Chapter 854: Chapter 356: Frontline Report_2

He stubbed out his cigarette and, as usual, made a round of the office.

Tang Xian’er saw him come out, immediately picked up her folder, and followed him silently.

After grinding through three months, she had finally smoothed out her rough edges and started looking like a proper assistant.

She talked less, observed more, stopped teasing Su Huai, adhered strictly to company rules, focused on studying his way of doing things, and asked questions promptly when in doubt. Only in private did she reveal a hint of her ambition.

Walking ahead, Su Huai casually said, “Starting tomorrow, you’ll officially take on the role of my chief assistant. Tell the admin office to issue a notice. But I’ll give you only six months. After six months, you’ll either become a branch manager or be competent enough to hold a senior position, out-perform those top-tier 985 university graduates. Got it?”

“Understood.”

Tang Xian’er calmly nodded, looking as steady as ever.

But inside, no one could truly grasp how thrilled she was.

The manager position at Xingyu’s branches was a cushy, highly lucrative role with already significant basic pay, plus a share of the branch’s net profits, ranging from 5%0~5%.

The groundwork was all laid by the headquarters–by Su Huai himself. Once there, you could reap the rewards without much effort. With good operations, making several million a year was practically effortless.

However, those with higher aspirations preferred to stay at headquarters, where the opportunities were endless, and the ceiling for future growth was visibly high.

But for now, the level of competition within Xingyu was arguably fiercer than at major corporations. No role was particularly secure–fail to deliver, and you’d be replaced in no time.

Tang Xian’er didn’t particularly aim for any specific role; she was just overjoyed to have finally earned Su Huai’s trust.

She had long seen through Su Huai as a man–measuring everything with precision, holding both a ruler and a blade. He understood better than anyone who was suited for what and how well they performed.

Being an employee offered little protection. It wasn’t like being a live-streamer, where one lucky break could instantly elevate you to stardom.

But if you were an exceptional employee, you had the privilege of staying in his orbit. The speed at which you could achieve financial freedom, and the height you could ultimately reach, would absolutely rival that of a star live-streamer.

After all, there was only one Yuji in the world. And not many could rival Liu Zigui.

…

Su Huai took Tang Xian’er around the office for a patrol. Technically, work hours had ended, but the office was still bustling.

Plenty of employees were working overtime. With dorms upstairs, going back didn’t change how busy they were anyway.

When they saw Su Huai, they didn’t deliberately stop what they were doing. Most just greeted him with a simple “Hello, Mr. Su,” and that was it.

Xingyu’s company culture, or internal ethos, was clear: as long as you did your job well, you didn’t need to maintain any relationships or butter up the higher-ups.

The structure was inherently flat. Coupled with the fact that many departments were highly autonomous content-related roles, traditional office politics had no fertile ground to grow. Many employees essentially saw themselves as working for their own benefit.

Xingyu’s performance incentives were genuinely eye-popping.

The recruitment department for star creators earned the smallest commission from streamers’ revenue streams, but the sheer volume they handled made up for it. By sourcing a handful of mid-tier streamers, they still earned handsomely.

Meanwhile, talent managers + operations teams could take up to 5% commission from a single streamer’s revenue–an impressive figure, but with equally high demands. Under normal circumstances, it was about 1%.

Excluding rookie streamers at the bottom, a team managing dozens of mid-tier B-rated streamers with monthly revenue of 10 million would generate a 100,000 split among a few people.

In extreme cases, if a team produced a breakout star with 100 million in revenue, 5% of that–split among five people–meant each one could take home over a million in a month.

As for what it’d be like after reaching A-tier…

The company currently had only one A-tier manager, An Beibei, nicknamed “Chief Instructor.” She had brought both Zhen Ji and Yan Mengqing to prominence and thus earned 5% of their total income. Her stable monthly earnings had already surpassed a million and were far from capped.

Since the spring recruitment session, with new blood joining, the talent management and operations departments had descended into a frenzy of rivalry.

These two departments neither clocked in nor out nor received overtime pay. Their freedom was maxed out. It was a battlefield of intelligence and a blood-soaked war of endurance.

Xingyu’s current upward momentum could largely be attributed to the relentless drive of these two departments.

It was as if they were feeding on adrenaline…

When Su Huai returned from the streaming area, Tang Xian’er suddenly spoke up: “Just now, two female streamers were making advances on you. Do you need me to handle it?”

Su Huai looked up in astonishment, visibly shaken. “Making advances? What kind of ridiculous phrasing is that?”

“Literal phrasing.”

Tang Xian’er replied calmly, then listed a series of observations.

“Flushed cheeks, rapid breathing, noticeable muscle tension in the hips and thighs–they were clenching, like holding in pee. After you walked past, they discreetly licked their lips…”

“Stop! Stop! Stop!”

Su Huai quickly interrupted her, “Don’t stir up trouble where there isn’t any. We allow streamers with… different personalities to exist.”

After a pause, he added, “Flag them. If their evaluation scores are low, deprioritize their development.”

Tang Xian’er chuckled lightly and noted down the two streamers’ names.

Su Huai wasn’t being unfair; he was doing risk management.

The streaming industry was inherently tied to money, sponsors, and unwritten transactions, and Xingyu was no exception.

Low-tier streamers, small influencers–they could date however they wanted. Even if they were caught in indecent deals, it wasn’t anyone’s problem.

Xingyu’s relationship with them was more of a high-autonomy collaboration.

But when they reached the B-contract level or higher–or aimed for A-tier and started vying for S-tier–the investment of resources, the mutual bonds, and the team’s efforts changed entirely.