Chapter Five: After Submitting the Game, How Long Does It Take for the Operations Specialist to Review It?

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Yidu Search:

“How long can a person survive without eating?”

“How can I convince my landlord to postpone the rent for a month?”

“How long does it actually take for Qiyou to review a game?”

After failing to find an answer to the last question, Yin Jian decisively clicked into the forum to post his own.

[It’s been two days since I submitted my game. Does Qiyou’s operations team actually play the games, and if not, what’s the specific review timeline?]

Staring at the words he’d just typed, a bitter taste filled Yin Jian’s mouth. After impulsively publishing his game two days ago, he couldn’t resist and went ahead to create the paid content as well.

It was a fantasy-style asset pack that cost him a hefty 2400 yuan.

Counting what he’d already spent on a payment engine and sound effects, his total expenses reached 2800.

The asset pack was expensive, but worth every penny. Once loaded into the game, it truly felt as if one had stepped into another world.

The price, however, was steep.

He was now broke.

All he had left was 200 yuan to his name.

And the rent was due.

If his game couldn’t get signed and launched soon, he’d be out on the streets with nothing but the wind for company.

Still, impulsive as it was, he didn’t regret it, for the money would have been spent one way or another.

If he paid the rent first, he’d never have finished the paid content.

Without it, there’d be no profit, and without profit, he couldn’t pay the rent.

Better to risk it all.

Knock, knock, knock!

Just as he was about to click “post” in search of help, a knock sounded at the door.

Yin Jian pulled up the camera feed for the entryway, and the instant he saw who was outside, his body tensed with a shudder.

Of course—what you fear most always comes for you.

Standing at the door was a young man in a green baseball cap and light, casual clothes.

His name was Zhou Shun, and he was Yin Jian’s landlord.

Yin Jian hesitated in his chair for a few seconds before finally standing up to open the door for his landlord.

You can’t hide forever. Sooner or later, what must come, comes. It was better to explain things now—perhaps he could buy himself some time.

Zhou Shun, standing at the door, glanced down at his list of tenants. “Yin Jian, right? Your rent for this month is…”

Yin Jian forced an awkward smile. “Zhou, why don’t you come in and have a rest?”

Seeing Zhou Shun’s brow glistening with sweat, Yin Jian realized the landlord had probably been climbing up and down several buildings. He quickly extended the invitation, hoping to make a good impression and buy a few extra days to pay the rent.

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Zhou Shun was indeed weary from collecting rent, so he nodded at Yin Jian’s suggestion.

“Alright, I’ll sit for a bit. About the rent…”

“The sofa’s right here. I’ll get you a glass of water,” Yin Jian quickly interrupted, vanishing into the kitchen before Zhou Shun could continue.

Zhou Shun found Yin Jian’s sudden hospitality a bit odd, but he didn’t dwell on it. He settled onto the sofa, took off his cap, and began fanning himself.

The solar ring meant humanity no longer feared an energy crisis, but the artificial sunlight it poured down was truly oppressive. Few could stand being outdoors for long.

As he cooled himself, Zhou Shun’s gaze wandered around the room.

Clean and tidy.

Clearly a man of steely resolve, much like himself.

“Hm?”

Zhou Shun murmured, spotting something that piqued his interest. He stood and moved to the computer, where Yin Jian had just typed up his query about game signing.

He gave a knowing nod, a mysterious smile spreading across his face.

He looked for all the world like a satisfied elder gazing upon a promising youth.

...

“Where is he?”

Yin Jian, having poured water and rehearsed his plea, was surprised to find the sofa empty.

He quickly scanned the room and spotted Zhou Shun standing at his computer, lips curled in a perpetual smile.

What the—

A chill ran down Yin Jian’s spine.

Had he just invited a wolf into his den?

Hearing movement, Zhou Shun turned, his smile broadening. “Just started making a virtual game?”

“Uh?” Yin Jian was caught off guard, but his body responded honestly with a nod.

Seeing this, Zhou Shun’s expression lit up with the joy of finding a kindred spirit. “What a coincidence—I’m working on one too. I’m a game designer for the Qiyou platform.”

“I’ve made a dozen or so games already—an old hand at failure, really.”

Yin Jian’s eyes sparkled. He hurried over and poured out all the questions that had been weighing on him for days. “What’s the process for getting a contract? Can games get overlooked by the operations team, causing good works to be neglected?”

On the forums, all those who earned tens of thousands daily still called themselves failures, so to Yin Jian, Zhou Shun was clearly a seasoned veteran.

But—

When Zhou Shun heard the word “contract,” his smile stiffened for a moment, though Yin Jian didn’t notice.

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Clearing his throat, Zhou Shun arranged his features into the nonchalant confidence of a senior advising a junior. “Don’t aim too high as a newcomer. The most important thing is to keep improving, to make every game better than the last.”

“Signing a contract isn’t as simple as you think.”

“I can tell you clearly: the chances of a first-time developer getting a contract are less than one in a hundred million.”

“Hiss—” Yin Jian was stunned by the odds. He’d never imagined the probability would be so low.

Zhou Shun relished the look of shock on Yin Jian’s face. After all, when he first tried making a game, he too dreamed of overnight fame, but a daydream is just a daydream.

He’d failed miserably—never once securing a contract for any of his games.

But recently, he’d come up with a fantastic idea, and he was confident he could finally break through that barrier.

“How about this,” Zhou Shun offered. “Since you’re my tenant, I’ll take a look at your game.”

“With my experience, even a few casual pointers will benefit you immensely. If you truly grasp them, your chances of getting signed could increase by fifty percent.”

With a grand gesture, Zhou Shun played the expert, feeling utterly delighted. After all, there’s nothing more satisfying than showing off in your own field.

Seeing Zhou Shun so confident, Yin Jian hesitated, then nodded.

He was new to the industry; though he had faith in MC, every field had its own rules.

This was the space age. Whether MC would resonate here—or need localization—remained to be seen.

Having an industry insider review his work could only help.

Perhaps it would save him from a few missteps.

Of course, had he known that Zhou Shun had never once signed a game contract himself, he’d never have agreed—he’d have told the man to get lost as far as possible.

To take advice from someone with no success was courting disaster.

“Bang!”

Just as Yin Jian was clicking into his project, Zhou Shun slapped the table.

Yin Jian looked at him in confusion.

But Zhou Shun, pointing at the cover art for “My Little World,” wore an expression of bitter disappointment.

“The cover is a game’s face,” he lectured. “Look at yours—it's a pixelated mess.”

“If I were an operations manager, I’d reject your game at first sight. With a cover like that, you’ll never get a contract in this lifetime.”

This, in his experience, wasn’t absolute truth, but it carried some weight.

Yet just as his words fell, a notification chimed from the game development assistant’s backend.

[Ding! You have a new message. Please check your inbox!]