"Let me give you a positive example: Super Robot Wars. The hidden mechs and Easter eggs in that game are like a private feast for the die-hard fans. The average player can fill their belly with the standard fare, but the core gamers get to savor the surprises from the private feast. Now that's a clever approach."
He walked over to Fu Zhan and patted the shoulder of the technical lead, who was still wrestling with his conscience.
"Keep the story simple and the gameplay pure. Once the Mercury brand gains international recognition, even if you make a Dream of the Red Chamber dating sim, foreigners will be playing it while constantly looking up words in their dictionaries. But right now? First, learn to make that first pot of gold and survive."
Takuya Nakayama tapped his fingers on the thick stack of documents on the table, the dull thuds drawing the attention of the group, who had just begun to relax.
"One more thing—my requirement. Consider it the final tightening of the golden hoop around your heads."
He raised his third finger, his expression even more serious than when discussing game design. "Sega will be sending an international copyright supervisor to Fuzhou. From now on, every piece of material you use in development—whether it's background music, a cool movie scene you want to copy, or even a line that inspires you—if it's not your original work, it must first pass through this supervisor."
As soon as these words left his mouth, the air in the conference room grew noticeably tense.
Fu Zhan's smile froze. Who in the Mainland software industry hasn't borrowed ideas before?
Sometimes, he thought, that line from Hong Kong films—"just copy it directly into the code"—was the norm.
"I know what you're thinking," Takuya Nakayama said, leaning forward, radiating an intense presence. "You're all more aware than I am of how copyright law is enforced in Mainland China. Otherwise, you wouldn't have run into such problems before partnering with Sega. But internationally, copyright is a high-pressure line—touch it, and you'll lose your hands and feet. You're used to taking a 'borrow and adapt' approach, thinking that changing the colors and names makes it your own. That might fly in Fuzhou or even in China, but if you bring that logic to Japan or North America, the copyright holders' legal departments will sue Mercury into bankruptcy, and Sega will get dragged down with us."
"To prevent you from stepping on landmines out of ignorance, I've asked Human Resources to start recruiting suitable candidates. Preferably Taiwanese with a background in Japanese and Western copyright law."
"Why Taiwanese?" Fu Zhan asked instinctively.
"For better communication, understanding the rules, and—" Takuya Nakayama's lips twitched. "They're the ones who know how to use those convoluted legal texts to strangle you Mainland engineers."
The words were blunt and harsh, but Fu Zhan had to admit they were the unvarnished truth.
"But what if our creative ideas clash with the supervision's review?" Fu Zhan still worried. After all, creators hated having someone standing over them, second-guessing every move. What if they encountered a busybody who treated a feather like an imperial decree? Would the game even get made?
"Don't worry, I don't operate by fiat." Takuya Nakayama, clearly prepared, pulled out a blank sheet of paper and drew a flowchart. "If the supervisor rejects your proposal, they can't just say 'no.' They have to give me a numbered list of reasons. Which specific law, which article, which precedent for infringement—it all needs to be clearly stated, printed out, and signed by you, Fu Zhan, to confirm."
"Sign?"
"Exactly. Work must be documented," Takuya Nakayama said, tossing the pen onto the desk. "If Mercury ever gets sued for copyright infringement, this signed document will be the evidence we need to hold someone accountable. Then we'll see if it was the supervisor's reckless command or your deliberate violation—it'll be in black and white, and no one can deny it."
A chill ran down Fu Zhan's spine. This wasn't just appointing a supervisor; it was hanging a sword over his head.
"But this works in your favor too," Nakayama said, his tone shifting, and the cunning glint in his eyes, the kind that calculated every angle, reemerged. "You're always dealing with inspections from higher-ups, aren't you? Once you start earning foreign exchange, when the city and provincial leaders come for inspections, or when the cultural department holds a forum, just pull out these thick stacks of approval records."
Nakayama mimicked a leader's tone, tapping his finger in the air. "Look—this is how we align with international standards, this is how we become a model enterprise managed through the rule of law. Then, not just Fuzhou, but the entire province will see Mercury as a paragon of standardized operations. That sounds much more sophisticated than just bragging about how many dollars you've made."
Fu Zhan was stunned for a full three seconds before slapping his thigh with a sudden realization.
Brilliant!
The way he looked at Takuya Nakayama had completely transformed.
Before, he'd seen him as a god of wealth; now, he viewed him as a seasoned expert in the intricacies of Mainland Chinese bureaucracy.
This move—turning a troublesome situation into an advantage—was something no one could have devised without at least a decade of experience within the system.
It not only mitigated the risks but also provided ample material for future official dealings. This wasn't a restrictive spell; it was gilding the lily!
"Mr. Nakayama, you've truly grasped our local pulse," Fu Zhan said, his tone now full of genuine admiration and respect.
"One last safeguard," Takuya Nakayama said, standing up and smoothing the hem of his suit jacket. "If that supervisor remains inflexible, nitpicking over trivial matters, or if you believe his legal interpretations are absurd, email the Executive Office directly."
He surveyed the group of men, their eyes rekindled with fire: "Mercury has invested real money from Sega. I'm more invested than you are in ensuring this investment doesn't go to waste. As long as it's not a fundamental legal issue, I'll give you the green light."
With that promise, the weight on Fu Zhan's heart finally lifted.
"Alright, that's it. Meeting adjourned," Takuya Nakayama said, waving his hand. "You've got the money and the skills. Don't embarrass me when you get back.
I'll be watching to see if what you create can actually make foreigners open their wallets. I won't see you out.
As they left the Sega Building, the sky over Tokyo was overcast, mirroring the complex emotions of these Fujian men.
On the way to Narita Airport, the car was silent except for the rustling of the tightly clutched notebooks, filled with densely packed notes.
This "pilgrimage" hadn't brought them an elixir of immortality, but Takuya Nakayama, the young Managing Director, had instead fastened a pure gold, tight-fitting spell around their heads.
"Lao Fu, that... that Taiwanese director—are we really going to hire him?"
The technical lead, sitting in the passenger seat, had been holding it in all the way, but finally turned around.
He cradled the Gundam Battle Operation disc, adorned with a Pikachu drawing, as if it were a newborn child. "We're coders. Now we'll have someone with a ruler measuring out legal clauses right beside us. Isn't that like dancing with shackles on?"
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