The Olympic Committee was completely stunned.
According to the original plan, a number of advertising projects for the Tokyo Olympics had already been booked in advance.
These were advertisers the committee had worked extremely hard to persuade—companies that had finally agreed to place ads inside Olympic competition venues.
The Olympic Committee had several major revenue pillars.
Among them were broadcast rights, brand licensing, and advertising revenue.
Advertising income alone was no small sum.
Yet within a single day, four or five advertisers they had painstakingly secured suddenly pulled out.
Worse still, these were among the highest-paying ones.
Sure, those companies had to pay breach-of-contract penalties—but when the contracts were signed, the penalties had been set low, only about one percent of the advertising fees. That compensation wasn't even enough to "get stuck between the committee's teeth."
The committee tried to ask for reasons.
All they got was the same vague response: doubts about the Olympics' influence, and after careful consideration, a decision to place ads elsewhere.
The change of attitude was faster than flipping a book.
What on earth was going on?
They tried to dig deeper, but no one gave a clear answer.
Then they noticed something even stranger.
Across mainstream social media platforms, all Olympic-related content had suddenly vanished.
With the Games approaching, Olympic news and videos had previously been everywhere.
But now, only a handful of traditional news outlets were still covering Olympic-related topics.
On the world's leading social platform—Facebook—there wasn't a single trace of the Olympics.
It was downright eerie.
The Olympic Committee was utterly confused, scrambling around like headless flies, desperately trying to find out what was happening—but for the moment, they could only ask questions without taking any concrete action.
Meanwhile, Takayuki went straight to the Japanese Olympic Preparatory Committee.
The committee operated out of a government office in Tokyo. When Takayuki arrived, they had just started work—it was eleven in the morning.
"Mr. Takayuki, I'm terribly sorry to have kept you waiting. We've been quite busy. As soon as I heard you had arrived, I rushed back from the Olympic venues."
A balding middle-aged man in his fifties greeted him warmly.
"I've come here today with a single request," Takayuki said plainly."I need absolute control over the opening and closing ceremonies—this includes both the Summer Olympics and the Paralympics."
He didn't bother with pleasantries.
The balding man visibly froze for a moment, then quickly plastered on a smile.
"Mr. Takayuki, why this sudden idea? This isn't what we originally planned. Such a drastic change could seriously disrupt the ceremony's planning—perhaps even interfere with the directors' ability to work properly."
Takayuki shook his head.
"If I don't take absolute control now, that is what will truly disrupt the opening ceremony's preparation and execution."
"What do you mean by that?" the man frowned.
"Have you actually looked at the budget reports and rehearsal schedules being submitted by the opening ceremony team?" Takayuki asked.
"Of course," the man replied with a smile. "We strive for perfection, ensuring every yen is put to good use, showcasing the very best of Japanese culture."
"Then let me see them first," Takayuki said.
"…What?"
"I said, let me see the submitted budgets," Takayuki paused, then continued,"I remember that I personally invested in the Olympic opening ceremony. As an investor, I have the right to review all reported expenses in detail."
"Uh…"
The balding man hesitated, unsure how to respond.
Takayuki's request had come out of nowhere.
Still, he quickly recovered, nodded, and smiled.
"Of course. I'll have my staff fax the documents over right away. Please wait a moment."
"Fax?" Takayuki blinked. "You're still using fax machines? It's already 9102—why are you still using that thing?"
"…9102?"
Clearly, the man had no idea what Takayuki's old-world joke meant.
But the fact that the Japanese government in this world still relied on fax machines genuinely left Takayuki speechless.
Technologically, this world was about ten years ahead of his previous one.
In other words, the year 2019 here was roughly equivalent to 2029 in his past life.
Chip technology had already reached the one-nanometer era. AI had taken massive leaps forward. New materials, advanced agriculture, and space technologies were all far beyond what he had once known.
And yet—these people were still using fax machines.
Absolutely absurd.
How much did they love fax machines, exactly?
Takayuki waved his hand.
"Forget it. Just tell me when I can see what I asked for."
"At our current fax speeds, about half an hour," the man replied earnestly."We're using the most advanced fax technology available. A few years ago, transmitting this much data would have taken at least a full day."
…So now they were proud of it.
Takayuki dropped onto the sofa.
"Fine. I'll wait."
"Mr. Takayuki," the man ventured cautiously, "I'm curious—why are you suddenly concerned about this? While you've invested in the Olympics, most of the funding comes from the Japanese government. None of this costs you a single yen. Are you worried your money isn't being used properly?"
"No," Takayuki replied calmly. "This is just the opening move. It complements my actual request."
The man still didn't quite understand.
But higher-ups had already warned him: Takayuki was an extremely important figure, and his mood needed to be handled with care.
Even though the balding man was a senior official himself, he knew he had to show respect here.
The tax revenue and global influence generated by Gamestar Electronic Entertainment alone were enough to demand it.
Half an hour later, several younger officials entered, carrying multiple cardboard boxes.
"Mr. Takayuki, these contain all the opening ceremony expense reports. However, you may only review them here. No photos, and nothing may be taken outside—this is considered classified information."
Takayuki curled his lips slightly.
More like they were afraid this stuff would leak and trigger public outrage.
He casually picked up a few of the expense applications.
Japanese Traditional Culture Budget Item 2423:
Request to purchase a batch of top-grade silk, must be premium silk from the Chinese mainland. Seven colors required.
Planned use: to create an enormous traditional Japanese cultural ground emblem to be displayed at the opening ceremony.
Procurement amount…Cost: 76 million yen deposit plus 76 million yen in follow-up payments. Additional funding may be required if further needs arise.
Japanese Traditional Culture Budget Item 1802:
Request to purchase special-effects production computers and servers, to build a super-large AI-based effects production platform. Includes use rights for the jointly developed international "Dream Engine 1.0" for one year, as well as AI model training software for large-scale AI laboratories.
Total cost: 790 million yen, with possible additional funding depending on effects scale.
…
Just reading this made one's blood pressure spike.
But since it wasn't Takayuki's money, he stayed relatively calm—though he still found it utterly ridiculous.
These people truly would stop at nothing.