The moment Mo Xiangwen stepped into the dorm, he saw the other three huddled at their seats, utterly absorbed in their games.
He settled back into his own spot, the air filled with the frantic clatter of keyboards and booming battle cries.
Classes, meals, gaming, sleep—that was the monotonous rhythm of ordinary college life.
If he had his way, he’d stretch this student existence out for a lifetime. Hell, he’d even take a million a month if it meant staying put.
Never mind the tall odds of pulling in seven figures monthly for now. He was already laying the groundwork for his dream of perpetual lounging.
Game development was plan number one.
Phenomenal hits like Itchy Rat had already burst onto the scene, but the true explosion of game titles across the market was still years away.
For the moment, it was still a golden era. Nostalgia for domestic single-player and indie games hadn’t worn thin yet, and enthusiasm for supporting local indies remained sky-high.
This was one of the best windows to jump in, build a name, and rack up fans.
Why games, though? The logic was dead simple: he just wanted to tackle work he didn’t actively despise.
A regular job might come with nagging bosses and deadlines breathing down his neck, but as his own boss? If it wasn’t done, he’d just shelve it for a bit.
Long Winter Night hadn’t even wrapped up before he got back—players were griping that maybe only Aurora Night came with a power source.
But so what?
The devs kept their chill nine-to-five pace, holidays included.
Players could foam at the mouth all they wanted; the team didn’t budge.
That old warning about not turning hobbies into jobs? It stemmed from endless workloads piled on top of company and life stresses.
Take away the pressure, and you could tinker however you pleased. How could you hate that?
Mo Xiangwen suddenly recalled the parade of scandals from game studios in his past life. A twinge of pressure might not be so bad after all—it’d keep these folks from getting bored and feeding players garbage.
Those devs could rot for all he cared, though. He had no plans to poison anyone; cranking out work two days a week was plenty diligent.
The startup application… he’d tackle that later. He already had a solid idea brewing. For now, time to crack open this package and see what scheme Classmate Yan had cooked up.
He set the box on his desk, only to find it swaddled in layers of packing tape with no obvious tear strip.
That’s when he realized the shipping box was bigger than he’d first thought—easily a couple sizes larger than an adult man’s palm.
After a few futile tugs, Mo Xiangwen amped up his voice and typed into the team chat: “Anyone got scissors or a knife? Mind if I borrow?”
“Scissors here, on my shelf—help yourself, I’m tied up,” Qin Yongfeng called back without looking up.
Their seats were right next to each other. Mo Xiangwen stood, rounded the corner, and ended up behind him.
Sure enough, all three were deep into a League match.
“Let’s bail, no point camping—this counterkill’s a pipe dream.”
“Nah, I gotta try. We whittle their numbers or we lose the teamfight.”
Mo Xiangwen shook his head. No use arguing. Not everyone could conquer one of life’s great illusions.
His eyes swept over Qin Yongfeng’s setup, landing on a pair of black scissors perched on the shelf.
He snatched them up and turned to leave, catching a glimpse of Qin Yongfeng’s screen gone black-and-white on his way out.
Qin Yongfeng took a swig from his Ice Cola nearby, his calm demeanor almost heartbreaking.
Mo Xiangwen shook his head again and returned to his seat. He carefully snipped along the tape lines with the scissors.
No telling what was inside—if he sliced too deep, he might wreck it.
He pried open the cardboard box to reveal a black container wrapped in layer upon layer of bubble wrap.
Talk about overprotected. Definitely fragile or pricey.
He scooted the black box farther onto the desk and kept unwrapping.
Finally, after wrestling off all the bubble wrap, the box sat revealed before him.
Nothing fancy about the black box itself—looked just like the one his phone had come in.
The real question was what lay inside, worth all this safeguarding.
“…A cup? A ceramic cup?” he muttered under his breath.
In stark contrast to the box’s dark shell, a pristine white ceramic cup rested quietly within, sealed in a clear plastic bag.
Packing a twenty-or-thirty-yuan ceramic cup like this… well, words failed.
He shook his head, banishing the impolite thoughts.
Gently lifting the cup from the box, he found even the sleeve was fully sealed. He grabbed the scissors again to slice it open.
After all that ordeal, the pure white cup finally nestled in his palm.
Maybe it was the hassle of unpacking, but its sheen struck him as even prettier—more upscale—than his Anime Figurine Mug. Like warm, lustrous white jade.
The surface felt silky smooth to the touch.
Just your standard white cup, yet somehow it looked oddly premium and attractive.
“Huh? When’d you snag a mug? Didn’t you grab a stainless steel one at the start of term?”
Out of nowhere, a voice piped up from behind.
“Someone gave it to me.”
The words were out before he realized—and he shot a deadpan look rearward.
Zhong Taihong and Xi Shaojie loomed there, grins dripping with mischief.
“From Classmate Yan?”
Mo Xiangwen sighed, swiveling back around to set the cup dead center on his desk.
“Yeah. What of it? You guys sneak up without a heads-up?”
Zhong Taihong and Xi Shaojie exchanged a glance, then heaved exaggerated sighs. They clapped him on the shoulder, their faces radiating that unspoken “we get it” vibe.
“So, what’s the deal? Why’re you back here?” Mo Xiangwen rolled his eyes at them. “If it’s nothing, scram.”
Xi Shaojie snapped his fingers like he’d just remembered, then walloped Zhong Taihong on the back—hard enough to send him stumbling.
“Oh yeah! Lao Mo, mind calling up that online buddy of yours for a duo? Bring us along?”
“No dice—gotta whip up a spec doc later.”
He had a fix for the startup app in mind, but it’d need a PowerPoint or Word file to pitch properly.
“Aw, c’mon, just two games.”
Whatever. Agreeing now beat endless nagging.
“…Fine. Two games.”
Xi Shaojie nodded, pleased. “We’ll call it even for the carry—won’t ding you for ditching us after gaming with Classmate Yan and forgetting those drinks you promised.”
Mo Xiangwen blinked, racking his brain.
Wait… he had promised drinks, hadn’t he? How’d that slip his mind?
