Chunan had some understanding of game development in this world—it was far simpler than in his previous life.

Thanks to the outcomes of the tech race, ready-made frameworks existed for nearly every game genre. Developers could simply slot in content, drastically shortening production schedules compared to his last world.

But these frameworks all came with price tags. If the studio hadn’t purchased licenses before, the costs would add up fast.

Zhao’s team didn’t have much capital. Chunan’s suggestion was reasonable—on the surface, it seemed like a win-win.

The equity offer, though… that invited suspicion. 2.5 million wasn’t pocket change. Chunan casually offering that sum might make Old Zhao think he was after the entire studio. That’s why Chunan clarified his intentions so quickly.

After a brief pause, Old Zhao didn’t overthink it. Maybe he remembered Chunan’s past rants about the industry’s flaws. Or maybe they were still idealistic youths, untainted by society’s harshness. Deep down, he believed Chunan’s words.

There was another reason: their studio wasn’t exactly a hot commodity. Plenty of similar small studios existed in the current market. If Chunan could pull out 2.5 million so easily, he could’ve just founded his own studio to realize his vision. The fact he hadn’t… perhaps it really was because of what he’d said yesterday.

At heart, he was still a streamer.

After careful consideration, Old Zhao agreed to let Chunan take equity. His teammates raised no objections.

Old Zhao had his own motives—if Chunan became a stakeholder, he’d have skin in the game. Their relationship would shift from collaborators to partners. Chunan might invest more effort in future projects.

He couldn’t see any downside.

After all, Chunan couldn’t possibly be planning to buy out their entire studio… right?

—Chunan merely offered an enigmatic smile in response.

His true intentions remained known only to himself.

The meal ended on a pleasant note. After Old Zhao’s group left, Chunan leisurely sipped two cups of tea.

Most of his objectives at the game expo were already accomplished. His mood was light.

Xiaohan tilted her head, studying him with a trace of curiosity. "Since when do you know how to make games?"

"After playing so many, you pick up ideas," Chunan leaned back in his chair, grinning. "Game development isn’t about tech—it’s about fresh concepts. And those? Can’t be bought with money. Conveniently, I’ve got plenty."

"Where do all these ideas come from? Did your *system* give them to you? What if we lose money?" Xiaohan pulled several other game proposals from his bag, flipping through them. "*Call of Duty*? A shooter?"

Exactly. The file he’d given Old Zhao was one installment from the *Call of Duty* series. Unlike his last world, he planned to release it not just on PC and consoles—but also on virtual reality platforms. Only there could this series truly unleash its full potential.

As Old Zhao noted, its selling point was blending cinema and gameplay—crafting a grand world where players weren’t just participants, but part of the narrative fabric.

Games here had RPGs, sure. But players always controlled generic avatars—mercenaries with no backstory, no defined identity. No one had tried making players step into a fully scripted role, like starring in a blockbuster film where they lived the epic adventure firsthand.

Even ignoring that innovation, *Call of Duty* had been massively popular in his previous world. It would resonate here too.

He was confident.

"We won’t lose money," Chunan said, glancing at Xiaohan. "Worst-case scenario? Even if we bleed this dry, I’ve still got over a million left. Won’t end up begging on the streets. Relax."

Before Xiaohan could reply, Chunan’s phone rang—He Dong calling.

"Xiao Chu! The studio’s ready to record. ‘Leap’ will be Xiaohan’s debut track. But I’m thinking—let’s bundle five songs into an album. We’ll pull out all the stops on promotion. Guaranteed to make her a household name overnight. Helps her long-term career. What do you think?"

"I’ll defer to your expertise, Uncle He."

"Good. For the other four tracks—"

"No need to trouble you. I’ll handle the songwriting. You’ll be satisfied."

"Trusting you on this. Come by the studio anytime—I’ll have someone guide you. Call if issues arise. Busy here—gotta go."

"Bye, Uncle He."

Chunan exhaled slowly after hanging up.

Xiaohan stared at him, bewildered. "...Five songs?"

"What, planning to conquer the industry with one track?"

"No… where will you even *get* four more songs?"

"Hah. Forty would be no problem—I’ll write them on the spot." Chunan snorted cockily. "Don’t underestimate me, brat."

The Library had enough material. Though few songs matched her youthful vibe.

Making a teenage girl sing ballads about life’s hardships would be… odd.

Xiaohan: "..."

So she’d be stuck practicing vocals again?

"Must we rush?" she grumbled. "Can’t we wait a bit?"

She’d barely started enjoying this "being taken care of" era before work piled up again.

Chunan shot her a sidelong glance. "Don’t you want fame? Big money?"

"Of course! But…" Xiaohan hesitated, muttering, "Why can’t our *system* give us cheat codes? Like ‘instant music mastery’ or something…"

Chunan’s lips twitched. "Dream on."

"Don’t novels always do that?"

"How do you know those stories are real?"

"How do *you* know they’re fake? Might be autobiographies disguised as fiction!"

"...You’re just arguing for the sake of it."

"I’m *discussing*! Think about it—if we have to train from zero to idol stardom, how long until we blow up?"

Chunan fell silent for two seconds, then sighed. "Pin your hopes on your task rewards containing those ‘cheat codes.’ For now? Focus on hitting 30k followers for your first mission. Simple."

"..."