Seeing the surprised look on Fu Zhan's face, Takuya Nakayama explained, "You've crammed in this knowledge over the past two weeks, like swallowing it whole without chewing. When you go back, you must lay out all your notes and thoughts. Argue and debate like we just did until you thoroughly digest the logic of this industrial development and make it your own."
He smiled and tapped his knuckles lightly on the table. "Let me be blunt: figuring out the problems now is free. Once the project starts, if you're halfway through and realize the logic doesn't hold up, and then you try to fly Sega engineers to Fuzhou to put out fires, you'll be billed at international consulting rates. With Shimizu's daily rate, Mercury's current cash reserves won't last more than a few days."
"Even if you come to Japan to study, getting foreign exchange for travel expenses probably isn't easy, right?"
These words, half jest and half warning, sent a shiver down Fu Zhan's spine.
He knew all too well the high labor costs in Japan. If they were billed by the hour for technical support, Mercury's meager savings from selling Learning Machines wouldn't last long.
Moreover, China's foreign exchange controls made international travel extremely cumbersome.
"And besides—" Takuya Nakayama's tone shifted, a playful glint in his eyes. "Summarizing meetings, writing research reports, giving ideological presentations—isn't that exactly what you mainland Chinese units do best?"
Fu Zhan was stunned.
He hadn't expected this young Japanese Managing Director to not only speak Mandarin more fluently than he did, but also to have such a deep understanding of the "meeting culture" prevalent in mainland government agencies.
This isn't some rich second-generation Japanese heir, Fu Zhan thought. He's practically a seasoned veteran who's been navigating the system for over a decade.
"Understood," Fu Zhan said, carefully tucking his notebook into the innermost compartment of his bag. "The first thing I'll do when I get back is organize a week-long 'closed-door technical seminar.'"
Takuya Nakayama twirled a Mark pen in his hand, its cap tapping a rhythmic click-click-click against the table.
He suddenly stopped, his gaze sweeping over the group of Fujian men, their minds recently "brainwashed by capitalist industrial development."
"There's one more thing. I need to pour some cold water on your enthusiasm."
Nakayama raised a finger, his tone losing its earlier casualness and turning serious. "Since we're aiming to become China's first international game developer, I can probably guess what's on your minds. Are you thinking of adapting Romance of the Three Kingdoms to the screen? Or creating a wuxia RPG where you roam the land with a sword? Do you believe that only by adapting our ancestors' stories can we truly bring glory to the Chinese name?"
Fu Zhan's heart skipped a beat.
The Managing Director had hit the nail on the head. They had indeed privately discussed how a game based on Zhao Zilong's legendary seven breakthroughs and seven exits at Changban Slope would make a killer action title.
"Such ideas aren't impossible, but you're not ready to tackle such a subject yet," Takuya Nakayama said, his words like scissors snipping away their nascent fantasy. "At least for our first game, suppress that sentiment."
Fu Zhan's brow furrowed into a deep frown. He respected the technical arguments, but he still resisted yielding on the creative front.
After a moment's struggle, he couldn't hold back: "Director, Sega is developing Demon Samurai, isn't that right? It's pure Japanese Heian period style, with massive Ukiyo-e art and Yōkai from Japanese folklore. If Sega can do it, why can't we do a Chinese-themed game?"
"Good question," Takuya Nakayama replied, not angered but even appreciating the stubbornness. "But you're missing a fundamental premise: trust cost."
He stood up and walked to the whiteboard, drawing a large circle to represent Sega and a tiny, almost invisible sesame seed next to it for Mercury.
"Sega's reputation was built over the last decade, through hundreds of games. Even if we released a toilet simulator tomorrow, as long as it had the SEGA logo, tens of thousands of players worldwide would pay to try it. They trust Sega's quality control. Even if the style is bizarre, the massive domestic market in Japan provides a safety net—they can't lose much."
Takuya Nakayama jabbed the tip of his pen forcefully at the sesame seed on the whiteboard. "But who are you? In the international market, Mercury Electronics is nothing. When Western players see a game filled with Chinese Pinyin and historical references they don't understand, their first thought isn't 'mysterious Eastern culture.' It's 'I don't get this—better not buy it. I don't have much money anyway.'"
"Don't count on the Mainland market to save you," Nakayama said bluntly, his words almost harsh. "You know better than I do what the environment for legitimate software is like there. Right now, it's barely a market—just cultivating fans. You think you can recoup your investment selling legitimate cartridges? Unless you plan on everyone starving."
The conference room was silent except for the hum of the air conditioner.
"Furthermore, culture has its barriers," Takuya Nakayama said, switching back to fluent Chinese. He tapped his temple. "I've put in the effort to study Chinese. The information density of the language is incredibly high—each idiom is like a highly compressed data packet. Behind every four-character idiom lies a lengthy historical narrative. But for Westerners, it's a disaster."
He suddenly turned to Wang Jiang, the interpreter who had been taking notes beside him, and casually threw out a phrase: "Wang-san, please translate 'half a catty equals eight taels' for my assistant."
Wang Jiang froze, his mouth opening instinctively to translate before getting stuck.
"Half a catty—equal to eight taels?" Sweat beaded on Wang Jiang's forehead. He turned to his bewildered assistant, gesturing wildly. "In ancient China—the weight system is different—"
"Sixteen taels is one catty, so eight taels is half a catty..."
Watching Wang Jiang's explanation become increasingly convoluted, the assistant listened, utterly bewildered, completely failing to grasp the idiom's meaning of "evenly matched." Instead, he thought they were discussing some complex unit conversion.
Fu Zhan watched the scene, and the tension in his chest deflated.
There was no need for Takuya Nakayama to say anything more. This living, breathing example of awkwardness was the best lesson.
If they struggled with a simple idiom, how could they expect foreigners to understand the brotherly bond of the Peach Garden Oath, or the concept of an Inner Cultivation Manual?
"Do you see now?" Takuya Nakayama spread his hands. "This is a cultural barrier. What you consider common sense is gibberish to Western players. For the first game, your mission is to survive and make money, not to push cultural exports. Take too big a step, and you'll pull a groin muscle."
"Of course, that doesn't mean you should completely abandon your identity," Takuya Nakayama tempered his tone slightly.
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