"A sequel for the 'Kenshin' game? Whoa, seriously? I thought the story ended after Shishio was defeated!"
"A ten-year media plan for 'Ultraman'? Are they planning to release three to four different versions over the next decade? I mean, will kids even stay interested? Once they've seen a couple of 'Ultraman' seasons and get used to the monster-fighting formula, wouldn't they get bored?"
"Yeah, that sounds logical. Most kids eventually grow out of 'Ultraman'. But don't forget—there will always be new kids in the Great Zhou. You know why formulaic shows never go out of style? Because there are always new viewers ready to eat it up. So, Old Thief continuing to develop the 'Ultraman' IP is the right move. Why walk away from a 1-billion-yuan annual profit?"
"True that. But what's up with this 'Yu-Gi-Oh!' sequel game? Didn't the first game already wrap up Yugi Mutou's story? We even saw the endings for Jonouchi and Kaiba. What's this second-gen 'Yu-Gi-Oh!' supposed to be?"
"Maybe a new protagonist. In 'Yu-Gi-Oh!', the protagonist doesn't matter that much—the key is innovating with new Duel Monsters cards. As long as Old Thief still has the energy and creativity to invent cards, we could easily get a third or fourth generation game."
"But the thing I'm most excited about is the announcement of a 'Pokémon' sequel. I knew it! I knew Old Thief planned this as a series from the start."
"Obviously. The game's ending made it clear that the protagonist's journey wasn't over. It even teased new regions and factions in the story. After I beat the game, I was sure there'd be more. I just didn't expect it to happen so soon."
"Normally, you don't hear about sequels until six months or a year after release. Old Thief announcing it after just two weeks? What is this sorcery?"
"That's exactly why I like him. He's decisive and doesn't waste time."
"Yeah, normally when a company develops a billion-yuan film or game, it goes through endless edits, research, investor negotiations, and it still takes years to release. But Old Thief? Different breed. He's both the creator and the investor. No 'outsiders guiding insiders,' no resource-wasting rewrites. He actually understands creation—and he knows that speed is king."
"Also, don't forget—he's loaded. He can hire top-tier talent and give them creative freedom. That's how he maintains this insane speed."
"But seriously—two months after 'Yu-Gi-Oh!' and just two weeks after 'Pokémon'—and both already confirmed sequels? Dreamlike."
"Bro, forget dreamlike! Don't just focus on Bluestar Media's game page. Check the film and TV section. They just dropped a nuke!"
While gamers were still glued to the sequel news in Bluestar's game division, announcements started rolling out from the film and TV divisions too.
'Pokémon', 'Yu-Gi-Oh!', and 'Kenshin' weren't just getting game sequels—they were all officially set to become long-form drama series.
All three shows were greenlit, though filming wouldn't start until next year.
Meanwhile, in the film division, 'Ultraman Tiga' and 'Ultraman Gaia' were each getting a theatrical movie, slated for next summer and the Spring Festival of the following year.
Within just one day, Bluestar Media dropped so many bombs that it caused a full-on earthquake in the Great Zhou's entertainment and gaming industry.
At this point, everyone in the Great Zhou knew: Jing Yu is the industry's trendsetter. With him around, everyone else is fighting for second place.
But this time? This was just insane.
Sure, you could call it "milking old IPs," releasing only sequels and spin-offs… but fans were eating it up! Compared to new franchises, these sequels already had massive built-in audiences. Once they were released, they were almost guaranteed to outperform the originals.
And it was clear to anyone paying attention—Jing Yu was building something much bigger.
Look at the pattern: 'Kenshin', 'Pokémon', 'Yu-Gi-Oh!', 'Ultraman'—all part of a massive cross-media strategy. Games, dramas, films, novels, merchandise—one IP feeding into the next, forming a giant ecosystem.
Unlike old models where a hit show might bring in revenue for a year or two and then fade, Jing Yu's plan stacked the audience base with each sequel, eventually reaching critical mass.
To be fair, many Great Zhou studios had tried similar strategies before—but they failed.
Why? Simple—their stories sucked. Viewers didn't buy in.
But Jing Yu's IPs? Weirdly perfect for this kind of expansion.
Deep worldbuilding, fresh settings, and narratives that practically begged for sequels.
"He's on another level. This guy plays the industry like a game."
"Honestly, this is getting scary. If he keeps this up, how much market share will we even have left?"
"What's the point of complaining? This industry is about skill, not charity. If you've got what it takes, fight for your share. If no one can challenge him, stop whining about him making money."
"I know… but it still feels unfair."
"Sometimes the gap between people is wider than the gap between a man and a dog. I've been leading a 100-person dev team for three years—exhausted, stressed, brainstorming every day. And this guy? He leads multiple game projects and still has time to direct movies. Come on."
"Unless someone hands me a finished game to copy, there's no way I can work at that speed. I don't get it. Doesn't this guy ever hit a creative wall?"
Even Jing Yu's industry peers were totally blindsided by Bluestar's rapid-fire announcements.
But again—what good does envy do? If you think he's printing money too easily, then go copy his model yourself.
It's like the Marvel franchise in his past life. Once it conquered the world, plenty of people tried the "giant IP universe" model too. But how many actually pulled it off?
Once Bluestar confirmed its production plans, the whole company shifted gears. Gone was the laid-back atmosphere from recent months.
Game development takes one to two years minimum, so these sequel games likely wouldn't release until the year after next.
