One day in late July, the due diligence process officially was settled. Fanhai’s tender offer took effect, kicking off a month-long acquisition window.

Because Saint Games’ board of directors covertly advised major shareholders to retain their shares, and because Fanhai’s offer price couldn’t match those offering several-hundred-percent premiums, not many shareholders ultimately accepted the offer and sold their shares. By the time the tender offer expired, Fanhai held a total stake of 31%.

As a friendly “White Knight,” the price of the tender offer had been negotiated between Fanhai and the Saint Games board.

Seeing this outcome, Qinghui finally announced after several extensions that it would no longer extend its tender offer, rendering Qinghui’s offer null and void.

Qinghui could certainly have raised its bid, but with Fanhai having already secured the backing of Saint Games’ board as a White Knight and both sides possessing comparable financial clout, Qinghui’s chances of winning were slim.

Saint Games’ crisis was temporarily defused.

What remained to be seen was whether Fanhai Group would make any further moves to increase its stake once the three months were up.

Jing Hong hadn’t expected Saint Games to maintain such a strong presence during the three-month waiting period—they aggressively demanded that Fanhai, as Saint Games’ largest shareholder, assist Expedition in entering the Chinese market and immediately resolve the single most difficult obstacle: government regulatory approval.

Official approval standards had always been rather unpredictable, so Saint Games needed a giant corporation with formidable political connections and approval capabilities to lend a hand.

Yet Jing Hong signaled his team to stand firm, employing the exact same strategy: stalling.

Stalling one week, then another.

Saint Games’ management grew exceedingly anxious. They nagged Fanhai repeatedly and even acted on a whim to stir up trouble in another online game operated in partnership with Fanhai—causing a bug to pop up. Fanhai immediately shut down that game’s server in China, resolving the issue and reopening the server the very next day, as if nothing had ever happened between the two parties.

As time ticked away, the three-month standstill period prohibiting Fanhai from increasing its stake in Saint Games drew near its end.

Before it concluded, Jing Hong flew to Dalian to attend a professional summit for IT leaders.

Jing Hong hadn’t originally planned to go, but the General Manager of the Fanhai Entertainment division had suddenly resigned. After extensive screening, Ye, the head of HR, ultimately concluded that a Senior Vice President at Qinghui Group was the ideal candidate. This SVP was currently serving at Qinghui’s Shanghai branch.

The problem was that, after initial discussions, this Qinghui SVP showed little interest in jumping ship—she had been with Qinghui for eighteen years.

Flying to Shanghai specifically to meet this SVP would seem far too conspicuous. Upon learning that she would be attending the IT leaders summit in Dalian, Jing Hong made a last-minute decision to go as well, inviting her for a casual chat at a coffee shop near the venue. After a moment’s hesitation, she agreed.

Thus, the day before the summit, upon arriving in Dalian, Jing Hong headed straight to the designated cafe.

The cafe possessed a distinct, romantic charm, crafted by the owner to resemble a tropical rainforest. Lush green foliage was arranged in artful tiers, while the small private booths on the second floor looked like individual wooden cabins, constructed entirely of wood with floor-to-ceiling glass that was clean and bright. Beneath the cabins, decorative wooden shells firmly encased the supporting pillars, making the entire establishment feel like an urban oasis.

As Jing Hong climbed the steps one by one, the cafe door suddenly swung open, and a handsome man stepped out from inside.

“…” Jing Hong halted his steps.

It was Zhou Chang.

Seeing Jing Hong, Zhou Chang was slightly taken aback. Today was bitter cold, and Jing Hong wore a woolen overcoat trimmed with a fur collar. The black fur lightly brushed against his chin, half-encircling his neck, making it appear even paler, slender, and refined. Jing Hong hadn’t buttoned his coat, leaving his figure tall and straight.

Zhou Chang had previously glanced over the IT summit’s guest list and knew Jing Hong wasn’t on it. Seeing him here now, he was initially startled, but soon after, a subtle tingling sensation crept up his spine. The somewhat unpleasant expression on his face from the recent business negotiation softened considerably. He asked, “President Jing, what made you suddenly decide to attend this Dalian summit after all?”

“President Zhou.” Jing Hong greeted him, saying into his Bluetooth headset, “Hold on a moment, ran into an acquaintance,” before hanging up. With a polite smile, he replied, “The organizers’ invitation was too warm to refuse. Then I thought about how I missed it the last two years—as the saying goes, third time’s a charm—so I made a last-minute decision to come after all.”

“I see.” Zhou Chang carried his coat over his arm. He nodded and asked again, “Coming to this cafe—meeting a client?”

“Not at all,” Jing Hong said smoothly. “Meeting old classmates. I rarely come to Dalian, so since I’m here this time, old friends suggested catching up. Being late in the evening, they were thoughtful enough to come over to my hotel’s neighborhood for a quick drink and chat. Just a hasty gathering.”

Zhou Chang nodded again. Jing Hong was naturally busy; if old classmates wanted to meet, doing so near his hotel was the only practical option.

