Chapter Thirty: The Master of Warship Design

“What? You have to pay a hundred thousand if you leave a year early? That’s outrageous!”

“Chen Hao, where in the contract does it say that? I didn’t see it.”

Chen Hao raised his voice, “It’s in the middle of page seven, in small print. It clearly states that after joining the studio you must work for five full years, and for every year you leave early, you have to pay a one hundred thousand penalty.”

A fleeting shadow of cold malice crossed Li Hongbo’s eyes, but he quickly hid it. Facing the questioning of his classmates, he motioned for everyone to quiet down and said, “I neglected to explain this earlier. The studio’s investment is close to ten million, and I don’t have that kind of money myself; it’s mainly my family funding it.”

“The requirement to work five years was added by my father’s lawyer. Just think about it: if the studio is just finding its footing and people are coming and going all the time, what would that do to us? The reason I didn’t mention this clause is that I already told my dad: if someone has a legitimate reason to resign, the contract won’t be enforced…”

“That makes sense! A game studio needs to develop steadily. If you just train someone up and they leave, that’s a big loss for the studio.”

“The class monitor really looks out for us. If he’s already told the boss that leaving for a legitimate reason won’t cost you a penalty, then there’s no problem. We’re all classmates—who would leave unless they had no choice?”

Li Hongbo defused the suspicion easily, and his explanation was reasonable enough to win over most of his classmates. Still wet behind the ears, the students hadn’t yet left campus and were far too innocent. Li Hongbo said “legitimate reasons” would exempt you, but who decides what’s legitimate? If someone wanted to leave and he said their reason didn’t count, what could they do about it?

Five years was a long time. Some classmates who weren’t keen on staying at a game studio for so long lost interest. Chen Hao remembered that in his previous life, forty-six economics majors joined the studio, but after he exposed the contract’s hidden trap, only eighteen signed on—less than half the original number.

Li Hongbo bore a grudge against Chen Hao for ruining his plans. Seeing Chen Hao still poring over the contract, he smiled and said, “Chen Hao, I guess you don’t want to sign for five years. I know you’re a master gamer; it’s normal if my studio doesn’t interest you. I won’t force you.”

After saying this, Li Hongbo took the contract from Chen Hao’s hands. He assumed Chen Hao was just a typical gaming fanatic who had stumbled upon the issue in the contract by accident and actually wanted to join the studio. Li Hongbo planned to teach this “clueless guy” a lesson if he came begging to join later.

But Chen Hao didn’t beg as Li Hongbo expected. He smiled slightly and said, “I’m not signing a five-year indenture. I have no interest in your studio.”

Li Hongbo’s face immediately darkened at the words “indenture contract.” He replied coldly, “Chen Hao, I won’t beg you to join the studio, but calling it an indenture is a bit much, isn’t it?”

“You know exactly what kind of contract it is,” Chen Hao retorted, then walked away.

Chen Hao had always kept a low profile at school, so his open challenge to Li Hongbo surprised everyone. Many classmates who had been ready to sign began to read the contract more carefully. Wang Donglai, who had been about to sign, hesitated and said to Ma Chan, “Chan, five years really is a long time. Maybe we should think this through.”

Ma Chan, who had been admiring the confident Li Hongbo, sounded a bit impatient as she replied, “It’s not easy to find a job after graduation anyway. The base salary’s eight thousand a month, plus bonuses and such. That’s already pretty good. What are you hesitating for?”

Chen Hao walked over to Wang Donglai. He valued this classmate highly; in his memories, Wang Donglai was the most successful in the game among their peers. When they worked at the game studio, Li Hongbo’s micromanaging made Wang Donglai—who went by the name “Purple Eagle Donglai”—choose a management path. But management wasn’t his forte, and he fared poorly in the game, never qualifying for bonuses.

After borrowing money to pay the penalty and leave the studio, Wang Donglai switched to the technical track to pay off his debts as quickly as possible. That’s when his talent shone through. After joining Ponytail Shipyard and completing a mission, he successfully designed a destroyer blueprint, becoming the first player in the Huaxia region capable of independently designing warships.

Blueprints in the game “War” were extremely valuable. To build a power plant, players needed a power plant blueprint. To build an arms factory, they needed machine tools, factory blueprints, and weapon designs. If a player wanted to build a shipyard and develop a navy, every warship needed its own design.

Countless players in Huaxia dreamed of building a powerful navy, so ship blueprints were in high demand. After becoming a ship designer, Wang Donglai not only paid off his debts but became famous in the game. His ex-girlfriend Ma Chan deeply regretted letting him go, drowning her sorrows in a bar every night…

“War” treated every player equally. Even the world’s top scientists didn’t necessarily succeed in their own fields within the game. Real-world achievements meant nothing; everyone started from scratch. Even if you followed your real-life career path step by step, without the right opportunities, you’d get nowhere in the game.

The most authoritative scientist in a field might not be the most naturally gifted. Talent doesn’t guarantee success, and many people go their whole lives without discovering what they’re truly good at.

For example, someone might go into business because their family told them to, growing up following their family’s plans and achieving only mediocre results. But if someone had noticed their musical talent as a child and steered them toward music, perhaps they would have become a great musician.

Wang Donglai was that kind of person. He had always been fascinated by ship design, but ended up majoring in business management by default. He was hopeless in that field, both in real life and in the game. Only after switching to design in the game and letting his talent shine did he find success.

Chen Hao valued Wang Donglai highly. Any player hoping to become a warlord wanted a navy, and even if he planned to establish his base in landlocked Qianzhou, far from the sea, he’d still need river gunboats.

Warship blueprints were worth fortunes in the game. It would be foolish not to recruit such a rare talent from his own class.

Wang Donglai hesitated after hearing Ma Chan’s words. He had always indulged her, but five years was a long time. Besides, he’d always loved ships, and while “War” allowed for a design path, joining the studio would mean following Li Hongbo’s orders, which he didn’t want.

(P.S. It looks like the novel is now ranked 14th on the new releases homepage—definite progress, but only the top 12 make the main list. It’s a bit frustrating. I’ll keep pushing out chapters, so please click and vote to support me!)