Over the course of several days, Takayuki played more than a hundred games related to cyberpunk.
These games covered almost every game genre currently on the market.
There were even a few cyberpunk VR and motion-sensing games. For those, Takayuki specifically acquired the corresponding equipment so he could experience them properly.
Finally, after a full week, he finished playing every game listed. He carefully wrote down each game's characteristics, then reorganized everything into a new spreadsheet and handed it over to the department on the Battle.net platform responsible for game listings and records.
At that moment, the department was busy handling the listing and review of other games.
With the number of new games added each year being extremely high, their workload was no small matter.
Just then, an employee responsible for routine game reviews noticed an urgent email from the very top.
He had been reviewing another game moments earlier. Seeing an urgent message from upper management, he froze for a moment.
He was just an ordinary, insignificant employee. Normally, he would never have access to high-level internal emails. Tasks were usually passed down layer by layer.
This was the first time he had ever received an urgent message directly from the very top.
He immediately straightened his posture, as if someone were watching him, and carefully opened the email.
The contents were very simple.
The review staff were instructed to remove all games marked in the attached spreadsheet, while unmarked games could receive a certain degree of recommendation priority through the platform's algorithm.
Good games were still meant to be supported. Riding trends was fine—but it had to be done properly, not mindlessly.
The employee examined the spreadsheet carefully and noticed that all the games listed were related to the cyberpunk style.
"Hey, what are you looking at?"
A coworker at the neighboring desk leaned over curiously.
He had just gone to grab a cup of coffee, and when he returned, he noticed his colleague staring intently at an email, which piqued his curiosity.
This time of day was usually fairly relaxed, and it was rare for emails to come in then.
"It's from… the president," the employee said in a slightly stunned tone. "The president ordered me to directly remove these specific games from the platform."
"Huh? A direct order from the president? Does he even pay attention to recently released games?"
"No idea. I always thought he was too busy to care about things like game listing reviews."
As they chatted, the department supervisor nearby vaguely overheard them and walked over. He then saw the highest-level email sent directly by Takayuki on the employee's screen.
"A direct order from the president? Why would he issue instructions so directly? Could it be that your previous work wasn't thorough enough, and you let some unqualified games get listed?"
"No," the employee said, feeling wronged. "I just followed my superior's instructions—basic checks to make sure there was no overly sensitive content, then list the game. Haven't we always done it this way?"
"Huh… that is strange. Did the president think some of these games weren't up to standard? Did you take a close look at them?"
"They're all cyberpunk-related games. Some need to be taken down, while others are marked to receive additional recommendation resources."
The supervisor thought carefully. The only thing he could come up with was that the company itself was developing a cyberpunk game. Maybe they were trying to eliminate competitors?
No—that shouldn't be necessary.
More likely, they were removing genuinely poor-quality games to prevent them from affecting their own game's sales.
But if that were the case, why give recommendation priority to some of them?
It didn't quite make sense.
He couldn't figure out what the president was thinking.
In the company, there were actually very few people who truly understood Takayuki.
Because most people simply couldn't maintain that pure, player-first mindset he had.
"Forget it. Don't overthink it," the supervisor said. "If the president had an issue with us, he'd say it directly. He's probably just issuing a straightforward order. Just carry it out."
"Understood." The employee nodded and prepared to execute the instructions immediately.
But as he did, he noticed that every game in the spreadsheet had extremely detailed notes and evaluations.
These weren't judgments you could make just by watching a trailer or messing around briefly.
At the very least, the evaluator had seriously played each game before offering tailored feedback and recommendations.
Were all of these… done by the president himself?
Did the president really have that much free time?
The employee felt puzzled.
As president, he shouldn't be that idle… no, maybe he was idle—but someone of his stature surely wouldn't have time to play games. He should be doing more "high-class" activities instead.
Like playing golf, meeting with high-ranking government officials, or negotiating major business deals.
In his view, a big shot like that playing games felt like a waste of time.
So these evaluations must have been done by some think tank or advisory team under the president, with the president personally issuing the final orders.
With that assumption in mind, the employee began taking down the designated games one by one. As for the games specially marked for recommendation priority, he categorized them separately, preparing to place them in prominent recommendation slots.
After spending about half a day finishing everything, the employee wrapped up his workday and got ready to head home—to play games.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the ocean, it was just morning.
Hanladi woke up from a night of heavy drinking, having partied hard with a few friends.
He had recently released a game—one that had actually taken only about a week to make. It was basically a stitched-together collection of gameplay mechanics using the convenience of Unreal Engine, plus a blatant attempt to ride the cyberpunk hype.
Naturally, there were also some unavoidable copyright issues with assets.
But he didn't care. He felt those things were trivial.
With cyberpunk gaining popularity, he had already made quite a bit of money from this game—or rather, was about to.
The Battle.net platform's official payout date hadn't arrived yet. He still had to wait a few more days.
But seeing nearly three hundred thousand dollars already listed as revenue share in his backend account made him ecstatic.
One week of work, and he'd easily earned over three hundred thousand dollars. Was there anything more profitable than that?
He felt incredible.
He had already borrowed money in advance to throw several celebration parties, and once the money officially hit his account, he planned to host even more lavish banquets—
To truly indulge himself in the feeling of being part of high society.