But TV dramas?
That was a different story. Bluestar had never taken more than a year to produce a series.
The live-action dramas for 'Pokémon' and 'Yu-Gi-Oh!' were expected to air next autumn and winter.
And judging by the games' plot content, these would be long-format series, on par with something like 'Attack on Titan' or 'Gundam SEED'.
Add that to 'Hanzawa Naoki' airing in spring and 'DeathNote' hitting summer…
It was only early October—barely winter—but in the hearts of Jing Yu's peers across the entertainment world, it already felt like the dead of winter.
If nothing unexpected happened, Jing Yu would be dominating every quarter of the drama market next year.
The film industry wasn't doing much better. Sure, the upcoming 'Ultraman Tiga' and 'Ultraman Gaia' films were aimed at kids, so theoretically they shouldn't affect the box office too much…
But after getting crushed by Jing Yu's last three films, no one felt confident anymore.
Investors backing summer and Spring Festival blockbusters were sweating bullets, wondering whether their "adult" movies might get stomped by a children's film.
That's how much pressure Jing Yu now puts on the rest of the industry.
Once the overall strategy was confirmed and announced, Jing Yu left the detailed planning to his team.
The company's cash flow was lightning-fast. Despite spending 9-digit monthly sums on filming, production, VFX, and salaries, the earnings were just as high.
'Spirited Away' alone had brought in over 1–2 billion in profit. The 'Kenshin' game was approaching ten-digit profits, too, plus all the long-term licensing revenue from years of IP development.
At this point, Bluestar's monthly cash flow was astronomical.
And unlike most entertainment companies, Bluestar had zero debt.
Thanks to his high-profit IPs, Jing Yu didn't need loans to expand production.
The company's financial health was a model for the entire industry.
Even while launching this massive wave of productions, funding wasn't a problem—only manpower.
So right after early October ended, Bluestar launched a new nationwide and international hiring wave.
And this time, it was different.
Before, when Bluestar recruited people, folks would say:
"Who? A tiny startup? They pay well, sure… but can they sustain that? What if they go under in a year or two?"
It took serious convincing to get top talent on board.
But now?
You say "Bluestar Media" and people hear:
"The studio behind the highest-rated dramas in the Great Zhou. The #1 box office record-holder. The producer of 'Pokémon', 'Yu-Gi-Oh!', and 'Kenshin'."
Recruitment talks were easy. Everyone was interested.
On the surface, the entertainment world looked calm. Behind the scenes? Panic mode.
Every major company feared that one of its key staff would get poached.
Of course, Jing Yu didn't personally involve himself in all this.
He wasn't paying high salaries just to micromanage. These people were here to lessen his load, not increase it.
At the headquarters of a major wedding planning company in Modo...
"Mr. Jing, look this way!"
Dressed in a black suit, sword brows and starlit eyes, the handsome Jing Yu gently held Yu Youqing—who wore a white wedding gown—and smiled toward the camera.
The wedding was set for late October. But only now, in mid-October, had they found time to shoot their wedding photos and register their marriage certificate.
They didn't choose to shoot in scenic locations because Yu Youqing felt it was too much of a time sink.
With so many projects on Jing Yu's plate, taking a few days off was fine—but if they disappeared for ten or fifteen days, the whole company might spiral. He was involved in a dozen major projects, after all.
"Are we done?"
Jing Yu turned to the motionless female photographer and asked softly.
"Oh! Um—sorry, my bad…" she blushed.
The studio had received word days ago that a major celebrity couple was coming in today—but no one expected Jing Yu and Yu Youqing.
This was front-page news.
Fans had been shipping them for years, but no one knew it was already real—let alone that they were getting married.
Poor Jing Yu's fans—many were still out there thinking their idol was single.
The photographer had frozen up because she was stunned by how attractive they were in real life.
They looked good on screen, sure. But in person? Even more breathtaking.
Jing Yu—already in his thirties—looked like he was barely twenty. Youthful and radiant.
And Yu Youqing? Just as stunning and ageless.
Though her mind was spinning, the photographer still did her job, directing them through the shoot quickly.
Jing Yu had only scheduled one day for the photos, and luckily, everything went smoothly.
The printed album would take a few days, but the digital files…
Jing Yu received them before they even left the studio.
He immediately imported the photos to his phone.
"You drive. I've got something to take care of," he told Yu Youqing—now officially his wife.
"What are you doing?" she asked, watching his fingers fly across his phone.
"Well… our wedding's less than two weeks away."
As he spoke, he tapped a confirmation prompt on-screen.
Moments later, on Jing Yu's social media accounts in the Great Zhou and overseas—
A photo of their wedding shoot and one line of text went live:
[October 27th!]
"Eh?" Yu Youqing blinked in surprise.
"You just posted it?"
"Why not?" Jing Yu looked at her, puzzled.
"Aren't you worried about your female fans? Shouldn't you post some comforting words or something?" Yu Youqing hesitated.
"Aren't you afraid of losing fans?"
"What are you talking about?" Jing Yu smiled.
"What do you think I've been working for all these years in the Great Zhou? I did all this so I could live life the way I want—not to tiptoe around people's feelings just to announce a wedding.
If you're happy, that's all that matters. Everyone else? I don't care."
"..."
Yu Youqing's eyes lit up. She didn't say anything else—but her smile said it all.
Meanwhile, fans around the world were in full meltdown.
One photo. One date.
Jing Yu is getting married?!