Mayron Kess finally couldn't hold back anymore.
He wanted to see for himself how people on the internet were talking about Mikufu's game division.
He regretted it almost immediately.
Or rather—his blood pressure shot through the roof the moment he finished reading.
Online, there was no shortage of people mocking Mikufu.
Most of them were saying that Mikufu was unbelievably stupid for throwing away the seed of a genuinely good game.
At the same time, many people believed Mikufu simply wasn't fit to make games at all. Quite a few players even said they regretted ever giving Mikufu their money in the first place.
More and more gamers were publicly declaring that they would never again buy Mikufu's games or consoles.
A company like that didn't respect players.
Not only did it disrespect players—it didn't even respect its own game developers.
The more popular Infinite World became, the more miserable Mikufu's game division staff felt, and the lower morale sank.
They all believed that it was Mikufu's own stubbornness that had cost them a promising game.
Now that same game had become a sharp blade in the hands of a competitor—one that was being swung right back at them.
Mayron Kess finally snapped.
He immediately summoned the legal department to ask about one thing:
Did Mikufu have any way to sue Infinite World and Gamestar Electronic Entertainment?
After careful discussion, the senior lawyers concluded that this route wouldn't work.
Gamestar Electronic Entertainment was no pushover—they had a legal team even stronger than Mikufu's.
That team specialized in copyright litigation.
If Mikufu tried to go head-to-head with them legally, the outcome would likely not be favorable.
Hearing this, Mayron Kess understood.
These people were useless.
All they could do was stand by and watch Gamestar Electronic Entertainment metaphorically squat on Mikufu's head and take a dump.
And to be fair, Gamestar Electronic Entertainment had done everything flawlessly.
Back when Infinite World was preparing to move under Gamestar's wing, Takayuki had already instructed his legal team to eliminate all legal risks at the source.
If Infinite World had even the slightest copyright issue, Gamestar Electronic Entertainment would never have touched it.
Even if Takayuki genuinely wanted to revive a game with a ruined reputation, he would never have done so in a legally reckless way.
What Mayron Kess couldn't understand was this: If the game wasn't profitable, what exactly was Takayuki trying to achieve? What future could possibly come from supporting a game that didn't make money?
What he forgot—completely—was player trust.
By now, player trust in Gamestar Electronic Entertainment had reached the absolute maximum.
Look at what they'd done.
They produced countless excellent games.
More than that, they had a knack for discovering great games others overlooked—and nurturing and promoting them.
They could even identify games with bad reputations that still had the potential for a comeback.
Gamestar Electronic Entertainment's judgment had become its most powerful weapon—the reason players were willing to trust them blindly.
Under such circumstances, even if Gamestar released a few bad games in the short term, players would still trust them without question.
That level of trust was built over years—day after day—not something that could be achieved overnight.
No matter how hard he tried, Mayron Kess simply couldn't grasp video games on that level.
Next, he reviewed the current revenue and returns of Mikufu's game division.
Recently, investment had been high, but income was low.
Most of their games had entered a period of decline. The teams had tried developing live-service titles, but none had succeeded.
Not every company had the DNA to run long-term live games. Most studios were better at producing short, fast projects—make a quick profit, then move on.
Overall, Mikufu's game division was still technically profitable.
But frankly, that level of profit didn't meet Mayron Kess's expectations.
He'd hoped video games could help subsidize his hardware R&D.
Now it looked like that wouldn't happen anytime soon.
Meanwhile, online calls to boycott Mikufu's products were growing louder.
It was easy to predict that Mikufu's games would sell even worse in the near future.
Unless their game quality could overpower the doubts and resistance—and convince everyone.
But did Mikufu's game division have that ability?
Obviously not.
Especially now that key team members had resigned—any such capability was practically zero.
For the first time, Mayron Kess felt truly tired.
He never expected that after building up a game division, he'd still end up with so little to show for it.
Money and reputation were both falling fast.
So… was it finally time…?
Mayron Kess frowned deeply, clearly torn.
He didn't know whether he should make this decision.
At the same time, in the headquarters of Gamestar Electronic Entertainment, Takayuki was reviewing a new game proposal.
Recently, he hadn't arranged for any specific new projects or sequels.
Partly because he felt that game development in this world had matured—it no longer relied entirely on him importing games from his previous life.
This world now had its own unique games, many of them of high quality.
So maybe… was it finally time to fulfill an old dream?
To retire? To live freely, spend time with his wife and children, and just play the games he loved?
He thought about it, then shook his head.
He probably wouldn't be able to sit still for that long.
But acting as a supervisor—overseeing early planning and mid-development—was something he could definitely do.
In his hands was a proposal for a traditional role-playing game.
"Traditional" in the sense that it followed a classic heroic narrative: a brave hero, a princess, a dragon, a great calamity—standard, even cliché elements.
It was also a turn-based, tactical RPG.
In the eyes of most game companies, this kind of project was already obsolete.
Few modern players were interested in such games anymore.
But Takayuki found it genuinely interesting.
The proposal was extremely thorough.
From gameplay to mechanics, the systems were deep and complex.
This game… kind of felt like Divinity: Original Sin.
He'd once seriously considered making a game like that himself.
But with too many other projects in development, he'd had to shelve the idea.
He remembered that someone had already tried developing games in this niche with his support, achieving modest success.
Now, the proposal on his desk was a training project from one of the departments—a chance for them to try something different.
Budget: around 10 million USD.
Takayuki thought for a moment, then decisively signed his approval.
Selling just two or three hundred thousand copies would nearly break even.
Even if it lost money, the loss would be minimal.
So why not let them try?
If it failed, it could still serve as training for new developers.
He was actually quite curious what a "parallel-world" version of Divinity would look like—and hoped they'd finish it sooner rather than later.
He set the document aside and leaned back, idly thinking about what to do next.
Honestly… there really didn't seem to be much left for him to worry about.
Everything at the company was running smoothly.
He could truly afford to be a hands-off boss now.
Just as Takayuki was lost in thought, his executive assistant burst into the office, clearly anxious.
"President—President, look at the news! Mikufu… Mikufu just announced something huge!"
"Something huge?"
"Yes! Mikufu announced they're going to split off their game business!"