"First of all, I want to say that all of your ideas sound good, and they do seem to have real potential."
"But judging from how you've described things, the only system that's basically finished is online multiplayer. Everything else would have to start almost from scratch. That won't be easy. Even if you had enough funding, you'd still need two or three years—maybe even five, six, or seven years—of steady work. Do you really have that kind of patience?"
Trying to rehabilitate a game with a bad reputation over two or three years—or even longer—was not something everyone could endure.
"I do!" the young man said without hesitation. "Because this game is like my child. Even if you don't invest in me, Mr. Takayuki—even if this game ends up having no commercial value at all—I still want to give it everything I have. I'm willing to spend my entire life finishing it!"
"Even if you can only make this one game for the rest of your life?" Takayuki asked.
"Yes."
Takayuki fell silent for a long moment, carefully weighing the feasibility of this decision.
Gamestar Electronic Entertainment was not a charity. It couldn't just throw money at projects with no meaning.
If Takayuki hadn't carried memories and experience from his previous life, he might have made the same decision as Mikfo—abandoning a half-finished game and using that time to create new projects with faster returns.
But those were short-term profits.
Infinite World…
From a long-term perspective, its potential value was actually quite high.
People loved stories like this:
The prodigal son returning.
A comeback against all odds.
A complete reversal of public opinion.
Stories like that had incredible staying power. Once successful, the payoff could far exceed that of ordinary projects.
This was worth doing.
The only real drawback was the long cycle.
But it was worth it.
"I can invest in you," Takayuki finally said. "But I won't be doing free labor for someone else's benefit. After I invest, I won't take ownership of Infinite World, but Gamestar Electronic Entertainment will have short-term exclusivity on all future content. Also, if you ever plan to leave Gamestar, you'll be bound by a non-compete agreement. Can you accept these terms?"
"I accept."
The young man had no other choice.
If he didn't accept Gamestar's offer, no other game company would be willing to support Infinite World anymore.
"Good. Then someone from my team will follow up with you," Takayuki said. "I'll give you plenty of time. I'm not in a hurry for immediate results—but at every stage, you must deliver something that satisfies me."
"Finish online multiplayer within one year.
Solve the random-generation technology within two years.
Let's lock in those two goals first. As for story expansion, you can arrange that yourself—I won't force it."
Two years!
That was incredibly generous—far better than the deadlines Mikfo had imposed.
Of course, even two years wasn't truly abundant in game development terms. Gamestar hadn't promised to throw massive manpower at the project, so early on he'd probably still be working with a small team of just over a dozen people. Time would still be tight.
But everything looked different when compared side by side.
Compared to Mikfo, Gamestar's timeline was practically luxurious.
At the very least, he no longer needed brutal overtime schedules. He could finally think about how to make the game better, instead of being trapped in repetitive, mind-numbing production work.
"Alright, then it's settled," Takayuki said. "Go coordinate with my people. I'll wait for good news. I'm very patient."
"Yes—yes! Thank you!"
The young man was overwhelmed with excitement.
Honestly, if he'd known this would be the outcome, he should have chosen Gamestar Electronic Entertainment from the very beginning.
What he didn't realize, though, was that Takayuki wasn't investing because the game idea itself was exceptional—but because of the potential value of a reputation reversal.
As for game ideas?
Takayuki had countless concepts of his own. He didn't need this one to spark creativity.
Still, he genuinely looked forward to seeing how the game would perform two years later.
He could play it again properly then.
…
News of Infinite World's creator leaving Mikfo spread rapidly. In just a few days, it triggered massive outrage among players.
Some openly threatened the developer online. Others somehow tracked down members of the development team and mailed blades and other disturbing items to their homes.
Mikfo, of course, was also flooded with criticism.
Some people dug into details, analyzing clues from earlier press conferences. They noticed that Mikfo had been extremely strict about deadlines—likely the root cause of the game being released as a half-finished product.
But those voices were quickly drowned out by louder waves of anger, unable to gain much traction.
At that point, Mikfo's PR team sprang into action.
First, they completely distanced themselves from Infinite World, redirecting all blame toward the game's creator.
"Look—this developer simply wasn't capable. We were deceived too. We're victims as well. We shouldn't be subjected to this abuse."
Once Mikfo's PR machinery went into motion, an independent game developer stood no chance. Public opinion rapidly shifted, aiming its fire squarely at the creator himself.
That was when Gamestar Electronic Entertainment stepped in.
They publicly announced that they would invest in Infinite World. Gamestar's spokesperson stated that the game still had untapped potential—but unlocking it required time and money. And Gamestar had no shortage of either.
They were willing to wait patiently for a good game to bloom.
This stunned many people.
The game looked objectively bad, with almost no remaining value. Wouldn't it be better to use that money on a brand-new project?
Pouring more money into this game might not bring any additional returns at all.
Yet because of Gamestar's intervention, the pressure on the small development team gradually eased.
Reputation mattered.
With Gamestar backing them, even if the game ultimately failed, most players were surprisingly tolerant.
As for players who had already bought Infinite World and couldn't get refunds, all they could do was hope the game would eventually be reborn—because refunds were no longer an option.
Now it was Mikfo's PR team that felt lost.
They genuinely couldn't understand why Gamestar had suddenly jumped in.
When Myron Case heard the news, he found it absurd.
He didn't understand games—but he understood reputation. Once it collapsed, recovery was nearly impossible.
In his view, Gamestar had picked up a burning hot potato. Mishandled, it could even turn into poison—destroying the player trust Gamestar had spent years building.
He truly didn't understand.
Did Takayuki… really lose his mind?