Chapter 8. Can't Pee in the Same Lake
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Since Akanishi Ken had decided not to leave, Sakata Taiji naturally stayed as well.
That left only Mizutani sitting there, feeling incredibly awkward. It was as if he'd stripped down to his underwear only to find the others refusing to join him. Now he was left alone in the wind, utterly exposed. It was so embarrassing, okay?
Following Kiyoshi Yuuma's instructions, Mika Ishino began handing out the already-printed project proposal to each of the bosses.
Before, they lacked the funds to even get started. Now that they had DUN's investment, they had to push the project forward as quickly as possible.
"Everyone, take a look," Kiyoshi Yuuma said. "This is the revised proposal based on our negotiations with DUN. We'll be relying on everyone for the next stage."
Everyone lowered their heads and started flipping through the documents.
After a while—
"Huh? We're switching to making an adult game?" Mizutani doubted his eyes.
Weren't they supposed to be making a tearjerking, healing-style, large-scale fantasy period romance RPG?
Why did it feel like they were suddenly stripping everything down?
His outburst startled Akanishi, who had been engrossed in reading the proposal. His fingers jerked, and he almost dropped the booklet on the floor.
Kiyoshi Yuuma's brow furrowed hard.
That comment hit a sore spot for both him and Mika Ishino.
"It's a galgame, not an adult game," Kiyoshi Yuuma corrected.
"Isn't that the same thing?" In Mizutani's mind, galgames were practically synonymous with adult games.
"It's not the same. It's only love, no exposure," Kiyoshi Yuuma emphasized.
Although what he said was correct, the unfortunate reality was that galgames hadn't yet fully evolved as a genre, and players couldn't appreciate the beauty of pure love stories.
You could say that Mizutani's stereotype reflected what most people still thought.
Kiyoshi Yuuma hated that perception too, which was why he never wanted to take on galgame contracts in the first place.
"But why agree to do something like this?" Mizutani asked, unable to understand.
"There was no other choice," Kiyoshi Yuuma shook his head. "It was the only condition DUN had for investing in us."
"But won't this mess up the whole game?" Mizutani frowned. "Combat and love just don't blend well together."
It's over. Pokeni is completely doomed.
Current galgame players are all impatient—they wish the CGs would just slap them in the face directly. And you want them to fight battles too?
Isn't that suicide?
People fast-forward through two-hour movies in ten minutes. How do you expect them to experience the essence of love in an RPG that lasts over ten hours in a short time?
You're crazy, President!
Still...
Mizutani secretly felt relieved. Good thing he already had another job lined up. Otherwise, once Pokeni went bankrupt, he'd be unemployed.
"Well, since I agreed to it, there's no turning back now," Kiyoshi Yuuma declared with determination.
"Is there no way to change it?" Mika Ishino chimed in. "Could we maybe weave the love interaction part into the main story, or make it a post-game bonus scene or something?"
"No…" Kiyoshi Yuuma shook his head. "It's not just about that. We have to live up to Pokeni's reputation and brand. That means we can't simplify it—in fact, we have to highlight the romance as a core feature of the game. I believe that even if it's a galgame, we can still make it brilliant. We can still make players feel the soul we put into this game."
Kiyoshi Yuuma wasn't someone who gave up easily. He never once thought, "Well, if we're making a galgame, we might as well go all-in that direction," or "Let's bury the love part so it doesn't disrupt the game's tone."
He was stubborn, and whatever he did, he had to do it right.
In his mind, there was a balance point between the two.
No, rather than a "balance," it was a fusion point.
There had been successful examples of tearjerking games that blended perfectly with galgame elements. So this was totally doable.
It's just like writing novels—whether you lean more commercial or more slice-of-life, there's always a sweet spot to combine both.
However, this did mean that Onmyoji would differ slightly from The Legend of Sword and Fairy's linear narrative structure.
Kiyoshi Yuuma envisioned a game with more freedom, allowing the male protagonist to decide through his own actions which female protagonist to pursue.
That was all.
Mm-hmm!
Mika Ishino nodded hard, clenched her fists, and silently cheered herself on.
…
After the meeting, Mizutani Takashi submitted his resignation.
Kiyoshi Yuuma was momentarily stunned—it seemed he hadn't expected this guy, who had just been so enthusiastic during the meeting, to leave so abruptly now.
However, after hesitating for a moment, Kiyoshi Yuuma still accepted the resignation.
In Japan, the employment system is a lifetime contract system. If an employee doesn't voluntarily resign, the company can't just fire them at will—otherwise, it must pay a hefty severance.
Since Mizutani and he can't pee in the same lake, it was just as well that he left.
Pokeni originally had only four planners, including the chief planner.
There was also one scriptwriter, one system planner, and one level planner.
There was no other way—in small companies, one person often had to do the work of two.
Now that the chief planner had left, the project couldn't be delayed, so Kiyoshi Yuuma had to step up himself.
That meant, for the foreseeable future, Kiyoshi Yuuma would serve as both the producer and chief planner of the game.
Fortunately, Kiyoshi Yuuma had a very clear mind, and since he had been a programmer in his previous life, he was quite familiar with the basic framework needed in the early stages of development.
After more than a week of planning, the game's overall concept was finalized, and production requirements began flowing steadily to the programming and art teams, and the project officially got underway.
…
Although no one said it out loud, everyone understood in their hearts—
This Onmyoji project might very well be Pokeni's final game. If it didn't sell well, the company would go bankrupt, and they'd all be out of jobs.
So everyone gave it their all, working overtime and pushing hard.
No one would've worked this hard a year ago.
It's mainly because after Japan's economic bubble burst, the economy had been in terrible shape.
The project's progress could only be described as gratifying.
Kiyoshi Yuuma even had moments where he thought—
Damn, this doesn't feel like Japan; it feels like China.
You have to know that in 2023, the average workweek in China's internet industry was 74 hours (internal data, not official), making it the king of overwork.
Pokeni was just about there now too.
The only difference was that this effort was completely voluntary.
With the employees working this hard, President Kiyoshi Yuuma wasn't slacking off either. He was practically on a 24-hour clock—overseeing the concept art, dragging the planning team to churn out detailed requirements, even occasionally reviewing code and pointing out key issues. It was the kind of workload most people simply couldn't handle.
…
One month later—
"No, this music won't do." Kiyoshi Yuuma took off his headphones and frowned.
When it comes to galgames, the most important things are a solid script and excellent art—enough to stimulate the players, especially straight male ones.
Now they had those covered, but the most troublesome issue was music.
For a good galgame—ahem, a good RPG—music plays a hugely significant role, no less important than visuals. Just like in films, your immersive experience is often driven by the background score.
If you muted a horror film's soundtrack, the fear factor would drop by 50%.
It's the same for healing games. If the Legend of Sword and Fairy soundtrack were replaced with something like Phonk or K-Pop, then even if Ling'er died, you wouldn't shed a single tear.
That alone shows how important music is.
But the question was—
Where could he find a good composer?