The real young master thought he was hated by everyone

[**Pythagorean Theorem**: Goal—To become the king of the borderlands!]

Xie Duzhi closed the planning document he had just opened on his computer and stared at the stream title for a few seconds before clicking to watch.

As soon as he entered, his mouse accidentally clicked on a special gift, and he was redirected to a completely unfamiliar livestream.

A sweet, syrupy voice called out, “Thank you, boss! You’re so generous, boss! Mwah!” Startled, his hand trembled, and he nearly considered closing the browser altogether.

…However, this platform was now under his ownership.

He furrowed his brows slightly, choosing to mute the webpage. Without looking directly at the stream, he familiarized himself with the layout and features before minimizing the browser.

Calmly, he opened the quick notes on his desktop and added another meeting to tomorrow’s schedule, noting down specific arrangements. Only then did he reopen the browser, log out of the admin account, and enter the words “Pythagorean Theorem” into the search bar to re-enter Li Heng’s livestream as a guest.

The camera wasn’t on. The livestream, which occupied about two-thirds of the screen, only showed the game character progressing, while the side chat was filled with comments.

He watched for a while, but apart from fighting monsters, he couldn’t discern much from the game content. The comments in the chat grabbed more of his attention than the stream itself.

[Streamer, give us a kiss!]  

[Ahhhh! Be careful! There’ll be mobs suddenly appearing here!]  

[You can skip this part! How about we skip the class instead?]  

[Lol, my noob gameplay can’t even compare to the streamer’s noob gameplay.]  

And so on.

Xie Duzhi never entered a situation unprepared.

The decision to acquire the company had been made based on a clear understanding of market potential and specific development goals. The marketing department had already provided a precise user profile for his review.

But that didn’t mean he understood this stream’s content—especially the chat.

When the game character was killed again by a monster due to not dodging in time and sent back to the spawn point, he couldn’t help but open the chat.

[Guest werhw90ie3: Did the character die because they didn’t spend money on better equipment?]  

Or maybe not enough money?

Xie Duzhi’s understanding of games was limited to: “As long as you spend enough money, you can become invincible.” If you weren’t invincible and other players surpassed you, it meant you hadn’t spent enough.

He had just entered other streams, so he wasn’t familiar with the situation here.

[Guest werhw90ie3: I can spend money for the streamer.]

Suddenly, the chat’s focus shifted from the game and the streamer to him.

Amid a wave of laughter and suggestions to “turn right to find the pay-to-win games,” Xie Duzhi gravely registered an account and followed the stream.

[System: *Dun Chi has showered the “Pythagorean Theorem” stream with a shower of starlight. Come grab the red packets!*]  

[System: *Dun Chi has showered the “Pythagorean Theorem” stream with a shower of starlight. Come grab the red packets!*]

More than thirty notifications followed in quick succession.

“A shower of starlight” was the most expensive gift on the Orange platform. It was announced platform-wide and triggered free items—red packets—that attracted other users to the stream. One gift was worth 9,999 yuan.

Xie Duzhi paused his gift-giving and saw that the entire stream interface was filled with messages like “Boss is so generous.”

The chat on the right scrolled rapidly, with occasional comments like “???” and “Wow, is this really the boss?” mixed in.

He stopped, not because he had run out of money, but because he suddenly remembered that the platform would take a cut from the gifts.

Based on the streamer’s ranking, gift deductions ranged from 50% to 30%.

Li Heng was in the 50% tier.

Giving gifts wasn’t as effective as directly transferring money.

Although continuing would increase the stream’s popularity, and the PR department could contact media outlets to publicize the event, boosting the platform’s exposure and engaging users with new activities to increase daily active users, Xie Duzhi didn’t want to do that.

This was a personal matter.

As an older brother, he simply wanted to support his younger brother in any way he could.

Ramping up the stream’s popularity and triggering a series of follow-up marketing campaigns went against his original intention. It wasn’t his goal.

A reasonable amount of promotion was sufficient.

Xie Duzhi didn’t play games, but after some thought, his conclusion was simple: winning and becoming the king of the borderlands would bring Li Heng a sense of achievement and joy.

