinking back carefully over the battle moments earlier…
It really did feel like they'd been playing 4v5 the entire time.
When the enemy team grouped up to pick someone off, Ma Yang was busy farming the lane.
When the enemy team contested critical resources, Ma Yang happily snuck away to steal minor jungle camps.
When teammates got ganked, Ma Yang would belatedly call out, "Enemies missing," then return to farming immediately afterward.
Ah… exhausting.
Ma Yang let out a regretful sigh. "Too bad we lost."
Leaning down from the upper bunk again, he turned toward Pei Qian. "Brother Qian, don't just get fat by yourself next time—you've gotta carry us!"
Pei Qian nearly coughed up blood.
I wasn't carrying enough?!
What else did you expect? That I hack the game and blow up the enemy base with a single skill?
But Pei Qian didn't argue. After all, he knew Ma Yang was just that kind of person.
Ma Yang didn't intentionally cause problems—he was simply naturally terrible at everything he tried.
He wasn't particularly bad at anything, but he certainly wasn't good either.
He was the perfect embodiment of mediocrity—low ceiling, moderately low floor.
In Pei Qian's memories of their university days, Ma Yang actively participated in student clubs, diligently ran errands for teachers, and rarely skipped classes.
Yet by graduation, he'd gained absolutely no benefits, landed no good job offers, and ultimately returned to his hometown to work at a job arranged by his parents.
Certainly, everyone had their own ambitions, and such a choice wasn't necessarily bad. But it definitely couldn't be considered good either.
In terms of gaming, Ma Yang was similarly stuck in limbo.
You couldn't say he was good—his reaction times were always slightly delayed, and he'd never managed to carry a single match in years.
But you also couldn't outright call him terrible. He somehow always muddled through games, ending with scores that seemed okay enough to avoid criticism.
His skill level showed no potential for improvement, yet somehow had no room to worsen either.
He was just… inherently mediocre.
This reminded Pei Qian of the famous "Silver-ranked players are terminally ill" quote by Otto. Why even bother arguing with people like Ma Yang?
Wait.
Pei Qian suddenly had a realization.
He'd just described Ma Yang as a naturally mediocre person who would never accomplish anything noteworthy, someone who excelled only at dragging down his teammates.
Wasn't this exactly the kind of "talent" he desperately needed?!