Film is truly an entertainnt industry with over a century of history—its influence runs far deeper than that of video gas.
In just a few short days, the traditional film elites seed to have gained the upper hand.
They voiced their opposition through every dia outlet and platform, firmly rejecting what they claid was Gastar Electronic Entertainnt's disruption of the "balance" in filmmaking.
Unless Takayuki apologized and relinquished control over the film's director, they said, his movie wouldn't see a single screen in Arican theaters.
And with their deep-rooted connections, it wasn't hard for them to block a film from a relatively low-profile company.
But not everyone stayed silent. So stepped up and publicly pushed back against these high-ranking film figures.
However, most of them were very young.
They were a generation of gars nurtured by Takayuki—yet most were just hitting their twenties.
...
...
At that age, they hadn't yet gained any real social influence. To the mainstream, their protests were more likely to be dismissed as youthful rebellion.
No matter how hard this group tried, it felt like their voices couldn't form any aningful impact.
And that was understandable—even in Takayuki's previous life, where video gas had existed for nearly fifty years, it was still hard for the dium to rival the societal influence of other entertainnt industries.
Even if the ga market itself had overtaken many other sectors in terms of revenue, that didn't change its lack of recognition.
In the end, video gas still had to seek validation through institutions like the Olympics, hoping for acknowledgnt by mainstream society.
But truthfully, video gas were born to be different.
During a televised interview, yet another veteran filmmaker stepped up to criticize Takayuki and his company:
"This man, Takayuki, stepping into another industry and stripping directors of all authority is nothing short of a disgrace to cinema. I believe he should be completely boycotted. And just look—video gas have always been like this from the very start. They've used aggressive tactics to seize market share without caring about the consequences. I even believe that gas carry so kind of toxic quality that drives people mad. But movies are different. Movies are filled with artistry. They elevate the soul. You can't compare them to so entertainnt product that's only been around for a few years."
The statent ca off as aggressively condescending, belittling video gas while glorifying the film industry.
Takayuki couldn't take that lying down.
He could accept criticism for not being a filmmaker—after all, it wasn't his industry. All he wanted was to recreate the magic of Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children and share a piece of his past world's culture with this one.
If people didn't like it, so be it.
But for soone to outright insult the gaming industry—his own industry—while putting theirs on a pedestal? That was absolutely unacceptable.
Takayuki respected film deeply. In his mories, there were countless classic movies he rewatched every year. Many were brilliant, no question.
But at the end of the day, film was still entertainnt. Without that foundation of engaging the masses, if the industry had tried to elevate itself to "pure art" from the start, it would've died off long ago.
The sa logic applied to other cultural sectors.
Yes, there were people genuinely pursuing art and refinent—but the things that supported those industries were always the more accessible, entertainnt-driven works.
Without the industrialization of Hollywood, film would've remained a niche art form, mocked by theater and vaudeville perforrs.
Video gas were no different.
Takayuki had always worked to develop a solid industrial production frawork for the industry—because only with that kind of foundation could creative minds flourish in a stable environnt.
It was like a nation investing in scientists.
Out of a thousand scientists trained by the country, maybe only one was truly exceptional. The rest were runners-up. But without training those thousand, that one might never have erged.
People like this filmmaker—he was just another armchair critic with vested interests, hiding behind lofty rhetoric.
It reminded Takayuki of the old guard at certain Japanese TV stations: stubborn, unwilling to let go of outdated systems, clinging to them for the sake of profit.
They weren't as noble as they made themselves out to be.
Around this ti, several influential magazines also began running coordinated attacks, clearly trying to diminish Gastar Electronic Entertainnt's standing from the outset.
These publications were all subsidiaries of film industry companies.
If a titan like Gastar could be suppressed, it would signal that gaming wasn't worth paying attention to. "Our movies are more aningful, more refined—so give us your money."
In truth, they were just being sly and manipulative.
But Takayuki didn't hold back either.
He wasn't going to attack the entire film industry—but the rotten fish within it? He saw no need to be polite.
They talked about influence?
Takayuki smiled. Clearly, these people had never truly experienced the power of the internet age.
And that's when Facebook ca into play.
Its CEO, Bob, had been sound asleep that night.
He was living the dream—darling of investors, admired by countless youth, the head of a rapidly growing tech giant with over 300 million registered users worldwide.
At this rate, his platform was on track to beco an unshakable social dia titan—just like Gastar was for gas.
These days, no one dared underestimate Bob. Even when eting the U.S. president, he could keep a straight face.
