Chapter 26: Saint Games Acquisition (Part 1)

Chapter 26: The Saint Games Acquisition (I)

For a long time afterward, Fanhai and Qinghui left each other alone—until one day, Zhao Hanqing, head of Fanhai’s Investment Department, came to seek Jing Hong’s input once again.

“Boss Jing,” Zhao Hanqing said, “have you heard of a company called Saint Games?”

Jing Hong nodded. “Yes, I’ve heard of them.”

Saint Games—one of the world’s most renowned gaming companies since 2000—was headquartered in London, United Kingdom, and had gone public on the London Stock Exchange several years earlier. Six months ago, it launched a major new title, *Expedition*, which received widespread critical acclaim and continued drawing ever-growing numbers of online players.

Zhao Hanqing continued: “Previously, Qinghui attempted to acquire Saint Games but was rebuffed. However, this week, the Qinghui Group launched a hostile takeover, publicly issuing a two-tier offer to all Saint Games shareholders—£22 per share immediately, rising to £24 if Saint Games answers certain questions.”

An offer made without the target board’s approval is, by definition, a hostile takeover.

After a brief pause, Zhao Hanqing added: “In fact, before announcing the offer, Qinghui executed a dawn raid. Within hours of the London Stock Exchange’s closing, they purchased a substantial block of shares off-market, ultimately acquiring roughly 10% of the company. Clearly, Qinghui aims to become Saint Games’ controlling shareholder. Rumor has it that Qinghui’s Chief Strategy Officer flew to New York that same day to personally oversee the operation—setting up a War Room inside an investment bank’s conference room. Traders contacted major shareholders to gauge price sensitivity and negotiate terms, then rushed back to the War Room to confirm with Qinghui whether they would honor the agreed-upon prices. The entire operation was completed in just two hours.”

Jing Hong: “…”

Such transactions require dawn raids for secrecy—if shareholders caught wind of the move, share prices would skyrocket. Yet completing the acquisition in only two hours remained astonishingly efficient.

Zhao Hanqing continued: “Once Qinghui’s stake exceeded 3%, they were required to file a disclosure with the UK’s Financial Services Authority (FSA). Following that filing, Qinghui acquired another 5%—and last week, formally dispatched a takeover offer to every Saint Games shareholder.”

Jing Hong asked, “How did Saint Games’ board respond?”

Zhao Hanqing replied, “Saint Games moved swiftly—they advised shareholders to hold tight for now and mounted a strong counteroffensive against Qinghui.”

Jing Hong asked, “Anything else?”

“Yes,” Zhao Hanqing nodded again. “They went out of their way to reach us through Goldman Sachs, hoping Fanhai would step in as the ‘white knight’ to fend off Qinghui.”

Jing Hong said, “Figured as much.”

The term “white knight” sounds noble—but in practice, it refers to a friendly third party—a person or company—that intervenes to rescue the target firm and repel the aggressor in a hostile takeover. So when a company actively seeks a white knight, it is deliberately searching for such a cooperative third party.

Now, Fanhai had become Saint Games’ chosen white knight candidate—perhaps because, within this sector, Fanhai was the only player with both genuine interest in gaming and the financial muscle to outbid Qinghui. Major international tech firms had never seriously engaged with traditional gaming.

Zhao Hanqing continued: “Saint Games wants us to submit a new bid, priced higher than Qinghui’s, to drive them away.”

That way, shareholders would accept Fanhai’s “friendly” offer—and reject Qinghui’s “unfriendly” one outright.

“Then,” Zhao Hanqing added, “depending on the final share count, we could pursue a private placement① to issue additional shares, thereby diluting Qinghui’s stake.” At this point, Zhao Hanqing recalled: “Saint Games’ corporate charter stipulates that any shareholder holding over 15% gains a seat on the board—but Saint Games’ board is determined to keep the Qinghui Group at arm’s length. That said, such a private placement might not survive a shareholder vote.”

Jing Hong nodded and cut straight to the core: “They want us to pledge not to purchase further shares for several years post-acquisition?”

Zhao Hanqing smiled. “Exactly. Regardless of how many shares we ultimately hold, we must commit to purchasing no more—and surrender our voting rights to Saint Games’ current CEO. In exchange, everything else remains negotiable.”

