Takayuki simply smiled and did not respond directly.
Some things were hard to explain clearly. Takayuki carried the experience of a previous life, along with countless outstanding video games from that life as his foundation.
He couldn't honestly take all the credit for himself, so he chose not to directly answer Hayakawa Uehito's sigh of admiration, replying only with a smile.
But in Hayakawa Uehito's eyes, this looked more like the pride of a true creator.
If it were an ordinary creator, Hayakawa wouldn't have thought much of them.
This world never lacked geniuses, but someone like Takayuki—who could continuously unleash talent within a single industry—was exceedingly rare. Someone like that might not appear even once in several decades.
Such a person deserved Hayakawa Uehito's respect.
Below, the Japanese national team finished entering the arena. The Dragon Quest music ended at just the right moment, and the next country appeared.
Every nation had its own exclusive BGM. The arrangement of these tracks was also handled by Ono Sa. To ensure that each piece matched the style of its corresponding country, he spent an enormous amount of time and mental energy.
For this, he and his team worked through countless sleepless nights. Despite being over seventy years old, he was still pushing himself this hard—he truly cared deeply about the Olympic opening and closing ceremonies.
The second country's entrance music also carried a powerful athletic aura: Proof of a Hero from Monster Hunter.
The moment this music played, at least one-fifth of the audience erupted with intense reactions.
Many people in the stadium were video game players—or rather, video games had already penetrated countless households. Especially since this Olympics heavily promoted itself using video games and anime as selling points, it drew even more attention from these people.
Inside the venue, anime and game enthusiasts made up at least two-fifths of the audience.
The instant Proof of a Hero rang out, many players were immediately reminded of memories they would rather forget.
At the beginning, they were hunters constantly being beaten down by monsters.
Clueless and inexperienced, they had no idea how to face those massive, oppressive creatures.
Even something that looked relatively simple—like the Bulldrome—was terrifyingly strong.
But they were patient.
Fail once—try again.
Fail twice—try a third time.
Monster Hunter raised many players' tolerance for high-difficulty games.
Gradually, players began to enjoy the pleasure brought by such challenging gameplay.
The pressure was indeed overwhelming, and being unable to defeat powerful monsters was deeply frustrating.
But after countless failures, finally bringing down that colossal beast—the sense of achievement and exhilaration was incomparable.
Only players who had experienced it firsthand could understand that joy.
It was impossible to explain it to others.
You can't empathize? Then play it yourself—you'll understand naturally.
At the venue, many players reacted passionately, and viewers watching the live broadcast reacted just as strongly.
They didn't have the chance to attend the Olympics in person, but watching the live stream was no problem.
However, when they saw familiar BGMs playing right from the start, regret crept in.
If only they had bought tickets and watched the opening ceremony live—it would have been incredible.
The appearance of video games and anime in the Olympics itself was already a powerful symbol.
It signified that society had fully accepted this popular culture, no longer treating it as fringe subculture.
Games and anime would stand alongside film and television as major cultural industries.
Many people working in these fields were so moved that they shed tears.
Yet among them were also those who felt disdain—or even hatred.
One such person was staring gloomily at the television. The only light in the room came from the screen, while empty bottles littered the floor and the air was filled with a foul stench.
"That guy will definitely kick all non-gaming cultural industries out of the opening and closing ceremonies. Absolutely. I warned the industry committee long ago, but they wouldn't listen."
He muttered curses under his breath, speaking with absolute certainty.
He once held a position as one of the three chief directors of the Olympic opening and closing ceremonies.
Back then, his status had been quite high, and with financial conglomerate backing him, he had acted with even greater impunity.
Later, he followed others in siphoning off benefits for personal gain.
To him, that was normal.
Who didn't do that?
Everyone did—he didn't believe anyone was truly clean.
He was just following the social norm.
And as far as he knew, there were many people in the Japanese Olympic Preparatory Committee who acted far more arrogantly than he ever did.
What he did was trivial by comparison.
What he never expected was to run into a real hard case—Gamestar Electronic Entertainment, such a bizarre company.
This company forcibly intervened in the planning and production of the opening and closing ceremonies, placing their own director in full control.
And unbelievably, they actually succeeded.
What he couldn't understand was why the forces backing him had chosen to compromise.
He didn't know the interests and power struggles behind the scenes—only that he had been cleanly kicked out.
Soon after, even the conglomerate capital behind him abandoned him. Despite having a powerful relative as a backer, he was still cast aside.
He fell from a lofty position straight down into the mundane world.
After that, not only was he excluded from the Olympics, but when he tried to return to his original profession—making animation—he found himself ostracized by the entire industry.
A friend who was still on good terms with him told him that Gamestar Electronic Entertainment was behind it.
Gamestar had already established a solid position in the animation industry. They were willing to spend generously on animation, giving directors great creative freedom, which made many studios fond of working with them.
And since Takayuki was resisting this director, even without direct orders, those studios decisively cut off all ties with him—causing him to lose even his original livelihood.
"See that? More video game music! That guy's personal bias is way too obvious!"
As the third country entered, the BGM switched to Street Fighter's iconic theme, sending fans of the series into excitement.
The director became even more convinced that this opening ceremony was a one-man show for video games—anime, traditional Japanese culture, all pushed aside so video games could be the sole protagonist, turning the Olympics into a promotional machine for gaming.
Seeing this, he firmly believed that Gamestar Electronic Entertainment must be raking in enormous profits from it.
Every song belonged to Gamestar—surely the licensing fees were astronomical.
And with Gamestar in a dominant position, couldn't they charge whatever they wanted?
