"Another peaceful night,"
The night shift staff let out a sigh as the shift ended. After another calm night, they all headed home, having agreed to team up for games again during their next shift.
...
Being suddenly attacked out of nowhere was obviously confusing for anyone.
But since there hadn't been any real damage, Takayuki didn't hear about it until the next morning.
The infiltration attempt had been extremely stealthy and hard to trace, though based on a few clues, it was pretty easy to guess—it was probably a competitor.
Still, the timing of the attack was rather strange.
It wasn't near the launch of any major game or a special occasion. Why would someone choose this specific time to strike?
...
Plus, their online system wasn't even fully built out yet—it only had basic multiplayer and social features. Server load was low. Even if the attack had succeeded, the potential damage wouldn't have been huge.
It just didn't make sense.
It was later confirmed that before the DDoS attack, someone had tried to sneak in silently—but failed.
Even though it was difficult, Gamestar Electronic Entertainment had no shortage of computer geniuses.
Even with just faint traces, they could piece together some leads and get a rough idea of who might be responsible.
While it wasn't enough to press charges, it was more than enough to publicly call them out.
Takayuki took this incident very seriously.
This was a direct, shameless attack. If he didn't respond, it would make him seem weak and easy to push around.
Especially since he planned to increase investment in internet infrastructure in the future—if he didn't react now, more reckless attacks might follow.
So, on Facebook, several top developers at Gamestar Electronic Entertainment posted at the same time, condemning YOO's despicable behavior.
The head of Dev Team 2, Umi Shiratori—hot-tempered as ever—didn't hold back and started swearing publicly online, with some pretty brutal language.
He was currently overseeing the online services for StarCraft. When Takayuki explained to him the potential consequences of the network breach, he lost it. Once they confirmed who the culprit likely was, he was practically ready to rip the person to shreds.
Nagao Ame's face turned black when he saw this, and he quickly told his people to retaliate online.
He wouldn't insult people personally—very undignified. Especially since Takayuki himself hadn't said anything yet. Arguing with Takayuki's subordinates would make it seem like he was beneath him—unacceptable.
So both sides launched a war of words, but Umi Shiratori immediately blocked and muted everyone insulting him. He even filtered out keywords—he couldn't see anything they posted. Meanwhile, he was free to hurl all the insults he wanted. It was a veteran move that left the YOO employees helpless and fuming.
They were the ones who had picked a fight, but unless Shiratori went to their pages directly, nothing they said reached him. They could've used bots, but that would've just made them look even worse.
About a week into this mess, Takayuki finally made a public statement.
In short, he expressed his disappointment in YOO's actions—saying that a major company showed such little class. He also criticized Nagao Ame personally, calling him a bit too frivolous, and suggested that maybe he should focus on properly managing his own internet platform instead of wasting time on stupid stunts—because if his own infrastructure caught fire, he might end up regretting it.
Nagao Ame dismissed Takayuki's words as meaningless slander. Oddly enough, it actually made him feel a little relieved—because if Takayuki had stayed completely silent, he would've started to suspect that something more dangerous was in the works.
But now, it seemed nothing of the sort would happen.
Takayuki's true motive was to provoke him while also subtly warning about the dangers of an internet bubble. Not out of kindness—just mockery.
A more level-headed person might've reflected on the warning. But Nagao Ame wasn't that kind of person. He dismissed Takayuki's comments as malicious curses.
He'd heard that kind of talk too many times before—lots of people and organizations had "cursed" him over the years.
And yet? He kept thriving. His upward momentum hadn't slowed a bit.
Recently, he even bought shares in a TV network and planned to expand in a new direction. His goal was to build a media conglomerate centered around the internet—something like Warner or Disney. His ambition was sky-high. If nothing went wrong, his vision would be realized soon, and his personal fortune would likely double again.
But Takayuki was just so infuriating. Nagao Ame seriously wanted to hire someone to take him out. He believed in the gaming industry's potential—but Takayuki was like an immovable mountain blocking his way.
Other game companies made products of varying quality. Some were hits, some flops. But Gamestar Electronic Entertainment? They had almost no bad reviews.
If Takayuki had achieved this kind of success in other parts of the entertainment industry, people would probably assume he was a time traveler.
But because the whole game industry in this world had risen thanks to Takayuki, his continued success was seen as natural. No one expected Gamestar to ever make a bad game.
In the end, Nagao Ame never did manage to find out who this "Nintendo is F***ing the Ruler of the World" really was. But he wasn't giving up. He refused to believe that someone using a name like that wouldn't eventually slip up online. The moment they did, he would pounce.
While Nagao Ame was still stewing in frustration, independent game developers were already riding a new wave of momentum.
Stardew Valley had become the ultimate inspiration.
Battle.net now published weekly updates on Stardew Valley's sales. According to them, they had permission from the developer to share this info—boosting both the game's visibility and the platform's popularity. It looked like a win-win—but in truth, Takayuki was winning both ways.
Two months after launch, Stardew Valley's total sales passed one million.
That translated to around 1.7 billion yen in gross revenue. About 300,000 copies were sold in Japan, and 700,000 overseas.
Battle.net took a 30% cut. After taxes, the remaining 70% meant the developer earned over 600 million yen.
That was about the same as a top TV actor's two-year income.
The financial reward quickly turned into powerful motivation. Just two months after Stardew Valley's release, the number of indie games on Battle.net started increasing exponentially. Interest in the platform surged as well.