"This is it."
Kang Ming seemed to notice that Tang Yao was a little interested, so he flipped his phone around and explained, "It's basically a card game battle platform. The usual stuff—Dou Dizhu, and so on—but there's this one card game from my hometown that's kind of special. Most platforms don’t offer it. Don’t know if you’ve played it—we call it ‘Qiang Qi’.”
"As for the rules… well, I doubt you'd care. Anyway, I built this platform originally just for my friends. But one of them thought it was pretty fun and started promoting it back in our hometown. And then people started flooding in.
Now it’s kind of blowing up. Some issues came up lately, so that friend’s been complaining to me."
"……"
Tang Yao’s interest clearly deepened. She studied the simple-looking game on his phone—it was a bit rough visually, but had all the necessary features. Aside from the lackluster art, it was impressively complete, even featuring its own in-game currency.
After a moment of thought, she asked, “Do players have to pay for the currency?”
Kang Ming shook his head. “Nah. It just felt boring to win or lose without stakes, so we gave each new user 10,000 tokens at registration. Later we stopped giving them out—not sure how my friend set that up. I haven’t really been managing it.”
Tang Yao glanced at the coin count in the upper-left corner of the screen, then suddenly said,
“Let me guess—since your friend started promoting it, new registrations have spiked. You’re getting more users every day, right? And let me guess again—your friend asked you for control over token distribution? And told you to stop giving new users any starter coins, yeah?”
Kang Ming stared, dumbfounded. “How’d you know?”
“My advice: shut this whole platform down. The sooner the better.”
Tang Yao’s voice was serious. “If you don’t want to end up in jail, I’m pretty sure your buddy’s turned your card game into a gambling platform.”
“Gambling… huh? No way—wait, sh*t.”
Kang Ming was stunned at first, but after glancing at his phone and seeing Tang Yao’s serious expression, it slowly clicked. “You mean…”
“Yeah. Sounds like your friend’s turned himself into the big boss of the whole thing.”
Tang Yao gave the plain-looking man a once-over, impressed.
“I gotta hand it to you—you really are fearless. Built this shady little game platform and then just completely ignored it?”
“Hold on a sec…”
Kang Ming suddenly looked panicked. He jumped up and hurried out the door.
Tang Yao, meanwhile, calmly finished up what she was doing.
Ten minutes later—
Kang Ming came back in, looking dazed.
Tang Yao tilted her head. “Well?”
“I confronted him. At first, he denied everything. Then he said we should just split the money…”
Kang Ming swallowed. “I shut the whole server down just now. Still thinking whether I should report him.”
“Up to you.”
Tang Yao replied, “But personally, I suggest you cut ties with that so-called friend. You’ll regret it if you don’t.”
“I already deleted his contact!
I really didn’t think he’d… Anyway, seriously—thank you!”
Kang Ming bowed his head, completely sincere.
Honestly, his back was soaked in cold sweat.
This was scarier than watching Tang Yao go head-to-head with the editor-in-chief.
If she hadn’t warned him, and if that friend kept scaling things up… Kang Ming might’ve become an accomplice without even realizing it.
Then it’d be straight to prison for him.
Too close. Way too close.
Grateful, Kang Ming looked at Tang Yao again.
She glanced at his expression to gauge how seriously he took her warning. Once satisfied, she nodded. “No need to thank me. Just giving you a heads-up… So, you built the entire platform yourself?”
“Yeah. I was bored at home and figured I’d practice a bit. Some of my friends helped out too.”
“What about the servers?”
“Servers… Have you heard of distributed computing systems?”
Kang Ming hesitated, then added, “They’re also called cloud computing.”
“……”
Tang Yao slowly stopped what she was doing and turned to face him.
Seeing her confused expression, Kang Ming chuckled awkwardly. “I know it sounds kinda new… Overseas, there are already mature cloud service providers. Domestic companies are catching up. Actually—one of my relatives runs the biggest cloud computing team in the country.
They’ve already set up physical clusters and systems, and can now coordinate 5,000 servers. It’s at a basic operational level.”
“It’s still a prototype, and kind of buggy, so no internal department wants to test it. That’s why they decided to open it up to outside users to iron out the flaws.
That platform I made? The server was rented from them.”
Tang Yao paused. “Your relative’s company wouldn’t happen to be…”
“Yeah, one of the country’s top tech companies—Changli.”
“…Wait, with that kind of connection, why are you trying to be a manga editor?”
Tang Yao gave him a full up-and-down scan, silent for a moment. “What did you major in?”
“Software engineering… But that relative of mine doesn’t really care what I do.
Plus, I’m actually really into games—but I couldn’t break into the industry.”
Kang Ming smiled awkwardly. “I’ve been out of the workforce for a while, and most mobile and single-player games are one-and-done sales.
Only online games are making real money nowadays. So I built a mobile PvP card game…
But none of that impressed the HR people. Too much competition…”
“…You really are something.”
Tang Yao opened her mouth to say more, then stopped. Finally, she turned her chair fully toward him and gave him a once-over. Then, seriously, she said:
“Why don’t you work with me?”
