From mid-August to the end of the month, the entire gaming industry was still under the shadow of 'Yu-Gi-Oh!'.
A few quality titles had launched after it, sure—but compared to 'Yu-Gi-Oh!', their buzz was practically nonexistent. Most of them had only just scraped past a million in total sales after a week.
But truthfully, even that kind of performance was already considered good in the Great Zhou's gaming scene. There simply weren't many games that casually broke the million or ten-million mark. Titles that reached those heights came around maybe once or twice a year. For most small-to-mid-budget projects, selling a few hundred thousand copies was enough to break even or even turn a solid profit.
Only Jing Yu had the nerve to throw around investments of hundreds of millions—or even into the billions. He had the data from his past life backing him up. Without that, even he wouldn't have dared make original IPs from scratch in the Great Zhou.
Because no matter how good your production team is—be it for a movie, drama, or game—it's still only a few hundred people. Can their taste really represent the aesthetics of billions worldwide?
Obviously not.
No matter how passionate a team is about their own project, sometimes the market responds with a brutal reality check: "This is just a bunch of talented people making niche content to amuse themselves."
That's exactly why, in both Jing Yu's past life and in the Great Zhou now, so many investors have thrown billions into media projects, only to suffer massive losses when the audience didn't care.
And that's what made Jing Yu so terrifying in the eyes of his competitors.
Billions of yuan? Plenty of tycoons in the Great Zhou could raise that.
What they couldn't do was predict the outcome.
To them, Jing Yu was like a gambler who kept winning.
His projects were almost always original. New settings. New characters. Yet time and time again, he pulled off massive hits.
"How the hell does he do it?!"
As 'Yu-Gi-Oh!''s sales soared, and pre-orders for its upcoming physical cards skyrocketed on Bluestar Media & Film's official website, jealousy spread like wildfire.
Even people who weren't able to make money themselves still couldn't stand to see someone else making it.
In fact, those envious people became the core of Jing Yu's "anti-fan" community in the Great Zhou.
But it didn't really matter.
Any time hate started bubbling up, his passionate fanbase would immediately shut it down.
Still, by the time September rolled in, attention across the global gaming scene had gradually started to shift.
After all, anyone who remembered the original schedule knew—'Yu-Gi-Oh!' launched in August. And in September, 'Pokémon' was next.
"Finally beat it after two and a half weeks… sob… the ending where the 'other Yugi' disappears completely broke me…"
"I feel so empty now…"
"Same. Sure, there are games out there with better graphics, but ones with a story this immersive? Rare. The gameplay was fresh, and the emotional depth was insane. When the 'other Yugi' returned to his rightful place… it really felt like losing a friend."
"Goodbye, Yugi… Joey… Bakura… Dark Magician Girl… Blue-Eyes White Dragon… I'll remember all of you."
"Don't get so emotional! This game has sold over 10 million copies in under a month. Mark my words—if there's no sequel, I'll eat three pounds of cardboard."
"Come on, the guy's still human. Even Jing Yu has feelings. There's no way he'd leave 'Yu-Gi-Oh!' as a one-off. It's just a matter of when."
"Look at how he's setting up the trading card ecosystem. He's playing the long game."
"But honestly? Now that I've finished 'Yu-Gi-Oh!', I'm actually super hyped for 'Pokémon'."
"No idea what the game will be like, but my trust in Jing Yu is at an all-time high."
"All I know is that 'Yu-Gi-Oh!' cost 300 million to develop, and 'Pokémon' cost 500 million. If you know, you know. His works are always worth exactly what he invests."
"Two overseas games were supposed to launch the same week as 'Pokémon', but they just announced a delay to December. I wouldn't be surprised if they got scared off by 'Yu-Gi-Oh!''s performance."
"You know what I admire most about Jing Yu? He never delays. Movies, TV dramas, games—he always releases on schedule. That's rare."
"Right? With the time some studios waste on delays, he could've already started a whole new project!"
"'Pokémon' is dropping in less than two weeks. I'm ready."
"Damn, I'd better speedrun the end of 'Yu-Gi-Oh!' or I'll get overwhelmed juggling both games!"
Even though 'Yu-Gi-Oh!' had been out for three weeks and daily sales were tapering off compared to launch week, its fanbase continued to grow steadily.
But with 'Pokémon''s release right around the corner, all eyes naturally shifted to the next big thing from Bluestar.
Meanwhile, Jing Yu was back in his office, poring over sales data from the Great Zhou and international markets.
He wasn't naïve.
He never expected 'Yu-Gi-Oh!' or 'Pokémon' to take over the world in just a few days or even months.
Creating a global IP isn't that simple.
These two titles were only Phase One—to establish their worlds and build a fanbase.
Once that foundation was solid, the merchandising and spin-offs would begin.
He didn't even need to look far. In his past life, 'Yu-Gi-Oh!' had spawned dozens of games. 'Pokémon' had hundreds of anime and game spin-offs.
Both franchises had taken decades to mature into world-famous IPs.
That was Jing Yu's long-term vision, too.
He didn't plan to stop at just a few games — he had plans stretching over the next five to ten years, with endless sequels, adaptations, and global rollouts.
But for now—
"Starting strong makes everything easier," Jing Yu muttered, setting the report down.