That was Saint Games’ game plan: Fanhai pays more to displace Qinghui, yet cannot buy another share and must hand over voting control to the incumbent CEO—ensuring Saint Games remains entirely untouched.

Hearing this, Jing Hong let out a derisive snort. “Dream on. Do I look like I’m running a charity? Just handing them cash?”

Zhao Hanqing laughed too. “Right—we can’t accept that. But honestly, if we can eliminate that clause, this deal merits serious consideration.”

Jing Hong simply looked at Zhao Hanqing, waiting for him to continue.

Zhao Hanqing analyzed: “Saint Games’ new title, *Expedition*, is exceptionally strong—polished, immersive, with outstanding world-building, gameplay mechanics, and visuals. I met with Old Yu twice today, and he’s extremely bullish on its global sales potential. Moreover, Saint Games boasts deep talent across the board and has consistently led on the technological front. Its games over the past decade have set industry trends and demonstrated remarkable creativity. And another title currently in development… based on what we know so far, looks highly promising as well.”

Old Yu is Senior Vice President of Fanhai Entertainment Group, overseeing its gaming division.

“Alright—I’ll trust your assessment,” Jing Hong said. “If we can strike that clause, then let’s play white knight. With the board’s backing, taking down Qinghui shouldn’t be difficult.”

“Understood.”

“Remember,” Jing Hong stressed again, “do not agree to the no-further-purchases clause—and do not agree to ceding voting rights to the current CEO. Everything else is negotiable. Otherwise, forget it—let them handle Qinghui themselves. Fanhai does not engage in purely financial plays.”

Zhao Hanqing said, “Understood.”

…

That night, back home, Jing Hong found himself reflecting again on the whole “white knight” proposition.

He wondered what Saint Games had done to provoke Zhou Chang.

Knowing Zhou Chang as he did, it was almost certain the current Saint Games leadership had somehow rubbed him the wrong way.

Neither Fanhai nor Qinghui launched hostile takeovers frequently.

Outsiders often quipped that, in the eyes of both Fanhai’s and Qinghui’s investment teams, “what’s mine is mine, what’s yours is mine too—and if yours isn’t mine yet, I’ll damn well make it mine.” But that wasn’t entirely true—and could never be.

Even someone like Jing Hong—who pursued his goals with single-minded intensity—understood that not everything in this world can be possessed. Many opportunities, once missed, vanish forever; many companies, if inaccessible for investment, remain out of reach. There’s no need to force matters. He believed Zhou Chang understood this too.

What Zhou Chang simply could not tolerate was being slighted.

And it appeared he very much wanted control of Saint Games. According to Zhao Hanqing, Qinghui had been negotiating with Saint Games for over six months.

Now, Saint Games itself had voluntarily approached Fanhai to serve as the white knight and repel Qinghui.

Recalling how Zhou Chang had taken him along to Chongqing that time, Jing Hong felt a fleeting pang of guilt.

But he dismissed it instantly—he was Jing Hong, and Fanhai was Fanhai. Likewise, Zhou Chang was Zhou Chang, and Qinghui was Qinghui.

“…” Deliberately or not, Jing Hong opened his chat window with Zhou Chang once more.

The last message remained that voice note: “Cold-hearted, aren’t you?”

Jing Hong naturally wouldn’t disclose Fanhai Group’s plans. He stared at the voice note for a moment, then casually tapped Zhou Chang’s avatar and entered his profile page.

His displayed name was simply “Zhou Chang,” and his avatar—a blazing red sun.

A few seconds later, as Jing Hong’s gaze swept over Zhou Chang’s ID on the app, he froze.

Zhou Chang’s ID read: “Eternal-Sunshine_Zhou.”

At first glance, nothing seemed unusual—it suited Zhou Chang perfectly.

“Eternal” meaning everlasting; “Sunshine” meaning sunlight. Together, they echoed the character “昶” in Zhou Chang’s name—eternal sunlight.

But then Jing Hong suddenly remembered—he’d seen this exact ID before.

Eternal-Sunshine_Zhou.

That was 2007—eleven years ago. That year, the iPhone launched, ushering in the mobile internet era—and all of America buzzed with excitement over the device. Jing Hong, then on summer break after his first year of PhD studies, didn’t ask his father for help. Instead, he joined classmates in lining up overnight outside the Apple Store, waiting through the night.