“…Huh?”
Kang Ming blinked, stunned. He hesitated for a beat, then smiled politely. “I’m sure I’ll be learning a lot from you moving forward.”
“I’m not talking about manga.”
Tang Yao’s eyes sparkled, but she didn’t elaborate.
After a moment of thought, she shook her head. “Print media is way too tough right now. I’ll talk to you once I’ve fully made up my mind.”
With that—
She didn’t continue the topic.
Instead, she tossed the finalized storyboard instruction sheet aside, stood up, and rushed out, clearly deep in thought.
Kang Ming watched her leave, a little envious.
She was younger than him, but somehow, she made him feel strangely… safe.
Weird.
—
Tang Yao finally got Shao Changqing’s manuscript back.
Maybe it was her looks.
Maybe it was her presence.
Whatever it was, it got Shao to finish it—barely.
Tang Yao understood exactly why.
She didn’t deny the double-edged nature of her new identity.
It had its perks… and its pains.
The storyboard directives couldn’t be finished in time that morning, though—because when she rushed back to the office, it was already past noon.
She dropped Shao’s manuscript on her desk, grabbed the folder she’d brought from home, and headed to the break room on the 11th floor.
As soon as she entered—
She saw Li Xue.
Li Xue was sitting in the corner with her lunchbox, eating delicately with chopsticks. Despite the crowd, she was easily the most eye-catching one there.
"Over here."
Hearing footsteps, Li Xue looked up. When she saw Tang Yao, her eyes lit up.
She put down her lunchbox, gracefully shifted her knees together, and scooted over to make space beside her, motioning Tang Yao to come over.
…Not wearing black stockings today. What a shame.
Tang Yao gave the elegant office goddess a quick once-over, then pointed to the vending machine, bought two pieces of bread and a drink, and sat down beside her.
“You’re eating that again?”
Li Xue shifted closer, glancing at the bread in Tang Yao’s hand with a look of concern.
“Are you sure this won’t mess with your nutrition?”
“Miss Li, humans aren’t as fragile as you think. As long as you get enough calories—you won’t die!”
Tang Yao tore open the wrapper with dramatic seriousness.
“Besides, we working folks aren’t as refined as you. Making food, packing it, bringing it to the office? Just thinking about it makes me tired…”
Li Xue looked down at her own boxed lunch. “Sorry I have so much time to cook, I guess.”
“Exactly! You need to realize you’re the anomaly.”
“No, you’re the anomaly!”
Li Xue gave her an amused glance and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear with her chopsticks.
“If you don’t want to cook, at least go downstairs and get something. Or order delivery. Heck, I’d make you lunch if you asked. But no—you turn me down and eat bread every day like youth equals invincibility.”
“As long as I’m not starving, I’m fine.”
Tang Yao took a bite, her cheeks puffing out adorably. “And how could I ask you to make me lunch?”
Too cute.
Li Xue watched her puffed-up cheeks and couldn’t help but smile.
She poked around in her lunchbox, picked up a piece of sweet-and-sour pork rib, and held it out to her.
“You don’t want to ask? Fine. I’m just gonna force-feed you. Open up—ahh~”
“…Huh?”
Tang Yao blinked, mid-chew. “Huh?”
“You don’t want it?”
Tang Yao eyed the glossy, delicious-looking rib and hesitated. “Not that I don’t want it…”
“Then eat.”
Li Xue shoved it straight into her mouth.
Mmm… sweet and tangy.
Delicious.
Tang Yao’s cheeks puffed up again, and any lingering guilt instantly disappeared.
Li Xue smiled. “Tastes good?”
Tang Yao nodded sincerely. “Really good.”
“Then have some rice.”
She picked up a clump of rice and held it out.
“Wait—I still have bread…”
“Bread doesn’t spoil.”
“…True.”
“There’s egg too.”
“Wait, isn’t this your lunch? Why are you feeding all of it to me?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“……”
In the end—
More than half of Li Xue’s lunch ended up in Tang Yao’s stomach.
At first, she felt a little shy.
But after being fed for a while, she got completely lost in how good everything tasted.
Li Xue, meanwhile, scooted closer and fed her another rib.
She barely ate herself, but still felt full.
Because something beautiful was right beside her.
Honestly, not everyone could radiate that “girl-next-door” charm.
Most people, even at the right age, struggled to pull it off.
But some girls—
Even beyond that age—
Could overflow with it effortlessly.
Tang Yao was one of those girls.
What made her even rarer was this:
She was cute inside and out, yet not clueless or naive.
She didn’t wander around in a daze like she didn’t understand the world.
Whether at work or in daily life, she was… mature.
After all, dealing with a ditzy little airhead all the time could be exhausting—Li Xue probably wouldn’t have the patience.
But Tang Yao? She was just right.
Honestly—
Even though they’d only known each other a little over a week, Li Xue felt like they’d been friends for years.
Was it fate? Chemistry? Just vibes?
It didn’t matter.
Every time she thought back to their first meeting—when Tang Yao leaned over and asked why her spacebar was moving on its own—
Li Xue still thought it was the cutest thing.