Kicking him out of the director group was nothing more than letting a bigger parasite monopolize the publicity channel.
This only deepened the venom and resentment in his eyes.
Unable to hold back, he grabbed the phone beside him and dialed a number.
"Hello, is this the Olympic Preparatory Committee's self-inspection department? This is **. I want to report something!"
"What am I reporting? I'm reporting Gamestar Electronic Entertainment for embezzlement. They've stuffed the opening ceremony with far too much of their gaming industry agenda—it's completely at odds with the Olympics' principles of fairness and justice. I'm reporting them—"
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The call disconnected.
The director froze.
Crash.
"Bastards!"
His face twisted with rage.
On the other end of the line, the person who hung up wore a strange expression.
"Hey, who was that call from?" asked another member of the Olympic Preparatory Committee beside him.
"Some guy reporting Gamestar Electronic Entertainment for embezzlement—saying they charged huge music licensing fees through the opening ceremony…"
Everyone turned to look at him, their heads full of question marks.
???
"Is that guy an idiot?"
The man shrugged. "Yeah. Probably an idiot."
Someone laughed. "Doesn't he read the news or newspapers? They've been reporting on the opening and closing ceremonies for ages."
"Who knows—probably someone who's fallen into despair and only knows how to blame the world."
What they were referring to was an interview with Gamestar Electronic Entertainment.
That interview focused specifically on discussing the benefits Gamestar might gain from the Olympics.
Within the Olympic Preparatory Committee, there were self-inspection agencies.
Officially, they claimed to audit the use of Olympic funds, but in reality their existence was almost meaningless.
They didn't have enough authority to challenge those in control, so they were mostly decorative.
Still, they managed to produce at least one result—something they could present to the public.
They publicly disclosed the detailed use of funds for the opening and closing ceremonies.
From the cost of massive mechanical stage props down to individual screws—nothing was omitted.
This included detailed licensing fees for music, film imagery, game characters, and visuals used in the ceremonies.
Many of these fees were for anime and traditional Japanese culture licenses.
But further down the list were a series of eye-catching numbers.
Average video game music licensing fee: $100
Average video game character licensing fee: $100
Japan places great importance on copyright.
Even an ordinary person singing a song in a karaoke bar must pay a licensing fee for that song.
These small fees accumulate into massive income for singers and other cultural creators.
Video game music is likewise a major source of copyright revenue.
Video games have produced countless classic BGMs, each capable of creating social impact worldwide.
The licensing fees for such music are normally hard to estimate.
At an event on the scale of the Olympics, paying tens or even hundreds of thousands of dollars per song wouldn't be surprising.
Previously, some had estimated that Super Mario's music alone would be worth over $100,000 in licensing fees.
Yet on the Olympic opening and closing ceremony's expense list, there were rows upon rows of glaring $100 entries.
Each song was licensed for a symbolic $100.
Each character image also cost a symbolic $100.
Not zero—because that would disrespect the creators themselves.
And it also showed just how influential Takayuki was.
Many of the BGMs and characters weren't even from Gamestar Electronic Entertainment.
They included content from Brown Entertainment, Suri Electronics, and even Mikofu.
Faced with the Olympics, Mikofu didn't continue fighting Gamestar.
Because this was a case where benefits outweighed grudges. Myron Case was generous, agreeing to license their content for $100 per song or character, embodying the spirit of global unity.
There were also many smaller game companies from around the world, all licensing at $100 each.
All gaming-related licensing fees combined didn't exceed $100,000.
It was the cheapest part of the entire ceremony.
If one wanted to be strict, that number could easily have been ten or even a hundred times higher.
That would have meant a baseline of billions of yen.
But now, just tens of millions of yen were enough—roughly the annual salary of an average Japanese white-collar worker.
When these figures were first made public, some questioned their authenticity.
But soon, all involved parties released statements confirming that the licensing fees for game music and imagery truly were just $100 each.
No tricks.
After that, many people fell silent—and then the internet filled with praise.
Video game players were especially happy.
Because they truly felt the sense of "players around the world are one family."
Just as Takayuki had once promised.
He firmly believed that video games were a universal language, shared by the entire world, allowing everyone to find joy through them.
With the positive example set by the Olympic opening and closing ceremonies, public opposition to hosting the Olympics diminished significantly.
This made things much easier for the Japanese government, reducing their pressure.
The government even wanted to properly thank Gamestar Electronic Entertainment.
Without Gamestar, there would have been countless troubles. Gamestar had genuinely helped them solve major problems.
Later, they planned to grant Gamestar even more favorable policies.
After all, these policy benefits didn't come directly out of their own pockets, so they didn't mind.
And granting Gamestar such advantages wouldn't draw criticism.
As for Gamestar itself, their original intention was simply that they didn't care about that little bit of licensing revenue at all.
How much could it be? A few million, maybe a few tens of millions of dollars?
They could earn more than that from a single game sale event.
Using the Olympics for publicity was far more valuable than using it for profit.
That was why the person who answered the phone thought the caller was a complete idiot.
Didn't he read the news at all?
Everything was clearly laid out online. Obviously someone detached from reality—someone like that was bound to be eliminated by the world sooner or later.
The director smashed bottles in a rage, firmly believing that Gamestar could never be so generous—yet he had nowhere to voice his grievance.
And just as he was smashing the bottles, a piece of music he knew very well began to play.
It was from a classic animated film he had watched as a child.
As the music played, another country entered the arena.
His hands froze in midair as he stared blankly at the television.
He murmured under his breath:
"How… is this possible?"