How much profit could hosting an Olympic Games actually bring?
Takayuki wasn't a professional in that field. In his previous life, he hadn't understood it, nor had he been interested—after all, it had nothing to do with his own life.
But in this world, things were different.
The Olympics were now closely tied to him.
He was even one of the key participants.
And the opening ceremony was the part he cared about the most.
It was an excellent promotional tool, and also the best way to elevate prestige and image.
Hosting a successful Olympic opening ceremony would bring enormous benefits.
There were obvious, tangible benefits—an increase in sales for his video games.
And there were hidden, long-term benefits—lasting brand influence. In the future, when people thought of video games, the first thing that came to mind would be Gamestar Electronic Entertainment.
Now, two scumbags were trying to sabotage his plans.
On the surface, Takayuki looked calm, but inside he was furious.
"Takayuki, I'll be blunt with you. If things continue like this—three sides each doing their own thing, all scrambling for their own interests—this opening ceremony will probably become a laughingstock. If that happens, I think I'll outright refuse to have my name attached to it."
What Ono Sano was really thinking was this: if Gamestar Electronic Entertainment weren't so generous, if the pay weren't genuinely substantial, and if the company didn't truly have ideals, he would already be planning to resign.
He didn't want his lifelong reputation ruined by this mess.
When the final result turned into a pile of garbage, who would that disgust?
Himself.
So he definitely wouldn't sign his name—and might even deny having directed the thing at all.
"I understand. Ono, calm down for now. Just continue arranging things according to our original plan. Leave the rest to me."
"You'll handle it?" Ono Sano was doubtful. "How do you plan to do that? The Japanese government won't easily listen to you, will they?"
He genuinely questioned Takayuki's ability in this situation.
He fully acknowledged Takayuki's absolute strength in the video game industry, but this issue had clearly escalated into the political realm—it wasn't just about money anymore.
Those two people were fighting for credit.
Why fight for credit?
To gild their own names.
Even if it was golden trash, they'd still be happy.
"I have my own methods. Just do what we planned—and also… prepare to take over the work of the other two."
"…Huh?" Ono Sano froze. "Takayuki, you mean—"
He stopped mid-sentence, eyes suddenly widening.
"You're planning to kick the other two out? But how? Aren't they also representatives pushed forward by other factions? How do you make those factions back down?"
Takayuki didn't explain further. He only told Ono Sano to prepare himself.
Ono Sano was still doubtful and didn't immediately follow Takayuki's instructions to the letter, but there was no problem continuing his own duties properly. After all, this was the sponsor giving orders—doing his job well wouldn't put responsibility on him.
"Cai, I need a favor."
"Help me remember two names. Dig up dirt on them. With your abilities, this should be manageable."
Takayuki recalled several incidents from his earlier days.
Back then, there were always people blocking his path—people with dirty hands who tried to interfere. In the end, they were destroyed by their own scandals.
That method still worked just fine.
But this was only Takayuki's backup plan.
He needed thorough preparation. This was just the first step.
Soon after, Takayuki called Bob, the head of Facebook, who was far away in the United States.
"Bob, I've got a big job for you. It's the kind that'll offend people—people whose status isn't exactly low. Are you in?"
Takayuki went straight to the point.
Bob replied just as directly.
"Takayuki, say the word. Even if you told me to attack the U.S. president right now, I'd be fine with it—well, as long as we don't go too far. I do still live on this land."
Takayuki said, "Nothing that extreme. I want you to downgrade and throttle recommendations for all Olympic-related news and video content. Limit the exposure."
"Huh?" Bob was surprised. "Did the Olympics offend you somehow? I remember you were planning to fully support the Tokyo Olympics."
"No need to ask. Just do as I say."
"Got it. There's no shortage of trending news in this world anyway. One more or one less Olympic topic won't make a difference. Oh, by the way—some of my partners are involved with Olympic projects. Should I let them know and have them cooperate?"
"If it doesn't create too big a favor owed, give them a heads-up. If it does, don't bother."
"OK. I'll handle it."
Bob didn't know the details, and Takayuki didn't explain. Bob didn't ask either.
To Bob, Takayuki was practically a second father.
Truly—if this were ancient times, Bob would have acknowledged Takayuki as his adoptive father without hesitation.
Without Takayuki's initial investment, and without his later advice, Bob would never have built Facebook into a U.S. internet giant capable of standing shoulder to shoulder with the Morgan Group.
Bob respected only one person in his life—Takayuki—and regarded him as an ultimate idol.
Others thought Takayuki was "just" a game designer.
Bob knew better.
Takayuki simply didn't like doing things outside gaming. He devoted himself entirely to video games because he loved them.
Otherwise, this world wouldn't have Facebook—it would have YouxingBook: YouxingBook social networks, YouxingBook video platforms, YouxingBook streaming services, YouxingBook phones…
Offending the Olympic Committee?
Bob honestly didn't care much about them.
That very morning in the U.S., all Facebook-affiliated media and video platforms uniformly downgraded Olympic-related content to the lowest recommendation level.
As a result, even a random post about what someone ate for breakfast generated more engagement than Olympic content.
On video platforms, a boring clip of someone lying on the ground for ten minutes got more views than Olympic videos.
On streaming platforms, Olympic-related films and shows were pushed to the very bottom of recommendation lists, replaced by other sports content—pure, unapologetic humiliation.
Of course, the impact of recommendation downgrades wouldn't fully show in the short term.
What was truly lethal was Bob's follow-up actions.
He contacted several long-standing, close partners and encouraged them to choose projects unrelated to the Olympics whenever possible.
One wealthy investor, who had originally planned to build an Olympic-themed venue, decisively went there in person that very day and removed the Olympic signage, replacing it with the logo of some obscure third-rate sports event—despite knowing it would cost him money.
These were people with extremely close ties to Bob, long-term partners who depended heavily on Facebook.
They could give up other interests—but giving up Facebook exposure was tantamount to suicide.
So abandoning Olympic-related cooperation was an easy decision for them.