Chapter 120

The framework for the Jade Rabbit Best Special Effects has been set up, with a few staff members, but all of them are serving Hero Glory, not film or television.

When Yao Qi arrived, Fang Hong rented the entire floor above, moving both the game and special effects teams upstairs, leaving this floor as the office space for movies and TV.

Yao Qi had no choice but to come; he was given only a few freelancers to manage, with no rules or systems at all—he had to build everything from scratch.

But he said nothing; Fang Hong planned to invest 200 million, letting him hire freely and build without restraint, and even said this was only the first phase of investment.

Too grand! Too rich!

Meng Jun, accounting in the finance office, wiped sweat from his forehead; the equipment cost 70 million, and the licensing fees were counted at 360 million—this amount could only go up, never down.

Additionally, the special effects budget was 200 million, bringing the total expenditure to 630 million.

Not even counting the upcoming investments in film and television!

"Fang General Manager, hold on! You can't spend money like this!"

"I'm holding steady," Fang Hong said.

Fortunately, this isn't a one-time expenditure—it's a budgeted outlay over one or two years; as long as funding keeps coming in afterward, it's fine.

Money from home and abroad can still be rotated and stretched out.

The company has grown massively; the game department is no longer just the original 20 people—it's now 52, more than doubled.

The Hero Glory game has been completed and is now undergoing testing and bug fixes.

It's already clearly recognizable as the later League of Legends visuals.

Many classic heroes have been designed.

For example, Yasuo—he's essential; without him, Hero Glory has no soul.

Gailun too; his design was changed three times by Riot, and Fang Hong used the final version, so it's not infringement.

Ice Queen too—her original design was different from what we see now.

Just change the skin and rename the hero; Ice Queen becomes Frost Shooter.

Also: Bounty Hunter, Bard, Luminous, Troll, Magma Serpent, Trickster, Desert Butcher, Prince, Blind Monk, Debang—about 24 heroes, covering top, mid, bottom, and jungle.

These heroes are still too few; the selection is too limited.

The hero names haven't changed; no historical figures were used—Fang Hong aims for internationalization, not just the domestic market.

"Go, go, go! Poke his ass!"

Fang Hong shouted loudly as he played Hero Glory with the production staff.

After playing, he looked at Li Min and the other producers gathered around: "It's decent, but the hero skill animations aren't smooth enough—they feel stiff and need polishing."

"Also, the stats for minions and jungle monsters seem too high—I died once clearing jungle, which slows down jungling and makes no one want to play it."

He'd been conditioned by later high-quality games, so he could offer these insights.

"We invited Warcraft veteran players to test it; they raised this issue and are adjusting it. They also said the gameplay is too simple, lacking challenge."

Li Min hadn't finished speaking when Fang Hong interrupted him:

"Don't listen to their nonsense. Simplicity is meant for everyone, not just one group. Don't just recruit hardcore players—invite regular players too, broaden the testing pool."

"Got it," Li Min nodded.

Those Warcraft players looked down on Hero Glory players, thinking it was a game for elementary school kids.

But when they died, it was because of the difficulty of execution.

Making the game isn't hard, but balancing stats and fixing bugs still takes time.

Many bugs aren't even known to the development team—they need constant testing and fixing.

Stat balancing also requires continuous testing to ensure fairness.

"I plan to invest 300 million to expand the game department and build our own engine," Fang Hong said.

"What?!" Li Min seemed not to have heard clearly.

The people around him heard clearly and were stunned by the 300 million figure.

"300 million—can we really build an engine?" Fang Hong repeated, calm as ever.

Li Min stared blankly—this time he heard clearly: "I-I think we can!"

Hero Glory had only cost a few million so far, and even that wasn't fully spent—it's still being spent.

Now suddenly another 300 million for an engine? It felt like Fang General Manager had lost his mind—why not just use someone else's? 300 million could last forever.

"I don't want 'can'—I demand it. I must have it built," Fang Hong said.

"But, Fang General Manager, this thing—"

"Don't give me reasons. Just tell me yes or no," Fang Hong's tone grew sharp.

"Yes!"

Li Min nodded fiercely, under heavy pressure.

Actually, engine development isn't hard—it's just a matter of willingness to spend money and time.

If you're willing to invest the time and money, you can build one—but the quality is another question.

Pig Factory and Tencent both have their own engines!

But other game companies on the market don't use them—they stick to Western engines, so these engines are only used internally.

If no one else uses them, developing an engine creates no commercial value—it's just throwing money and time away.

Engines must keep evolving; you can't build one and forget it. Like modern software, they need constant updates and maintenance, so many companies avoid them entirely.

Of course, big companies aren't afraid—they're constantly releasing new games and have built market scale to absorb the cost.

Simply put, it depends on whether there's enough game market to feed back into it—if not, don't touch it.

But Fang Hong isn't afraid—he's ready to spend.