Jing Hong asked in return, “And you, President Zhou?”

“Meeting a partner.” Zhou Chang’s voice sounded somewhat lazy, lacking its usual distance. “Discussed our upcoming cooperation, though nothing concrete came out of it.”

“That’s normal,” Jing Hong said. “Alright then, President Zhou, I’ll head inside first. See you around.”

Zhou Chang stared at the slightly upturned outer corners of Jing Hong’s eyes and said, “Mm, see you around.”

With that, the two brushed past each other.

Dalian’s winters were frigid. After bidding Jing Hong farewell, Zhou Chang lingered on the steps for a few seconds, watching the plume of white mist Jing Hong had exhaled during their conversation slowly disperse until it vanished completely, leaving no trace in the air. Only then did he withdraw his gaze and walk down the stairs.

Inside the cafe, Jing Hong turned his head, finally spotting Zhang Li—the woman he was meeting—in a quiet corner.

Zhang Li was in her mid-forties with permed long hair and an approachable demeanor.

“President Jing,” Zhang Li said as Jing Hong walked over, glancing outside the window with a visibly tense posture. “I just bumped into President Zhou.”

“Mm,” Jing Hong said. “I ran into him at the door as well.”

Zhang Li asked, “Should we move to another place?”

Jing Hong fully understood her anxiety over running into her current boss while secretly discussing a job offer. After a moment’s thought, he said, “He likely won’t turn back. If you’re still uneasy, we can head up to the second floor and find a spot with a clear view of the entrance.”

Zhang Li nodded.

The two moved upstairs and ordered a cup of coffee each. Jing Hong then began articulating his vision for “Fanhai Entertainment,” as well as his high regard for her capabilities.

Although Zhang Li still glanced toward the door from time to time, Jing Hong could tell she was taking in every word he said.

Jing Hong reiterated his promise to delegate authority, but at the end, he added a deliberate point: “However, if things fail, they fail. It’s no big deal, so don’t put too much pressure on yourself. No one can guarantee that every product will succeed. Fanhai reached its scale today precisely by constantly learning through trial and error.”

Overall, Jing Hong was cautious, but he also respected the market deeply. Many times, the market was simply unpredictable, and he launched or scrapped projects at an astonishing speed—initiating when appropriate and chopping when necessary. In this regard, Zhou Chang was much the same.

Zhang Li looked up.

Having met countless people, Jing Hong’s judgment of character was exceptionally sharp.

When entrusted with major responsibilities, people generally displayed one of two attitudes: one was gratitude and excitement, rolling up their sleeves to make a splash; the other was hesitation and retreat, fearing they might disappoint the other party or fall short of expectations. The former was self-centric, while the latter was centered on others. What was particularly striking was that men often fell into the first category, while women frequently fell into the second.

Jing Hong had reviewed Zhang Li’s background.

Coming from a rural background with four younger sisters and a younger brother, Zhang Li herself was exceptionally sharp. She had gotten into Fudan University for her master’s degree and joined Qinghui right after graduation, making her one of its earlier employees.

Word was that from her very first day at the company, she worked until midnight every single day, refusing to call it a day until reaching a specific milestone. She ensured daily progress on all fronts, completing projects well ahead of schedule—sometimes even in half the allocated time, leaving her enough bandwidth to tackle another. Moreover, the work she submitted always exceeded requirements, such as including the preliminary plan for the project’s next phase.

At the same time, miraculously, her relentless work ethic didn’t alienate her colleagues. Perhaps owing to her large family, Zhang Li possessed excellent interpersonal skills. Back when she traveled to the Beijing headquarters for cross-departmental meetings, she would always bring small gifts—like pastries from trendy Shanghai bakeries. In the office, her genuine humility and willingness to help prevented her from drawing animosity; colleagues simply felt that “Zhang Li just genuinely loves working,” which was, in all probability, an actual fact.

Consequently, Zhang Li’s promotions at Qinghui were steady and solid. As an executive, Jing Hong naturally understood very well that this type of person would rise quickly. A promoted employee didn’t necessarily need to be the most brilliant or clever, but any boss was eager to promote someone who had “worked dedicatedly in their group for years, tackled everything with utmost seriousness, and executed every plan seamlessly.”

After becoming a director, Zhang Li demonstrated a knack for talent management. She herself might not have been overflowing with wild creativity, but her judgment was impeccable. Perhaps due to her background, her tastes aligned closely with those of the general public, and with a lineup of formidable subordinates under her command, her division’s performance had remained stellar.

As a top executive, “knowing how to deploy people” was more than enough.

Given this history, Jing Hong deduced that Zhang Li, having worked at Qinghui for eighteen years, wasn’t entirely averse to taking on a fresh challenge. Yet faced with various offers and headhunting attempts over the years, she had always retreated.

Based on this insight, Jing Hong ended his pitch by emphasizing “don’t feel pressured.”