Thanks to the relationships, resources, and funding he'd built up in the Great Zhou's film industry, both of his latest projects launched far more smoothly than they had in his past life.
In terms of promotion, budget, and overall polish, they were leagues ahead of their original versions.
And so far, 'Yu-Gi-Oh!''s first-month sales had him very pleased.
At this pace, it could easily break 20 million copies sold in under three months.
For a game like this, that was a god-tier opening.
As for 'Pokémon'?
Jing Yu had even more confidence in it.
After all, 'Yu-Gi-Oh!' still had some awkward "scripted" moments in the story.
But 'Pokémon' was open-world.
Players could freely explore, encounter hundreds of different Pokémon, train and grow as a character, and enjoy a gorgeous, imaginative setting.
In terms of showcasing the world, 'Pokémon' offered way more.
Still, despite his outward calm, Jing Yu wasn't completely relaxed.
"This is the single most valuable IP I've introduced since arriving in the Great Zhou…" he whispered.
It was also the most expensive. Its license had cost four times more than even Evangelion.
So far, he'd never had a flop.
But even he didn't believe he was invincible.
He just hoped… that if he ever did fail, it wouldn't be with 'Pokémon'.
He'd probably lose sleep for weeks if it bombed.
After reviewing the three-week sales summary for 'Yu-Gi-Oh!', he picked up another file.
This one was a summary of all ongoing internal projects.
On the TV side, with 'Death Note' and 'Hanzawa Naoki' in production, the entire drama department was running at full speed. Including those two, they had five shows in the pipeline.
The film division was being left to operate freely. With 'Spirited Away' still topping the box office charts, Jing Yu wasn't in a rush to push more projects there.
The game division? A different story.
'Initial D' was complete and is currently in bug testing—no release date yet.
Titles like 'Ultraman Tiga', 'Attack on Titan', 'Ultraman Leo', and 'Evangelion' had sequels or new games already greenlit and in development.
In total, six or seven games were now in production.
Jing Yu himself had only done a brief cameo in 'Death Note'—the rest was left to his trusted teams.
The company had grown to a scale where he simply couldn't micro-manage everything.
He had to trust the people he'd brought on board.
He signed what needed signing, sent back the rest for revisions, and by the time he looked up, the sun had already set.
Technically, Bluestar's workday ended at 6 PM. But by the time Jing Yu finished, it was already past 8.
As he walked through the company's main floor, over half the staff were still hard at work.
But this wasn't because of him.
If someone had too much on their plate, Jing Yu just hired more help. With Bluestar's profit margins, salary wasn't an issue.
But a lot of employees?
They chose to stay late.
Driven by passion. Motivated by bonuses. Some simply had perfectionist streaks and didn't want to leave until it was "just right."
As long as they were paid for their overtime, Jing Yu let them work as they pleased.
On his way out, over a hundred staff greeted him respectfully.
"Take care, Boss!"
"Goodnight, Boss!"
Jing Yu exhaled deeply as he entered the underground garage.
After ten years of grinding in the Great Zhou, his wealth was astronomical.
He'd sold off his old villa last year and moved into a luxury high-rise in one of Modo City's most elite neighborhoods.
As for his cars?
Well, he'd always envied rich people's rides when playing 'Need for Speed' back in the day.
Now?
His garage had five or six supercars, though he wasn't obsessed. After buying a few, he'd realized they were more for fun than utility. He rotated between them depending on the day.
These cars weren't common in Modo City. Every one of them was top-tier.
When Jing Yu's engine roared through the streets, heads turned.
His driving skills—acquired through his panel—were still as sharp as ever. He could drift through corners like a pro. As long as the road was clear, he'd occasionally show off.
He wasn't afraid of crashing—he was more worried about scaring other drivers and causing accidents.
Fans on the sidewalk who recognized his car?
Immediately pulled out their phones to film.
Give it a day or two, and you'd probably see someone on social media posting:
"OMG! Spotted the Great Zhou entertainment king, Jing Yu, on the road!"
Those little moments often made it into entertainment news, too.
Of course, the media didn't just care about his cars or daily routine.
They were also curious about his private life—especially his relationship with Yu Youqing.
But unlike regular celebrities, Jing Yu wasn't just a star or a screenwriter.
He was the CEO of one of the most powerful entertainment companies in the Great Zhou.
If he didn't want his relationship publicized, no media outlet dared report it.
That night, when he got home…
A full dinner was laid out on the table.
And on the sofa, curled up asleep, was Yu Youqing.
Warmth filled his chest.
"You're back," she said with a smile, waking at the sound of the door.
"Yeah. I'm back. Hey… there's something I wanted to talk to you about."
"Mm?"
"Well, since we're getting married at the end of October… I think it's time. We probably can't keep this private anymore. We've kept the media quiet because we didn't want to upset our fans, but… now that we're tying the knot, there's no hiding it."
"So I'm planning to go public in the next few days. Just wanted to let you know first, in case you'd be upset."
Yu Youqing blinked, then laughed softly.
"If you've decided, then go for it. No need to be so cautious."
"I'm not afraid of gossip. Back then, we kept it secret for your image. But now? You're doing fewer on-screen projects anyway. I don't care. So what if a million of your fangirls hate me for a while?"
She smiled again.
And Jing Yu smiled back.