Chapter 840: Chapter 350: Could You Please Spare Me?_2

If you count all the players who spent 1 RMB to get a fan badge, the official number of the Yu Family Army is 430,000.

How terrifying is this number?

Let me put it this way: before today, the total number of players in the entertainment section of the Panda Platform was less than 200,000.

Out of 1.2 million daily logins, only 200,000 would visit the entertainment section, 20,000 would spend money, and the rest were all in the esports section.

No wonder everyone says the entertainment section of Panda is dead.

Mina-chan, such a hyped big streamer, streams all night, and although the total audience in her room reaches 100,000, her daily income doesn’t even hit 20,000 RMB.

At first glance, that seems like a lot, but for the entertainment queen of the third-largest platform on the internet, this level clearly doesn’t add up.

Yet, just today, Yuji not only brought 6 million new user registrations to Panda but also pulled the daily revenue of the entire entertainment section up to 63 million RMB. An overflow of 13 million spread across various large and small streamers, creating an illusion of full prosperity.

This is the scary part about Yuji, and equally, the scary part about Xingyu.

Every platform operator covets the Yu Family Army. Even if today’s situation is an exception and can’t always be this spectacular, even if you slash 80% of her performance, she’s still leading by a wide margin!

YY’s four big stars, Kuaishou’s three kings, and Douyu’s two infamous ones all have about 100,000-level fan bases, but their fans just don’t spend as much. This has left the big streamers racking their brains, unable to figure it out.

Finally, they had no choice but to conclude that it was because they lacked a leader like Turbid Dog Number Three to rally the troops.

Well, by sheer coincidence, they guessed right.

Without the organizational promotion and leadership of Su Huai, even Pei Shuyu’s peak wouldn’t have been as glorious as it is now. The difference is worlds apart.

And if there was no Su Huai, Panda would never have seen a day as bright as today.

By the end, naturally, several hashtags had trended on the hot search, the executives held a celebration meeting, and the entire company handed out bonuses. They were riding on cloud nine.

Mr. Wang slapped the conference table aggressively, his face flushed red, and asked, “Does anyone still question my decisions now? Huh?!”

Amidst the chorus of flattering remarks, Mr. Wang felt like he was soaring, as if the peak of his career was right within his grasp…

But for Su Huai, this matter was already in the past.

More important tasks lay ahead for him.

Throughout March, Xingyu tightened the screws and bulldozed forward with roaring momentum.

By March 31, with the final branch office location determined, Xingyu officially established 49 network nodes.

According to the saying, “Great has fifty paths but conceals one.” Forty-nine is considered auspicious–job done.

Notably, no branches were set up in Xinjiang, Tibet, Hong Kong, or Macau. Otherwise, each provincial capital got one, and the rest were concentrated in high-GDP cities.

Once all the branch offices are built, streamers from Beijing, Shanghai, Guangzhou, Shenzhen, Suzhou, and Hangzhou can finally go home.

There’s really no need to cram streaming into first-tier cities. Apart from the glamour, these places are full of drawbacks.

Of course, while some want to leave, others want to join.

In this regard, Xingyu is laid-back and fully respects individual preferences.

One major reason for building network nodes was to prepare for offline activities, but the timing wasn’t quite right yet, so Su Huai wasn’t in a rush to push it through, waiting patiently for the right moment.

Meanwhile, membership applications flooded Xingyu’s recruitment department like snowflakes.

Every morning, the first thing these employees did after waking up was look at photos. Fortunately, since they didn’t need to clock in, they could start working the moment they opened their eyes and continue until they passed out in bed again. Such a “wonderful” life.

Every single day, Xingyu’s pool of streamers was swelling.

Although signing online contracts carried no cost, Xingyu was still selective–they didn’t strictly look for good looks but required some flair, some distinctiveness.

The reason they didn’t sign everyone was mainly to avoid monopolistic concerns.

With 200,000 total streamers, signing 100,000–50%–was no issue.

Signing 180,000, though, would attract the authorities’ attention, leading to a sit-down with Su Huai.

