Carson was doing everything he could to convince Debbie about this so-called esports recruitnt.
If it worked out, he'd land a much better job than his current one.
At the mont, he was only doing day labor, just enough to support their daily life—but not enough to improve it. Not unless he worked even harder and picked up extra jobs.
But this esports opportunity? It felt tailor-made for him.
And if it didn't work out? Well, it could still be a trip to the big city—a getaway for the two of them. No matter how he looked at it, there wasn't much to lose.
These days, he was no longer the hotheaded troublemaker he used to be. His life had cald down, but the fire in his heart had never been fully extinguished—and now, that fire was blazing again thanks to this recruitnt poster.
"Debbie, what do you think?" Carson had said a lot already, but Debbie hadn't responded much, which made him a little nervous. He asked again, carefully and tentatively.
...
...
"Look at this." Debbie had actually been reading the flyer closely the whole ti. She pointed to a small corner of the page.
"There's a Titanfall tournant too?"
Carson squinted and saw it—sure enough, Titanfall was listed in a less noticeable section.
By now, Titanfall and CS:GO had beco the twin pillars of first-person shooter esports.
Titanfall focused on high mobility and individual skill—the skill ceiling was incredibly high, and the gap between players could be massive.
CS:GO, on the other hand, emphasized team coordination. While individual ability mattered, strategic calls, tactics, and teamwork played an even bigger role. Raw chanical skill was only one factor in a much more complex formula.
That made CS:GO and Titanfall fundantally different.
CS:GO had a passionate base of fans, especially after the introduction of loot crates and rare gun skins, which added a whole new monetization model—one that had brought Gastar Electronic Entertainnt a fresh stream of revenue.
But in terms of spectacle, nothing beat Titanfall's gravity-defying combat. It was the kind of gaplay that imdiately wowed spectators.
In Titanfall esports, there were both solo and team events. While CS:GO fans preferred team matches, Titanfall drew its biggest audiences for chaotic free-for-alls—like 32-player battle royales where the last one standing claid victory.
Takayuki himself had once considered launching Apex Legends, thinking it might fit the tastes of this world perfectly—but due to ti constraints, the project was shelved.
Still, as a top-tier FPS, Titanfall was a must-have in any serious esports event.
"Debbie... are you thinking—" Carson blinked at her.
Debbie grinned. "Why not? If you're joining the football tournant, then take with you. You entering ans we're entering."
Carson was stunned. He hadn't expected that in pitching this to her, he'd end up inspiring her too.
"I'm ranked in the top 100 in Europe right now," Debbie added. "If I take it seriously, I might really have a shot."
"So... that ans you're in?"
"Of course! It has Titanfall, after all—my favorite ga!"
"Aweso! I'll go get so extra jobs tomorrow—"
"No," Debbie interrupted. "We'll take on extra jobs. We'll split the burden. We both want to go pro—so we both need ti to train. We can't waste too much of it working."
Carson was touched. He felt incredibly lucky to have soone like her.
That very day, they registered online. After submitting their forms, the confirmation page told them they'd be expected at their nearest capital city in one month for the preliminary selection round.
The selection process had three stages: national qualifiers, European finals, and then the world finals.
The world finals would take place the following year at Gastar Carnival, and all travel costs for qualifying teams would be covered by their respective esports organizations. Players wouldn't have to worry about daily living expenses either.
And so, they began their new life: saving money and training. Even friendly invites to hang out and drink were politely turned down by Carson—he claid drinking was unhealthy, at least until after they got through the qualifiers.
In Japan, in Arica, in Europe—across the world, people were hyped about the Switch.
Because on this platform, every kind of gar could find sothing they loved.
By the second half of 2010, Surei Electronics wisely chose not to go head-to-head with Gastar Electronic Entertainnt. Instead, they focused on strengthening their own IPs and reinforcing their fanbase.
anwhile, Takayuki led the charge like a battlefield commander, rallying his legions of gas in a full-on market war against MicFort.
MicFort wasn't about to admit defeat—but they were up against an avalanche.
Gastar had unleashed an overwhelming flood of titles, backed by an enormous force: nearly 20,000 developers across all teams combined. Not just a few elite studios—an army.
Even standing still, 20,000 people made a statent. MicFort's total company size, including marketing and business staff, barely hit 8,000.
True, MicFort had better per-capita profits, but when it ca to market competition, they couldn't keep up.
Even business journalists and critics—who had once doubted Gastar—now fully endorsed them. The tide had completely turned, mostly because this offensive from Gastar was simply too strong to ignore.
In the latter half of 2010, Gastar had beco nearly unstoppable in digital entertainnt and consur electronics.
"The Switch's hardware isn't powerful enough.""So what? I've got great gas."
"The Switch can only play gas—no extras?""Perfect. That's all I want. Just give good gas."
And it wasn't just Gastar pushing forward.
Their loyal third-party developers were right there with them, marching across the battlefield—conquering market share, expanding genres, and transforming the landscape of gaming itself.
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