Chapter 21: I Was Too Impolite (Requesting Monthly Votes)

Gao Yang also thought Qi Hao’s words made perfect sense.

He was convinced.

He abandoned the idea of renting out the entire floor.

From his observations just now, his daughter’s space wasn’t large, the bed was a bit small, but she slept soundly enough.

He just wondered if the food around here satisfied her.

If worse comes to worst, he’d buy a shop downstairs and open a restaurant specializing in the dishes she loved.

Going out without spending money made him feel uneasy.

But this wasn’t something he needed to discuss with Qi Hao—opening a restaurant had nothing to do with him.

His previous contact with Qi Hao had merely been a potential collaboration.

Now that his daughter had joined Qi Hao’s studio, they had at least established a preliminary connection.

“I may completely exit the coal business by mid-next year or year-end, shifting my focus to real estate and the film industry—I want to start by making one movie to test the waters.”

Gao Yang had come this time not just to see his daughter, but also to learn how they might collaborate.

“What kind of movie are you planning to make, Brother Yang?”

Qi Hao himself was half-baked—he needed to understand the client’s intentions to design a targeted plan.

“One that wins awards, something I can brag about.”

For Gao Yang, with a net worth of billions, making money wasn’t the top priority—not yet, at least.

The billions were Qi Hao’s guess, but he definitely had over a hundred million, and according to Gao Yang, he could mobilize his friends’ funds—so the capital was even more substantial.

But it was clear Gao Yang didn’t take movie-making seriously.

His business ambitions lay in real estate.

He might even have already started laying groundwork with his friends.

Someone who made money in coal moving into real estate? That was like a fish returning to water.

“Award-winning films vary—your wording makes you easy to fool. Someone could just hand you a trash award, call it ‘international’ and ‘film festival,’ and you wouldn’t even know its real value…”

Probably because he now truly saw Gao Yang as one of his own, Qi Hao spoke more directly.

“I’ve already shoved my daughter into your studio—she’ll pick up enough by osmosis to tell if I’ve been scammed.”

Gao Yang smiled.

“That’s actually brilliant…” Qi Hao couldn’t argue.

“But before she learns enough, you’ll have to help me vet things—better than my own outsiders.” Gao Yang chuckled.

“What’s the approximate budget?” Qi Hao considered seriously.

His system seemed useless, but its actual utility was indeed minimal.

But if he completed tasks quickly enough, he’d eventually catch up to the timeline and unlock usable screenplays—or other useful rewards.

So he valued his collaboration with Gao Yang.

If he could truly carve out a path, he might even join the ranks of capital itself.

“Within ten million, preferably no more than eight million.”

Coal bosses were generous, but they remained cautious in unfamiliar fields.

It’s just a trial run—this amount is enough.

“Alright, I’ll keep an eye out. Oh, by the way, do you want my calendar? You can use it as giveaways at bars—the publishing license will be approved in a few days.”

Qi Hao promoted his calendar.

“Is this your company’s product? Did Ah Fei help?”

Gao Yang wasn’t interested in Qi Hao’s flexing abs photos—he wanted to know if his daughter had done anything in the calendar’s promotion.

No matter how rich a parent, they all hope their child will succeed.

“She’s currently involved in the sales project team.”

Lao Tian had assigned Gao Fei to HR and administration, but with so few people in the studio and no hiring planned soon, she had nothing to do.

So she got drafted as a laborer.

“How’s she doing?” Gao Yang looked at Qi Hao with eager anticipation.

“She’s doing great—came up with plenty of clever sales ideas. I only planned to use them for fan appreciation.”

In this matter, Qi Hao’s wishes didn’t matter.

The staff were all fired up—even Gao Fei, who’d only intended to change her sleeping spot, became far more active.

With everyone so enthusiastic, if Qi Hao said it was just for fan appreciation, he’d be a buzzkill.

Why not sell it and make money?

By mid-January, Qi Hao’s calendars began shipping nationwide via EMS.

His task also showed as completed—he could submit it anytime.

Qi Hao hadn’t actively sought suitable training NPCs.

The ones he’d picked before were still usable.

After the single plug became a double plug, Zhou Xun, Liu Dehua, and Li Lianjie could all be played differently.

Of course, he wouldn’t turn into Zhou Xun and kiss guys.

Lying in bed, Qi Hao confirmed the task was complete.

