\Sugar-coated cannonballs, hitting hard!
"How about adding a Mai Shiranui-inspired look for the female ninja?"
Pondering how to make the female ninja's design irresistibly sexy, Tetsu Fuyukawa leaned against the boss's desk, scrolling through a tablet while puffing on a cigarette. Moments later, a knock on the door announced the arrival of Aunt Nogi, who ushered in Asuka Tsukitake. The instant Tetsu saw her, his eyebrow twitched slightly.
No particular reason, really—Asuka was likely there to audition for a motion capture role, but her outfit was, as expected, bold and stylishly provocative.
Her sleek, silver-gray hair, for some reason, was now dyed a soft green, cascading casually over her shoulders.
Light green hair? Pretty unconventional, but paired with her fair, striking face and long, elegant neck, it didn't feel out of place. In fact, it was kind of a showstopper. Her clothing choices were equally daring.
Her ample, thirty-six-inch bust was wrapped in a lightweight black spring hoodie over a white T-shirt, covering her upper body in long sleeves. Yet, her curvy, alabaster legs were barely covered by denim hot pants, paired with ankle socks and pristine white sneakers.
The combo of her stunning looks and sultry figure packed a visual punch. Tetsu's raised eyebrow was one thing, but even Sayoko, standing nearby, paused in surprise.
Catching their reactions, a flicker of smugness danced in Asuka's eyes, though her gaze quickly returned to its usual moonlight-cool demeanor.
She plopped onto the sofa, gave Sayoko a slight nod in greeting, and turned to Tetsu, cutting straight to the point. "So, about that motion capture actor role you mentioned—have you filled it yet?"
Her tone was a touch aloof, not at all like someone job-hunting, but everyone in the room, including Aunt Nogi, knew Asuka's personality well. No one batted an eye at her attitude.
Tetsu tilted his chin, signaling Aunt Nogi to fetch some hot tea, then sat across from Asuka, shrugging with a grin. "Sorry, that one's already taken."
"Oh, I see," Asuka replied, a hint of disappointment flashing in her eyes, like a kid whose favorite toy got snatched away. But then Tetsu added with a chuckle, "However, besides the male lead's motion capture actor, I'm also looking for someone for the female lead. Interested?"
"Huh? Another female lead?" Asuka's brow arched.
She recalled the chaos of playing "Hao Hao's Mom," hounded by reporters, media, and even random passersby. Her cool facade cracked instantly as she frowned. "You're not putting my face in the game again, are you?"
"Well, we'd need to do facial capture, but we'll tweak it. It won't be your face exactly," Tetsu said with a nod.
He wasn't trying to spook her. The original Sekiro didn't have much facial capture because its budget was relatively tight.
Sekiro was a hit, but the entire game was only 13GB.
To put that in perspective, a roguelike game like Warm Snow is 14GB, and Bloodstained is 20GB.
Sure, game size doesn't fully reflect content depth, and there's a technical gap between Japanese and Western single-player game studios, but 13GB for an action game of that type is tiny—barely a quarter of Elden Ring's size.
A short storyline was one factor, and many elite enemies shared similar skeletal models despite added move sets. Character models and environments also felt rough compared to true AAA titles, with facial expressions practically nonexistent.
That was all because the developers and investors lacked confidence in Sekiro's Sengoku setting and its combat, which diverged from Dark Souls or Bloodborne. But Tetsu was different—he knew this game could be a hit!
Even with a development and marketing budget of 1.5 billion yen—far exceeding the original—he was confident it would sell like crazy, earning him hefty bonuses and massive clout!
With funds more than double the original's, he wasn't just adding a female character's storyline and extending the game's length—he was enhancing the visuals too!
To put it simply, he wasn't remaking Sekiro—he was aiming for a Resident Evil 4 Remake-style overhaul, with every aspect leveled up!
As long as the new content wasn't a total flop, Tetsu was certain this visually enhanced Sekiro with added content would be a smash hit. And part of that visual upgrade? Facial capture.