When he unboxed it, Jing Hong was stunned. He’d used PDAs and BlackBerrys capable of web browsing—but he instantly grasped that the iPhone would redefine the very concept of the “phone.”

So Jing Hong immersed himself in American developer communities, learning iOS app development. One of his apps even achieved impressive download numbers.

Then, in early 2008, China finally established its own Apple developer community—even though the iPhone hadn’t officially launched there yet. Consumers had to source devices through unofficial channels, and proper functionality required jailbreaking. At that time, thanks to his fluent English, Jing Hong began translating American development tutorials and answering fellow developers’ questions—offering his own insights.

Back then, the forum hosted several “gurus”—and he was among them, with the most popular tutorials. And among the others was one named “Eternal-Sunshine_Zhou.”

Unlike his own approach, Eternal-Sunshine_Zhou seemed more interested in the market reception of those apps after their launch in China. Eternal-Sunshine_Zhou shared tutorials and taught others, but paid close attention to how early users reacted to those apps.

That year, both Jing Hong and Zhou Chang were 21.

However, just six months later, both he and Eternal-Sunshine_Zhou had bowed out. Jing Hong didn't want iOS development to consume too much of his time.

At the time, Jing Hong didn't think twice about the ID "Eternal-Sunshine_Zhou."

A few years earlier, there had been a classic romantic movie called *Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind*, and Jing Hong assumed the person behind the ID was some kind of softie.

Of course, the term could also mean "glory of God"—used by Catholic poets of old to describe divine radiance, in which case the ID's owner was just some moody teenager.

In short, he never figured it came from someone's Chinese name.

But now, it seemed this ID must belong to Zhou Chang—the forum was established in 2008, and this chat app was launched in 2010, so the timeline added up.

Jing Hong had known a few people on that forum, but he didn't know Eternal-Sunshine_Zhou.

A lot of the regulars from back then had since made a name for themselves in the internet industry. One had started a company that hit over a hundred million users; another had won the top prize at the Mobile World Congress and dined at the Spanish royal palace, and the app's global downloads later went through the roof.

Many others had achieved early fame but spent their thirties bouncing around, always in flux—either launching startups or hopping between jobs—until finally, in their forties, with experience and insight, they finally grabbed a golden chance. A few of those successful companies had received investment from Fanhai, but the bosses had zero clue that Jing Hong was the original "Swan."

Every now and then, Jing Hong had wondered what Eternal-Sunshine_Zhou was up to, but he never would've guessed Eternal-Sunshine_Zhou was Zhou Buqun's kid.

That was just too weird.

"..." Feeling like he'd stumbled on a secret from Zhou Chang's past, over a decade old, Jing Hong got out of bed again, threw on a robe, walked to the study, and turned on the computer. From memory, he typed in the forum's address.

It was still there.

But it was run-down now, barely anyone left—probably about to shut down.

Jing Hong's fingers moved a few times, typed in keywords he remembered from one of Eternal-Sunshine_Zhou's posts, searched, and found that the post was still there too.

Jing Hong clicked on the author's name, "Eternal-Sunshine_Zhou," and the old forum pulled up results, one by one, filling two full pages.

Jing Hong clicked the oldest post.

He wasn't sure why, but reading these articles Zhou Chang had written over a decade ago gave Jing Hong a weird sense of satisfaction.

Like he'd gotten to know a bit more, and won a bit more.

After reading two or three posts in detail, Jing Hong suddenly spotted a dumb mistake in Zhou Chang's post—something like "2+2=5."

Jing Hong figured Zhou Chang must've zoned out when he wrote it.

Jing Hong let out a chuckle, and before he knew it, his finger moved and he grabbed a screenshot.

But when it came to saving it, Jing Hong ran into a problem.

He created a new folder on his hard drive, but hesitated for a moment over what to name it.

He couldn't stand the idea of a folder named "Zhou Chang" on his computer—too weird. So, after a couple of seconds, Jing Hong casually typed out another name for Zhou Chang:

"Eternal Sunshine."

Eternal Sunshine.

Author's Note:

[Note]:

① Private placement: selling bonds or shares to select investors.

In the U.S., you go straight from undergrad to a PhD program, and the PhD takes five years. So the first year of the PhD is basically right after college.

The iPhone came to China in 2009, two years after its US launch, and the official Chinese version didn't even show up until 2014.