With Takayuki's approval, the rest of the work would naturally proceed much more smoothly.
And Takayuki himself had begun to seriously consider the idea of adaptation-based games.
The industrial-scale development system he'd built was already in place — it would be a real waste not to make full use of it.
"Takayuki, I have one more request… but I'm not sure if you'll agree," said Masaru Ota, a little sheepishly.
"Oh? What is it?"
"Actually, I was hoping you might also take part in the street-level promo events — you know, personally help promote the console and the latest games. Of course, I know you're busy and probably don't have time. If it's too much, then never mind."
Takayuki instantly understood. Masaru was hoping this upcoming console launch would go even bigger — and having Takayuki himself involved would absolutely help boost the buzz.
And now that he was considered the godfather of the video game industry, Takayuki showing up at a grassroots event wouldn't just make him look approachable — it would be a huge surprise and thrill for hardcore fans.
He used to do this himself. At early console launches, he'd visit official Gamestar stores and give the very first customer a free year of game cartridges — plus a photo and autograph.
Those lucky players were seen as legends in the eyes of fans, and many dreamed of just meeting Takayuki once in their lifetime — even if only for a moment.
"Sure. Now that you mention it, I actually feel like reliving the feeling of promoting my own games again."
"So you're saying yes?"
"Mm. This is a move that helps the company — I have no reason to say no. On the contrary, I fully support your plan."
"Alright! Then just wait for my good news!" Masaru Ota said, energized.
He immediately left Takayuki's office to begin organizing the promotion campaign.
With Takayuki's backing, Masaru was certain this would be a massive success.
After a moment of quiet, Takayuki picked up the phone and dialed a number.
"Haha! Takayuki, my old friend — what brings you to call me today?" came a thick Russian-accented voice from the other end.
It was Tokarev — now a well-known film distributor.
He wasn't quite on the same level as a giant like Detroit Pictures Group, but he'd worked his way up to the upper-middle tier of the film world.
A big part of his success was thanks to Takayuki.
As soon as he saw Takayuki's number pop up, he answered without hesitation, laughing heartily.
"You sound pretty energized," Takayuki said with a chuckle.
"I just invested in a big production — using your company's incredible effects engine. I'm telling you, Takayuki, your Unreal Engine is legendary now. Tons of people are trying to get exclusive versions from me to use in their own films. You've done me a huge favor!"
Because Tokarev was a deeply trusted partner of Gamestar Electronic Entertainment, he had access to things others didn't.
Unreal Engine had become dominant — it was used by countless studios and teams.
Every day, these teams produced a mountain of VFX data, animations, and development statistics — enough to fill entire warehouses of drives.
This data was the crown jewel of Gamestar's assets.
Now, Unreal Engine had evolved to the point where it could support nearly any creative workflow. As long as you had a need, Gamestar could produce a custom-tailored version of Unreal just for you.
Still, even then, certain parts of Unreal remained strictly confidential — especially the most valuable datasets.
This proprietary edge was why Gamestar's games always had a slight quality advantage and why their development costs were often lower.
Tokarev had built his success on this exclusive access.
Many famous directors were openly jealous of what he could do with Unreal.
Save money, make better visuals — who wouldn't want that?
But Gamestar's answer had always been clear: no external access to confidential data.
As a result, Tokarev was constantly being approached. If he so much as hinted at helping someone get access, he'd immediately become their most important guest.
But Tokarev never forgot who gave him this opportunity — without Takayuki, he might've faded out of the film industry years ago and ended up a small-time landowner in Russia.
And let's face it — that wouldn't have been nearly as glamorous as what he had now.
After a few minutes of friendly chatting, Takayuki got down to business.
"Alright, let's talk shop."
Hearing the change in tone, Tokarev straightened up.
"Go ahead, Takayuki. What's on your mind?"
"Do you have any good film or TV IPs available right now? My team has some bandwidth, and we're looking to take on a few adaptation game projects."
"Huh?" Tokarev was surprised for a second, then lit up with excitement.
"Takayuki! You finally came around! I've been begging you to make more adaptations for ages — and now you're finally saying yes!"
"This isn't a spur-of-the-moment thing. I've been thinking about it for a while — now it's time to give it a try."
"I see, I see. So, tell me — which IPs are you interested in? Take your pick. I won't charge a dime for the license. Heck, I'll only ask for 5% of game revenue, just as a formality."
Takayuki smiled. "That generous, huh? Alright, then I won't hold back."
"Takayuki, you don't have to hold back with me. Whatever you want, I'll give it my all!"
"Starsea Infinite, The War of Aldernan, and the Mythic Age series — all of those, give them to me."
"All of them?" Tokarev was taken aback. "Are you sure your team can handle that much?"
He wasn't sure if Takayuki really intended to start developing all of them right away — or if he just wanted to lock down the licenses to keep others from doing so.
But Takayuki responded with full confidence. "No problem. Leave them to me."
And the game quality…
Tokarev was tempted to say something — but he swallowed it. Doubting Takayuki openly would be a bad idea. Even if the quality wasn't great, the brand name alone would carry the games far.
Besides, with Gamestar Electronic Entertainment involved, how bad could it really be?