He guessed that in the past, every headhunter trying to recruit Zhang Li had focused heavily on how much they believed in her abilities and how eagerly they anticipated her results.

Even so, Jing Hong didn’t push her for an answer.

With the conversation wrapped up, the coffee meeting came to an end. Jing Hong stood up, stating that he would give her two weeks to carefully consider the offer, to which Zhang Li agreed.

The following day, Jing Hong didn’t run into Zhou Chang. Because his decision to attend the forum was made so late, Jing Hong hadn’t been scheduled for the main forum, but was instead squeezed into a sub-forum. His primary objective for attending—meeting Zhang Li—had already been accomplished, so he flew back to Beijing early that afternoon.

Two weeks passed in the blink of an eye.

On Friday afternoon two weeks later, Zhang Li entered Zhou Chang’s office at Qinghui’s Shanghai branch and officially submitted her resignation.

Zhou Chang was surprised. He sat behind his desk, looking at Zhang Li, and asked directly, “Where to?”

“Fanhai,” Zhang Li replied calmly. “However, the job scope is completely different from my role at Qinghui—I’ll be overseeing Fanhai Entertainment, which doesn’t directly compete with my current ‘consulting services’ division. I won’t disclose any confidential information, nor will I poach any of my subordinates. I hope President Zhou can consider my eighteen years of service to Qinghui and refrain from enforcing a non-compete clause to make things difficult for me.”

If a non-compete clause were enforced, Zhang Li wouldn’t be able to join a competing enterprise for two years, though Qinghui Group would have to pay her full salary during that period.

However, if an employee was truly determined to leave, a company couldn’t truly stop them anyway—they could simply bypass formal employment by working through a third-party contract. It was clear that Zhang Li didn’t want a bitter falling out, and neither did Zhou Chang.

“Fanhai?” In an instant, everything clicked for Zhou Chang.

He said, “Compensation and benefits are negotiable—you should know that, right?”

“Yes, thank you, President Zhou,” Zhang Li said. “But this isn’t about compensation.”

Zhou Chang nodded, refraining from pressing further. He said to Zhang Li, “Alright, I won’t stand in your way. I wish you success at Fanhai.”

Zhang Li stood up, giving a warm, modest smile: “Thank you, President Zhou.”

After a few more pleasantries, Zhou Chang finally voiced the question: “This new role—was it negotiated last week in Dalian?”

“Yes,” Zhang Li admitted, disliking meaningless lies. She smiled softly. “You actually ran into us. Right there in the cafe, President Jing managed to persuade me. I originally had no interest at all.”

Zhou Chang found it utterly mind-boggling: “You didn’t even switch venues?!”

“…No,” Zhang Li answered. “President Jing said you wouldn’t turn back, so there was no need to waste time.”

Long after Zhang Li departed, Zhou Chang still found the whole affair surreal.

So back in Dalian, Jing Hong’s last-minute decision to attend the IT summit had been specifically to poach Zhang Li?

Knowing full well that Zhang Li was attending the Dalian summit alongside him—sticking together almost the entire time—Jing Hong had flown to Dalian anyway, pulled Zhang Li away for a brief escape, and met her at a cafe right near his hotel?

Jing Hong had poached his key executive right under his very nose?

Qinghui executives had been headhunted before, but no company had ever dared to strike while the target was actively traveling with their current boss.

How did he have the nerve?

They had even run into each other face-to-face!

For some reason, every single line Jing Hong had uttered that day remained vividly etched in Zhou Chang’s memory. Zhou Chang still remembered how, when asked why he was at the cafe, Jing Hong hadn’t hesitated for even a second, answering with absolute composure: “Meeting old classmates. I rarely come to Dalian, so since I’m here this time, old friends suggested catching up. Being late in the evening, they were thoughtful enough to come over to my hotel’s neighborhood for a quick drink and chat. Just a hasty gathering.”

Turns out, he had been there to poach his executive!

Bumping into him hadn’t flustered Jing Hong in the slightest; he had executed his original plan according to schedule without even bothering to change venues.

Zhou Chang thought to himself: Who says Chinese cinema is dead? The real acting talent is right here.

And Jing Hong had actually pulled it off. Countless companies, big and small, had tried to headhunt Zhang Li over the years, yet she had never been swayed. Who would have thought Jing Hong could actually persuade her?

Faced with the executive vacancy, Zhou Chang naturally felt a bit annoyed. Yet at the same time, inexplicably, his heart felt as though it were being tickled by a feather—a faint, lingering itch.

He unlocked his phone and sent a message to Jing Hong, almost playfully:

【Stop poaching my people, President Jing.】

On the other end, seeing this text message, Jing Hong—who had been feeling thoroughly annoyed by Saint Games’ management pushing him—suddenly found his mood brightening significantly.

He knew this was neither a sign of weakness nor a genuine plea, but merely a offhand, sarcastic tease from Zhou Chang.

Jing Hong didn’t reply. Looking at those six words, he curled his fingers slightly, resting his index finger gently against his lower lip, letting out a silent, knowing smile.