The second day of the game expo was packed with even more people than yesterday.

On day one, exhibitors mostly sought investments. Only from day two did the expo truly serve players. This unspoken KR Game Expo rule was clear to all.

Many skipped day one entirely. They saved time and dove straight into the expo’s highlights.

Even Chunan’s live stream drew far more viewers today.

Yet amid the excitement, Chunan yawned fifty-seven times in just a few morning hours. Don’t ask how he knew—the chat had a counter.

The chat flooded:

“Brother Chu, bad sleep last night? That’s 57 yawns!”

“Yawn #58!”

“Okay, 58 now.”

“Rest well, Brother Chu! Mom’s heart aches.”

“No ‘Mom Nan’! Did Mrs. Chu not care for you? She looks so energetic.”

“Newbie! No girlfriend, huh? This screams ‘marital duties’—and multiple rounds!”

Chunan finally cut in: “Hey, stop nonsense! Xiaohan and I just… yawn… played games half the night.”

The chat fired back:

“We get it—you booked a room and played Dou Di Zhu all night, right?”

“We know. Take care, Brother Chu. Eat oysters and stamina tonics.”

“Mrs. Chu looks refreshed. Brother Chu, you’re slacking!”

“Haha, reclaim your manhood!”

Chunan gave up explaining.

Xiaohan leaned over, watching the chat, and laughed. “Haha, ‘marital duties’? Don’t joke. With his five-second stamina, even multiple rounds end in seconds. You think he lasted hours? He’s just insomniac and fussy—complaining the five-star hotel bed isn’t as soft as home’s. What? Who’s on top? Obviously me! I pin him down…”

Chunan shoved her away. “Done yet?”

“Haha, your fans are fun! Streaming’s about interaction,” Xiaohan grinned. “You won’t engage, so I help. Why mad?”

The chat erupted:

“Mrs. Chu’s right!”

“Brother Chu, sleep! Let Mrs. Chu stream—we love her!”

“Haha, traitors! Sorry, Brother Chu, but Mrs. Chu’s adorable!”

“Rest, Brother Chu! We’ll guard Mrs. Chu!”

Chunan watched the traitorous comments, expression complex.

He wondered if bringing Xiaohan into his stream was wise. His followers surged fast… but could he ever separate her from his circle now? He didn’t know.

He didn’t let Xiaohan stream. He feared her next outrageous blurt. She lacked experience. Joking with friends was fine, but live remarks could backfire—a rule for public figures. He’d need to watch her. Time to teach her basics. If she became an idol and got banned for loose lips, it’d be a waste.

Beyond streaming, Chunan had serious business: wrapping up loose ends with Lao Zhao’s team.

At lunch, he took Xiaohan and Lao Zhao to a random restaurant to continue yesterday’s talk.

“Here’s the contract,” Lao Zhao said, handing it over. “All your points from yesterday are included. Check it. Sign if fine—we start partnership after.”

He was eager.

Chunan scanned the contract, set it aside, and pulled out his own file. “No rush. Look at this first. It’s a major game series I plan. Can your studio handle it now?”

Lao Zhao and his team read it.

Xiaohan saw another Peking Opera face-change—confusion to excitement to shock to utter astonishment. His flushed face looked like a boy watching naughty videos mid-struggle. (Don’t ask how she knew.)

She grew curious. Was it an adult game?

“Great!” Lao Zhao slammed the table, startling Xiaohan. “Genius idea! Blend games and movies—let players live the protagonist’s story! Why didn’t we think of this? This’ll be a massive hit!”

Chunan stayed calm. “So, can you make part one now?”

Lao Zhao deflated. “No. Our funds can’t cover it… not perfectly. Even if released, sales would suffer.”

Their small studio had only made critically praised but commercially failed games. They weren’t rich. Even a hit tower defense game would take time to recoup funds—distant water for immediate thirst.

“What about releasing chapters?” Chunan suggested. “Launch part one, use profits for part two.”

Fragmenting the game might weaken the experience. But showing potential could attract investors after release.

“Still no,” Lao Zhao sighed. “We must build the framework from scratch. Part one costs the most. Sequels, using that base, cost far less.”

“How much more do you need?”

“At least 1.5 million. We lack key technologies—buying them is expensive.”

Chunan paused, then smiled. “I’ll invest 2.5 million for a stake.”

Lao Zhao froze. “…A stake?”

“Yes. 2.5 million—my sincerity,” Chunan said earnestly. “I don’t want your studio. Share size doesn’t matter. I just want games the world loves—games fun enough to stream. It’ll spice up my content.”

“…So you’re in this industry just for streaming material?”

“Yes. Problem?”

“…”