Normally, facial capture involves a dedicated face model—someone like the adorable face model for Obstacliar. But Asuka? She didn't need one.
This woman could fight, was drop-dead gorgeous, and had a killer figure!
As for whether she'd blow up in fame if Sekiro became a hit…
"The in-game character won't look exactly like you, so it should be fine," Tetsu reassured himself.
Asuka, oblivious to the technical details, relaxed at his words and nodded. "Alright. But first, can you show me the motion capture studio? I've never done this before."
"No problem," Tetsu replied.
For a game like Sekiro, where reading enemy and player movements is critical for anticipating attacks, a motion capture actor needs more than just sword skills. Their performance has to be clear and engaging for players.
It's like basketball—players like McGrady, Kobe, or Jordan make jump shots look effortlessly cool, leaving audiences in awe. Other players might nail the same shot, but it just doesn't hit the same.
Aesthetic appeal and the ability to convey intent through movement alone are crucial.
With that in mind, Tetsu didn't dwell on it. He led Asuka and Sayoko out of the office.
Interestingly, the news that Tetsu was auditioning a female kendo practitioner for a motion capture role wasn't exactly a secret at NTsoft. But since the "Sekiro female ninja storyline" hadn't started production, many were clueless about why he was doing this.
No surprise, as Tetsu walked through the studios with two stunning women in tow, whispers and chatter followed. At first, the buzz was about "What kind of game is Sekiro going to be?" But soon, it shifted to gossip: "Holy crap, that woman is gorgeous!" "Those legs are unreal!" "Tetsu's got an eye for women, doesn't he?"
Tetsu, of course, couldn't care less about the chatter. He quickly led the two women to the motion capture studio.
---
"I still don't get why some people call the gaming industry 'digital opium,'" Tetsu said, shaking his head as he gazed at the massive, nearly 2,000-square-meter motion capture studio.
As the saying goes, vision shapes the future. Back in the early 2000s, gaming was just a pastime, easily banned. But the higher-ups didn't foresee that, with technological advancements, games would evolve beyond mere entertainment into a medium for cutting-edge tech monetization.
Sure, gaming's growth stems from advancements in chips, motion capture, computing power, and AI. But why do so many tech companies pour billions into these risky ventures?
Hobby? Passion?
Would you work for free just because you vibe with a company's mission?
No. Companies develop game-related tech because there's demand—and demand means profit.
It's simple logic. If a sector lacks market demand or profit potential, capital won't flow in. Without capital, talent won't follow. Without capital, competition, or talent, an industry can't grow.
When a country's gaming market is small or unprofitable, funds, companies, and talent don't flock to it.
It's like refusing to work for a low-paying company. The kicker? Games are a key driver for next-gen tech like chips and AI, because they turn those technologies into profits.
Profit fuels innovation, innovation brings more profit, and the cycle continues. But the root of it all is profit, which comes from the market. Yet, at some point, that market was shut down.
Ironically, some folks cry, "They're strangling us!" while also shouting, "Games are harmful—ban them all!"
Don't overestimate gaming's impact, though. The global gaming market is worth $300 billion, with China's alone exceeding 300 billion yuan, growing at double-digit rates annually.
To put that in perspective, China's entire tourism industry last year was 5 trillion yuan.
That's huge, but it includes transportation, lodging, dining, attractions, shopping, and entertainment. In a market that still stigmatizes gaming, the industry's already hitting 300 billion yuan!
None of this mattered to Tetsu, though—he couldn't change the industry single-handedly. Looking at NTsoft's massive motion capture studio, he couldn't help but think of Black Myth: Wukong from his pre-transmigration days. That game, a beacon for single-player titles, had to rent motion capture studios in its early days, often lacking access to tech that foreign studios considered standard. It was a bittersweet memory.
At the studio, Tetsu spotted Kawaguchi, the combat design team lead, standing by a computer, watching a motion capture actor in a black suit perform on stage while barking instructions to a subordinate. When a colleague tapped his shoulder, Kawaguchi noticed Tetsu's arrival.
