Sister Cheng was quite surprised to learn that the head of Dawn Entertainment's music division wanted to meet Chunan.

This showed she’d misunderstood. Normally, even for reviewing a newcomer’s skills, only someone from the review department would come—at most. That’s what she’d assumed initially, so she’d felt Chunan was being slighted.

But if the music division head was coming, the meaning flipped completely.

The entertainment industry was roughly split into two parts: the film/TV circle and the music circle. Many stars juggled both, sure, but most artists stuck to a clear position.

In this world’s entertainment companies, these circles were mostly separate. Yet they cooperated closely, so the distinction often didn’t matter.

Still, to truly move between both circles, you needed a bridge. And no one fit that role better than the heads managing each division.

Like the head of music or the head of film/TV.

Those in these roles ranked just below major shareholders in the entire company.

—Of course, most holding these positions also owned company shares.

So reaching this level instantly was a golden opportunity for Chunan.

If he seized it, things for Xiaohan might get done with half the effort.

Sister Cheng understood this well. After learning he wanted to enter entertainment, she’d promised to help however she could.

Stars from live streaming platforms had one big edge over others: their platform’s backing.

That was Chunan’s advantage.

After hanging up Sister Cheng’s call, Chunan was in a great mood.

He hadn’t expected things to go so smoothly. That video catching the division head’s eye meant half his Jiujiang trip goal was already done.

The other half… was about the expo.

After lunch, Chunan took Xiaohan back to the venue.

By afternoon, the game expo’s real attractions were unfolding. Only now did it truly feel like the expo had begun—for players and organizers alike.

Chunan hadn’t come just to see games. His real goal was finding collaborators.

The library’s entertainment works included games. Few were open yet, but all featured game types or concepts scarce here. He had a hunch—if made, they’d definitely become a modest hit.

Hmm, he shouldn’t get overexcited.

His chosen partner was a small studio: Bamboo Blade.

Most members were young, just a few years older than Chunan. Their passion still burned bright, all dreaming of leaving their mark on gaming.

So far, they’d released five indie games. All got great reviews but flopped commercially.

Chunan met them through a collab. They’d wanted streamers to promote their game; he found it interesting and took the gig. Playing it, he saw their games were well-crafted but… simply not fun.

Their design ideas were solid, but execution lagged—not technically, but in how they brought concepts to life.

Chunan, seasoned by countless games from his past life, had strong opinions. After the collab, he chatted with them often, leaving them stunned.

As they put it… Chunan being a streamer instead of a game dev was a waste of talent.

To that, he’d just smiled back then.

So when they heard he wanted to co-develop games now, they were thrilled.

Bamboo Blade had a booth at the expo too. But as a small studio, they didn’t expect crowds. Chunan wandered with the map for ages before finding it—and saw the tiny booth swarmed.

Xiaohan glanced at nearby booths, deserted by comparison, and asked blankly, “Why’s this spot so packed?”

“Probably a fun new game demo,” Chunan said, live-streaming as he took her hand and headed over. To viewers, he added, “Remember Bamboo Blade studio? They once threw me a commercial gig.”

Most chat replies were positive, making him happy—it proved his viewers were loyal old fans.

Xiaohan paused slightly. “Did you really hit rock bottom before? Begging studios for meals?”

Chunan: “…”

“Why not tell me?” Her expression turned serious. “I have savings. Not much… but enough for two on instant noodles. You didn’t need to qiafan elsewhere.”

Chunan cut in, “It’s slang. ‘Qiafan’ means commercial collabs. Got it?”

Xiaohan: “…Oh.”

She pouted. “Weird term. Sounds like begging.”

“Heh, streamers basically beg,” Chunan joked lightly, patting her head. “Viewers tip when happy—we eat well. Upset them? Starve.” He’d meant to pat her shoulder but forgot her height had shrunk. “Don’t worry. Dad’s loaded now. I’ll feed you. No begging needed.”

Patted twice, Xiaohan looked stunned—unused to this—but didn’t pull away. “I know. And if you go broke, my savings can last a while. So give me extra cash later. Call it my bankruptcy fund.”

Chunan smiled but didn’t reply.