"First of all, I want to say that all of your ideas sound good, and they do seem to have real potential."
"But judging from how you’ve described things, the only system that’s basically finished is online multiplayer. Everything else would have to start almost from scratch. That won’t be easy. Even if you had enough funding, you’d still need two or three years—maybe even five, six, or seven years—of steady work. Do you really have that kind of patience?"
Trying to rehabilitate a ga with a bad reputation over two or three years—or even longer—was not sothing everyone could endure.
"I do!" the young man said without hesitation. "Because this ga is like my child. Even if you don’t invest in , Mr. Takayuki—even if this ga ends up having no comrcial value at all—I still want to give it everything I have. I’m willing to spend my entire life finishing it!"
"Even if you can only make this one ga for the rest of your life?" Takayuki asked.
"Yes."
Takayuki fell silent for a long mont, carefully weighing the feasibility of this decision.
Gastar Electronic Entertainnt was not a charity. It couldn’t just throw money at projects with no aning.
If Takayuki hadn’t carried mories and experience from his previous life, he might have made the sa decision as Mikfo—abandoning a half-finished ga and using that ti to create new projects with faster returns.
But those were short-term profits.
Infinite World...
From a long-term perspective, its potential value was actually quite high.
People loved stories like this:
The prodigal son returning.
A coback against all odds.
A complete reversal of public opinion.
Stories like that had incredible staying power. Once successful, the payoff could far exceed that of ordinary projects.
This was worth doing.
The only real drawback was the long cycle.
But it was worth it.
"I can invest in you," Takayuki finally said. "But I won’t be doing free labor for soone else’s benefit. After I invest, I won’t take ownership of Infinite World, but Gastar Electronic Entertainnt will have short-term exclusivity on all future content. Also, if you ever plan to leave Gastar, you’ll be bound by a non-compete agreent. Can you accept these terms?"
"I accept."
The young man had no other choice.
If he didn’t accept Gastar’s offer, no other ga company would be willing to support Infinite World anymore.
"Good. Then soone from my team will follow up with you," Takayuki said. "I’ll give you plenty of ti. I’m not in a hurry for imdiate results—but at every stage, you must deliver sothing that satisfies ."
"Finish online multiplayer within one year.
Solve the random-generation technology within two years.
Let’s lock in those two goals first. As for story expansion, you can arrange that yourself—I won’t force it."
Two years!
That was incredibly generous—far better than the deadlines Mikfo had imposed.
Of course, even two years wasn’t truly abundant in ga developnt terms. Gastar hadn’t promised to throw massive manpower at the project, so early on he’d probably still be working with a small team of just over a dozen people. Ti would still be tight.
But everything looked different when compared side by side.
Compared to Mikfo, Gastar’s tiline was practically luxurious.
At the very least, he no longer needed brutal overti schedules. He could finally think about how to make the ga better, instead of being trapped in repetitive, mind-numbing production work.
"Alright, then it’s settled," Takayuki said. "Go coordinate with my people. I’ll wait for good news. I’m very patient."
"Yes—yes! Thank you!"
The young man was overwheld with excitent.
Honestly, if he’d known this would be the outco, he should have chosen Gastar Electronic Entertainnt from the very beginning.
What he didn’t realize, though, was that Takayuki wasn’t investing because the ga idea itself was exceptional—but because of the potential value of a reputation reversal.
As for ga ideas?
Takayuki had countless concepts of his own. He didn’t need this one to spark creativity.
Still, he genuinely looked forward to seeing how the ga would perform two years later.
He could play it again properly then.
...
News of Infinite World’s creator leaving Mikfo spread rapidly. In just a few days, it triggered massive outrage among players.
So openly threatened the developer online. Others sohow tracked down mbers of the developnt team and mailed blades and other disturbing items to their hos.
Mikfo, of course, was also flooded with criticism.
So people dug into details, analyzing clues from earlier press conferences. They noticed that Mikfo had been extrely strict about deadlines—likely the root cause of the ga being released as a half-finished product.
But those voices were quickly drowned out by louder waves of anger, unable to gain much traction.
At that point, Mikfo’s PR team sprang into action.
First, they completely distanced themselves from Infinite World, redirecting all bla toward the ga’s creator.
"Look—this developer simply wasn’t capable. We were deceived too. We’re victims as well. We shouldn’t be subjected to this abuse."
Once Mikfo’s PR machinery went into motion, an independent ga developer stood no chance. Public opinion rapidly shifted, aiming its fire squarely at the creator himself.
That was when Gastar Electronic Entertainnt stepped in.
They publicly announced that they would invest in Infinite World. Gastar’s spokesperson stated that the ga still had untapped potential—but unlocking it required ti and money. And Gastar had no shortage of either.
They were willing to wait patiently for a good ga to bloom.
This stunned many people.
The ga looked objectively bad, with almost no remaining value. Wouldn’t it be better to use that money on a brand-new project?
Pouring more money into this ga might not bring any additional returns at all.
Yet because of Gastar’s intervention, the pressure on the small developnt team gradually eased.
Reputation mattered.
With Gastar backing them, even if the ga ultimately failed, most players were surprisingly tolerant.
As for players who had already bought Infinite World and couldn’t get refunds, all they could do was hope the ga would eventually be reborn—because refunds were no longer an option.
Now it was Mikfo’s PR team that felt lost.
They genuinely couldn’t understand why Gastar had suddenly jumped in.
When Myron Case heard the news, he found it absurd.
He didn’t understand gas—but he understood reputation. Once it collapsed, recovery was nearly impossible.
In his view, Gastar had picked up a burning hot potato. Mishandled, it could even turn into poison—destroying the player trust Gastar had spent years building.
He truly didn’t understand.
Did Takayuki... really lose his mind?
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