He'd even recently been invited to dinner with the president as a VIP guest.
But in the middle of the night, the phone rang.
Bob groaned at the noise.
Beside him, a beautiful young woman stirred and grumbled, "Ugh, Bob, really? You couldn't turn your phone off when you're with ? Getting woken up in the middle of the night like this..."
Bob was nothing like the stoic, sexless "robot-faced Mark" from Takayuki's past world. He was a passionate, extroverted tech nerd—and now, with fa, he was hardly discreet in his private life.
But no one really cared. CEOs of his status had long since earned that privilege.
Bob ignored the woman and imdiately perked up when he saw the caller ID. He picked up the phone, expression serious, and signaled the woman to be quiet.
"Hello? Mr. Takayuki?" His tone was respectful, a far cry from his usual laid-back deanor.
To Bob, Takayuki was a ntor—his original investor, and more importantly, the source of many of his best ideas.
Takayuki had never been directly involved in social dia managent.
But in his mind, he carried countless future concepts: public social hubs, emotional tagging, reaction emojis, Twitter-like microblogs—an endless stream of innovative social tools that left Bob in awe.
He often thought that if Takayuki had chosen to build a social platform himself instead of making gas, Bob wouldn't have stood a chance.
What made social dia addictive was its constant novelty—always sothing fresh to draw people in.
And that's what allowed Facebook to thrive.
Without Takayuki, Bob's platform would never have beco what it was today.
No matter how you looked at it, Takayuki was soone Bob would forever respect—even more than the U.S. president.
He once thought his idol should be so famous programr—sothing that aligned with his identity as a techie.
But later he realized he was wrong.
Takayuki was the one he truly admired. The man's brain seed to operate on a whole different level, a bottomless well of creativity that constantly lit up every field he touched.
"Sorry for calling so late, Bob. I just wanted to inform you about sothing important."
"No problem at all, Mr. Takayuki. I'm always ready to take your call—just say the word."
"Great," Takayuki said calmly. "How's your video platform doing?"
"Video platform? You an the streaming section?"
"That's right."
"Well, we're managing to break even. But growth is stuck. Registered users aren't increasing, and our monthly paying subscribers are kind of flat."
Takayuki replied, "What if I gave your platform a spark?"
"A spark?" Bob blinked, not quite following.
"You know I've been overseeing the production of a movie, right?"
"Of course!" Bob nodded, then scowled. "Those rigid filmmakers are really sothing. I've been considering using my influence to teach them a lesson."
"No need," Takayuki said. "Fighting them with dirty tricks won't work. The best counterattack is to beat them in their own field. That's why I've been thinking about the subscription-based video platform I ntioned to you before."
About a year ago, Takayuki had suddenly brought up the idea of a Netflix-style model.
Netflix had been a legend in his world.
It started as a humble video rental service, yet grew into a global subscription-streaming giant—one that eventually rocked the entire film industry.
At first, Hollywood fiercely resisted the idea of streaming platforms.
But in the end, even the most self-important "artists" bowed to the money, each scrambling to carve out their own corner of the streaming world.
A year earlier, Takayuki thought the timing seed just right—and pitched the idea to Bob.
Not just video subscriptions—he figured ga subscriptions would co eventually too. But the gaming industry wasn't mature enough yet.
Film and TV, though, were ready.
Bob, being the internet pioneer he was, had both the vision and the money to experint.
At the ti, Bob didn't think much of it. He was more focused on expanding his social network to billions of users.
But since Takayuki's plan wouldn't cost much, he followed through—setting up a team and giving passionate developers the freedom to build it.
He had expected it to be a money pit for three to five years.
To his surprise, the platform was already breaking even after just a year.
But growth had hit a plateau. Users still preferred owning physical copies of films.
Most people weren't ready to pay for a service where, once unsubscribed, they lost access to everything. It just didn't sit right with them.
In Takayuki's eyes, what the platform lacked was a "detonator"—sothing explosive that could push users over the edge and make them commit.
That spark might co from a breakout hit.
And that hit would be the Final Fantasy VII film.
If the traditional film industry didn't want to play ball, then fine. He didn't need them.
They were already in decline. Whatever glories they still had would soon fade.
Streaming was the future.
Even before Takayuki's transmigration, movie theaters hadn't fully collapsed—but they were clearly in decline.
Especially in the aftermath of the global pandemic, the traditional cinema model was only accelerating its fall.
Back then, Takayuki believed theaters would beco obsolete within a decade.
So why not start preparing for that future now, in this world too?
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