"Team Leader! Director Honai! Oh—Tsukitake-san?" Kawaguchi scurried over to greet them, but his eyes widened when he saw Asuka.
They'd all worked together on Surrounded by Beauties, but facing a stunner like Asuka, the perpetually single, thirty-something Kawaguchi turned shy.
"Come on, man, have some backbone," Tetsu said, rolling his eyes at the blushing Kawaguchi before glancing at the stage. "How's your team's progress today?"
"Uh, not great. The 'Sengoku Kick' move requires wirework, and it's a foot technique. Oshima-san needs time to adjust."
Admitting delays to the boss wasn't ideal—it could dent his reputation. Kawaguchi's face flushed with embarrassment, but Tetsu's gaze held a hint of approval.
Everyone has strengths and weaknesses. Kawaguchi wasn't a top-tier talent, but NTsoft only hired the best, and his decade-plus of experience made him solid, if not exceptional. His real strength? Reliability.
With guys like him, you don't get surprises, but you get peace of mind.
Tetsu nodded, checked his watch, and glanced at Oshima, still performing on stage. "Alright, tell Oshima-san to take a break. Then get her—" he nodded toward Asuka—"into a motion capture suit."
"Huh? Tsukitake-san's joining as a motion capture actor?!" Kawaguchi's eyes lit up, but under Asuka's cool stare, he quickly wilted, red-faced.
Tetsu didn't let him stew in embarrassment. As Asuka went to change, he took the tablet from Sayoko and called over the tech crew. When they saw the tablet's outline for the "Mai Shiranui Female Ninja," brows furrowed across the room.
Kawaguchi, ever the eager assistant, pulled a chair for Tetsu, then frowned at the tablet. "Team Leader, you're saying you want this female ninja to be fast, fluid, and deadly?"
"Yup," Tetsu said, bypassing the chair and pushing it toward Sayoko.
The gesture didn't go unnoticed by the female staff, who shot envious glances, but Tetsu ignored them, crossing his arms and addressing Kawaguchi and the techs. "Big challenge?"
"It's tough, but not because of the filming," Kawaguchi said, scratching his head as he studied the tablet. "The issue is the game's difficulty. Sekiro's combat is already brutal for players. If we speed up the pace even more, won't it be too much?"
He had a point. Sekiro's difficulty was no joke, but Tetsu's "Mai Shiranui Route" was designed to be even tougher than the main "Wolf Route"!
Why? He wanted Mai Shiranui to be a high-mobility character—faster and more aggressive than Wolf, but with lower defense and a shorter posture bar, making her more vulnerable to boss counters. This would force players to lean into aggression, aiming to end fights quickly.
It's not a new concept. In World of Warcraft, raid bosses often have "enrage timers"—fail to kill them in time, and their stats spike. Even healers' mana bars serve a similar purpose, pushing urgency.
The goal wasn't just beating the boss but doing so under tougher conditions to heighten tension.
Sure, sky-high difficulty could make players curse up a storm, but…
"When Sekiro first dropped, some Souls fans thought it was easier than Dark Souls. The Mai Shiranui Route will give them what they want. Plus, with the remastered base game as a safety net, and the route only unlocking after two hours of the Wolf Route, it's not a big risk."
The Mai Shiranui Route was like a bonus feature—optional, not mandatory. Tetsu didn't think it would hurt the game's reputation.
With that, he waved off Kawaguchi and the techs' concerns. "I've got this. Just follow the plan."
"Understood," Kawaguchi said, and the techs nodded. They dove into discussing the filming approach for the route. Watching from the sidelines, sipping tea as the team tackled the motion capture, Sayoko's eyes sparkled with admiration for Tetsu.
That's the power of reputation!
If Tetsu hadn't already delivered two games with over five million sales each, the techs might've privately questioned his choices, even if they didn't say it outright. Doubt slows efficiency.
But clearly, no one in the room dared question Tetsu Fuyukawa's game-making prowess!