Much like the satisfaction he derived from defeating competitors in business takeovers.

If money could make that easier, why not spend it?

He picked up the phone lying beside him, hesitated for a moment, and put it back down.

Li Heng was clearly fully engrossed in the game, unaware of the comments and gifts.

He could just go knock on the door now and inform him about the money transfer, allowing his younger brother to enjoy the game more easily.

But what would be the point? It would disrupt the stream and break the flow.

In this case, the roles of “brother” and “viewer” were in direct conflict.

Xie Duzhi rarely hesitated.

His mouse hovered over the gift options again and again, once more realizing that raising a younger brother was truly difficult.

Of course, it didn’t help that he had no experience or reference point.

He didn’t notice that, during his moment of distraction, Li Heng had already figured out the monster’s attack patterns and skills. Using the most basic weapon, he defeated the so-called nightmare of beginners—the Borderland Guardian, which had stumped 90% of players.

The process was seamless, without a single health drop, save for one accidental misclick due to unfamiliarity with the new keyboard.

After defeating the boss, Li Heng reactivated the chat assistant to check the previous comments.

Focusing intensely during boss fights was his habit, and to avoid distractions or spoilers, he would usually turn off the chat and re-enable it only after defeating the boss.

This habit had cost him many viewers. In modern terms, those who stayed active in his streams were his true loyal fans.

As soon as the chat history loaded, the stream even stuttered for a moment before resuming.

Most of the viewers who had been attracted by the gifts left after grabbing the red packets, leaving only a small portion behind.

They casually chatted with the “loyal fans” about the earlier gameplay, amid notifications of free gifts and new followers.

Even so, Li Heng was still shocked by the surge in viewership and comments, not quite understanding what had happened.

He stopped his character at the campfire, a safe point, opened the stream assistant, filtered out irrelevant comments, and began scrolling back, answering questions and thanking people for gifts.

“This monster wasn’t actually that difficult; the key is not to rush and get too focused on damage output…”

The further he scrolled, the more astonished he became, and his voice started to tremble slightly, a hint of nervousness creeping in.

“…Thanks to Dun Chi for the thirty-three Starlights.”

His enunciation was clear, and after reading the username aloud, he paused.

Though he appeared calm, his mind was overwhelmed, as if a massive firework display had gone off, nearly causing him to freeze.

He glanced at the stream interface again. On the VIP leaderboard, the ID “Dun Chi” was firmly at the top, with a contribution score tens of thousands of points higher than the second place.

To encourage viewer competition—put simply, to earn more—most streamers displayed a scrolling VIP leaderboard prominently on their streams. The top contributors each month would receive additional rewards.

Li Heng might be decent at playing games, but as a streamer, he was far from polished.

He cautiously maintained a distance from his audience, never turned on his camera, and was somewhat passive in his approach to streaming.

He ignored holiday events and challenges that required viewers to send gifts to unlock. He emphasized to his audience that free gifts were just as meaningful.

When faced with large donations or gifts, he would remind his viewers that spending money on themselves or their loved ones would yield better results.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to make money, but he didn’t believe his efforts were worth that much.

After all, he wasn’t really doing anything.

There were plenty of other ways for people to relax besides watching his streams.

Faced with such an enormous gift, he didn’t know how to express his thanks properly. He even had a strong urge to refund it.

The ID “Dun Chi” was still present in the stream, its name shining, with a golden level icon beside it that was almost blinding.

But the user hadn’t said anything.

Amid all the “Boss, you’re amazing!” and “Please keep supporting the streamer!” comments, Li Heng took a deep breath and finished what he had started.

“Thank you, boss. You’re so generous. Wishing you good health and prosperity.”

“…After the stream, please check your private messages, boss.”

Hearing Li Heng call him “boss” made Xie Duzhi feel a bit strange.

He much preferred being called “brother.”

But before he could tell him that next time he could just use the username, Li Heng had already swiftly shifted the conversation back to the game, chatting with the other viewers about strategy and gameplay.

Not understanding the game content, Xie Duzhi deleted the half-typed message he was going to send.

He’d send more gifts next time, and he could mention it then.