Meng Jun in finance was numb—930 million already, couldn't take it anymore—how could this go on?

"Fang General Manager, you're pulling your balls off!"

"Just make it up—I've got balls as hard as steel!" Fang Hong said.

Why earn money if you don't spend it? This money won't be spent in a hurry; give the gaming department two years and they still won't finish spending it.

Because market salaries are capped, and equipment is just high-end computers and servers—how could you possibly spend it all?

Unless you wildly hire elites, even elites max out at three or five hundred thousand a year!

Of course, Chen Zhixi and Best Special Effects must spend it all!

This let the gaming and Best Special Effects departments begin without expansion, but Fang Hong gave the gaming department another long-term task: develop and produce Fortnite.

That engine would serve only this game; when the game launched, it would prove the engine was ready.

In his past life, Fortnite wasn't greenlit until next year—greenlight it early, develop slowly, and block the path first.

Fortnite also took many years in his past life—it can be treated as a long-term project.

Fang Hong called Yu Xian; the spending was settled, now the earning was up to this guy.

Shoot The Conjuring, invest twenty million dollars, start with pre-production; this money comes from Annabelle's box office.

This film's second-week total box office was 135 million, Fang Hong could claim 33.75 million dollars—that's 230 million.

Even after spending a hundred million earlier, he still had over 230 million; use some to prepare, and he could easily keep Yutu from collapsing.

After all, the money was just sitting on the books!

Fang Hong returned home; his mother was still the same—plain daily life, every day planting vegetables and tending the garden, then walking Heizi.

As for the wealthy ladies around her, he wasn't very familiar—they'd only just arrived, and it wasn't easy to blend into their circle.

Heizi had grown up, his fur pitch-black and mighty, but he still feared Fang Hong.

He couldn't forget the past beatings.

"You've been running out every day since you came back—are you this busy?" Xu Liyun said.

"Busy? Extremely busy!"

Fang Hong flopped onto the sofa—how else could he forget that woman?

"Didn't Yifei come back with you?" Xu Liyun asked.

"No, she's filming." Fang Hong said.

"You should visit her more often—couples who stay apart too long tend to have conflicts." Xu Liyun advised.

"Alright, I know."

Fang Hong nodded—he'd already had conflicts, but hadn't told his mother.

The next day, Fang Hong went to work as usual.

Now the screenwriting department had expanded, adding Shao Yihui, Zhang Disha, Wen Muye, and others.

Including Jiao Huajing and Bao Jinjin, there were five people total!

Besides these five, Xue Xiaolu served as consultant for the screenwriting department.

If you had any questions, you could ask her!

Aside from Shao Yihui, a 90s-born female still in school, all others were post-1980s, all Beijing Film Academy elites.

Of course, being listed as a screenwriter didn't require daily attendance—you could do other things and write scripts at home.

For example, Wen Muye was also deputy director and simultaneously held the screenwriter role, busy on both fronts.

The screenwriting department's job was to turn all of Fang Hong's plot summaries into full scripts.

Yes, Fang Hong only tossed out plot summaries—all the content expansion was done by the screenwriters.

Some scripts were written by one person, others by two or three together.

So their workload was heavy—they had to rack their brains daily to make the stories plausible within the framework Fang Hong gave them.

Of course, their pay wasn't cut—they got 1% of each film's profit share.

Previously, each screenwriter was listed for 1% individually; that didn't work—for example, when The Youth had a profit of 100 million, Jiao Huajing and Bao Jinjin each got one million, totaling two million.

They became financially free instantly—bad for motivation!

Also, if a film listed three, five, or even eight screenwriters, Yutu wouldn't need to make money—it'd all go to the screenwriters.

So this system had to change: regardless of how many screenwriters were listed on a film, the 1% profit share was split equally among all listed screenwriters.

For example, if five people co-wrote a film that earned 100 million profit, they'd split one million—two hundred thousand each.

This encouraged effort: write better plots, higher box office, more money.

Also, the film market was growing—later, films with hundreds of millions or even billions in box office would be common.

If we kept the old system, it'd hurt motivation.

Of course, Fang Hong didn't list himself—he had no need to grab those few scraps from the screenwriters.

The same profit-sharing model applied to TV dramas.

This might cause Jiao Huajing and Bao Jinjin to feel resentful—they'd gotten so much before, now suddenly less.

But there was no choice; Fang Hong's screenwriting system was still experimental—no domestic or international model to copy—he had to figure it out himself.

Screenwriters were vital—whether the story was told well depended entirely on them; if the company wanted long-term growth, they deserved credit.

Script approval or rejection was decided by the Producer—if the Producer thought the script unfit, he could demand revisions.

This depended on the Producer's market vision—but currently, only Chen Zhixi and Fang Hong had that vision.

What to shoot was decided solely by these two; no one else had authority, so there was no risk of misjudgment.

(End of Chapter)