But in reality, cherry-picking 100,000 out of the 200,000 made no difference to a monopoly, either.

No difference at all–essentially, all the premium resources in the industry were consolidated under one roof.

Yet, this wasn’t called a monopoly–this was called market leadership.

Soon, the 49 sites couldn’t keep up with the needs of Xingyu’s guild streamers, so under Su Huai’s directive, they embarked on another operation–

Providing full streaming equipment in advance, offering door-to-door installation and one-stop service.

This enabled Xingyu’s streamers to live-stream from home or rental apartments, even heartwarmingly considering their convenience.

The service itself didn’t charge a fee. Streamers simply paid for the equipment in installments from their future earnings until they owned it outright.

Once implemented, this plan immediately eased the strained cash flow.

Some may wonder if this statement was reversed.

It wasn’t, of course.

The full setup included cameras, microphones, backdrops, computers, desks, chairs, lighting, clothing, and props. Some were essentials, others optional.

For the essentials, all items came from cutthroat competition within the saturated market.

Now, with a massive order currently scaling at 100,000 units and potentially reaching 500,000 in the future, the vendors were invited to showcase their best.

The winning manufacturers even reversed the usual process and paid Xingyu a quality deposit. Truly upsetting the natural order of things.

After getting the deposit, Xingyu didn’t settle payments on the spot but delayed them between three to six months for each shipment.

In essence, they leveraged these products for free, handed them out to streamers, let them start earning money, and gradually repay the company, which in turn slowly cleared its balance with the suppliers…

This audacious operation didn’t just work under Su Huai’s leadership–it also achieved the lowest market prices.

But what was distributed to the streamers wasn’t the factory price–while not exorbitant, it included costs for labor, transport, and management, making it slightly more expensive than buying individually.

Still, the no-interest installment option won over countless streamers who praised the company’s thoughtfulness.

Thus, even as Su Huai cycled the suppliers’ funds through the banks to earn interest, he also gained the image of a benevolent leader–utterly surreal.

Of course, there were always a few naive legal novices who ran off with the equipment or refused to stream and couldn’t pay it back. In cases where the gear could be reclaimed, it was retrieved. Otherwise, the debtor was labeled as dishonest, leaving society to “educate” them harshly.

Meanwhile, as one side thrived in full swing, another groundbreaking event rocked the live-streaming world in April–

Several players reported Gou Star to the Internet Information Office and law enforcement departments, accusing it of hosting gambling games, altering backend data, committing crimes equivalent to operating a casino, and engaging in fraud.

These individuals not only compiled their own transaction records and key inducement materials but also somehow acquired evidence of Gou Star’s IT department privately modifying game parameters to exploit players, leading directly to an official case being opened.

By mid-April, related senior executives from Gou Star were taken in for investigation, and all games were temporarily suspended.

By late April, several top executives were detained. Gou Star was in chaos, and players stopped recharging or spending. Daily revenue plummeted below 100,000 RMB, leaving it as good as dead.

Whether Mr. Wang was stunned or not is unclear, but Jin Yucheng was completely floored.

“Damn it! Who did this?!”

The partners at Jin Yu cried tears of despair. After losing 100 million earlier, they had already broken down once. Just as things were starting to recover with Gou Star gaining traction, their efforts were shattered within days!

At this moment, not only was Xingyu continuing its meteoric rise, but even Panda was experiencing a rare golden age of prosperity.

By comparison, Gou Star and Jin Yu looked pitifully bleak.

This stark contrast sparked a rumor across the industry–whoever crossed Xingyu would meet an unpleasant end because lurking behind Xingyu was a terrifying hidden force…

Meanwhile, Su Huai, now nicknamed “Turbid Dog Number Four,” was left scratching his head: whoever wronged you, go bother them–what does that have to do with me?

But Mr. Wang believed it.

Because ever since the fallout with Xingyu, Gou Star had spiraled downhill step by step.

By late April, on the last day before the holiday, Mr. Wang sent Chen Jie to ask, “Mr. Su, I’m willing to sell Gou Star to you. Could you let me off the hook?”