【Task Five Completed. Reward: Charm +10, Song “Green Light,” Startup Capital 50,000 RMB】

【Task Completed. Training Opportunity Granted】

【Training NPC: Choose One—Random 1 / Random 2 / Random 3】

【New Task Now Released】

【Task Six: The Road to Stardom Is Long—Talent and Hype Are Equally Important. Fake a Fall on the Red Carpet. Task Difficulty: 4 Stars, Deadline: 90 Days】

【Task Completion Reward: Acting +10, Screenplay “Infernal Affairs,” Tencent Stock 0.1% (Approx. 6.3 Million Shares, Value $5,500)】

【Task Failure Penalty: Three Electric Shocks】

Random 1/2/3 didn’t concern Qi Hao—he’d barely interacted with celebrities lately.

From prior information, he needed to spend enough time with someone before being selected.

Last time, Li Mingqi was chosen because both he and she attended Zhu Yuanyuan’s wedding and were seated together, chatting pleasantly.

Then came the new task…

Fall on the red carpet!

Qi Hao’s head throbbed. Unable to reach the system, he wanted to drag Lao Tian out of his room and beat him.

He had to vent this rage somehow.

I’m a fucking movie god—you want me to fake a fall on the red carpet?

Do I even have any dignity left?!

But as he instinctively scrolled down, he saw something unexpected.

The unexpected part wasn’t “Infernal Affairs.”

It was an outdated screenplay, inspired by John Woo’s 1997 film “Face/Off.” The script was likely written starting late 2000, the film released in 2002, earning massive box office success and becoming a classic for many.

The film was later remade as “The Departed,” sweeping the Oscars.

If he’d received this screenplay in his first or second year in the industry, even without the skill to produce it, he could’ve used it as a key to enter Hong Kong’s film scene—or sold it for a high price.

With just this one screenplay as his foundation, he’d become a rising star screenwriter in the industry.

What a shame.

This damn system was utterly unreliable.

But his complaint was instantly cut off by the 0.1% Tencent stock.

0.1% of Tencent stock?

Gamblers go bankrupt; stock trading isn’t that extreme, but it still easily turns you green.

News of people jumping off buildings after stock losses appeared every year.

So Qi Hao never touched stocks.

He didn’t know Tencent’s current share price, but he knew exactly how massive Tencent was.

He at least knew Pony Ma was a billionaire.

Even richer than Gao Yang!

Qi Hao immediately jumped up, turned on his computer, and searched for Tencent’s stock price to calculate how much 6.3 million shares were worth.

Yesterday’s closing price: 8.3 HKD.

Current RMB to HKD exchange rate: 1:0.785.

So: 6.3 million × 8.3 HKD × 0.785 exchange rate = 41,047,650.

41 million!

Qi Hao’s breath quickened.

He’d spent ten years in the industry and still didn’t have this much—after expenses, his account barely held one or two million.

Setting up the studio had cost him a lot too.

Just fall on stage, and he’d get 41 million?

Just one fall?

In clothes?

No need to roll around?

Don't you need to Shunshi take off the other female stars' skirts?

Qi Hao’s mind was a jumble, his emotions swinging wildly.

He felt the shock of a pie falling from the sky onto his head, and the unease of wondering whether this thing was still usable after expiring.

In fact, who wouldn’t feel uneasy in his place?

Unconsciously, Qi Hao began convincing himself that all of this was probably real.

The system’s reward and task were from years ago, and the reward was from back then, when Tencent shares were truly nothing.

According to the data he checked, Tencent had only undergone two rounds of financing: one was its IPO, and the other was precisely its first round in July 2000.

The records showed that this financing valued Tencent at $5.5 million; IDG and Yingke each invested $1.1 million, each holding 20%, raising a total of $2.2 million for Tencent.

Looking back now, this investment seems incredibly cheap, but in reality, if Tencent hadn’t gotten this money back then, it would have shut down immediately.

Pony even wanted to sell Tencent QQ for one million yuan.

But the buyer thought it was too expensive, so Pony gave up.

It’s 2008 now, and the system’s task was issued in 2000; if calculated from 2000, spending $5,500 to acquire 0.1% of Tencent’s shares is perfectly reasonable.

Five thousand five hundred dollars—no ten thousand!

The system had previously issued two cash rewards.

The first was ten thousand, the second was fifty thousand—the fifty thousand was just settled, and Qi Hao didn’t know if it had been credited yet.

But the previous ten thousand had clearly entered his account.

He had genuinely gained ten thousand yuan.

Qi Hao could even trace the source of this money, its tax records, and more.

It was indeed, as the system claimed, perfectly legal and legitimate.

If money could legally and legitimately enter Qi Hao’s account, why couldn’t Tencent shares legally and legitimately belong to him?

This seemed utterly unbelievable, absurd.

Yet the system’s very existence was absurd.

It could only be attributed to the system!

Previously, Qi Hao thought this system was garbage and had cursed it as “a dog system that fucked a lizard.”

Now he felt he had been extremely impolite.

Brother System, I admit I spoke too loudly to you before.