56-60

Chapter 56: Too Hasty 

With only a three-month production timeline, Fuyukawa Tetsu threw himself into a whirlwind of work the moment Surrounded by Beauties began filming. 

Every day, he’s at the office by 8 a.m., tweaking the game’s UI with Sayoko, refining the script, and polishing dialogue. By 11 a.m., he’s at the filming site, shooting non-stop until around 10 p.m. when the crew wraps up.  

Excluding lunch breaks, that’s at least twelve hours of work daily. And after leaving the office, he goes home to work on Fate with Sayoko.  

Some nights, he passes out at his desk, and Sayoko drapes a blanket over him. Other times, it’s Sayoko who falls asleep at the computer, and he carries her to bed, where they collapse in each other’s arms. 

This grueling schedule—mental and physical strain—would drive most people to burnout. Fuyukawa feels the fatigue, but his mental resilience keeps him going. The pressure exhausts him, yet it also fuels his drive, pushing him deeper into work. 

His productivity is through the roof, but his appearance? Not so much.  

He used to show up to the office in crisp suits, shoes polished to a shine. Now? Wrinkled suits and unwashed, messy hair. The receptionist, Miss Hatano, can’t help but fuss over him, her heart aching at his disheveled state. 

But someone’s even more worried about him than Miss Hatano. 

After a few days of this relentless pace, Fuyukawa noticed Sayoko’s usual cheery “Dajyobu~” (“I’m fine!”) wasn’t holding up. Her face grew paler, her energy drained by the intense workload. So, he put his foot down: no overtime past 11 p.m. for her. 

At first, Sayoko felt guilty.  

Not just for being unable to keep up, but for feeling almost... unneeded. Abandoned, even. She’d lie awake at night, restless without his arms around her. But as Fuyukawa’s work pressure mounted and his lifestyle deteriorated, she found a new purpose. 

She started going to bed earlier but waking up at dawn, like a gentle, devoted wife. She prepares breakfast, helps him get ready, and even straightens his tie at the genkan (entryway) every morning. 

Still, their happy routine isn’t without its quirks. 

Fuyukawa hates blow-drying his hair, convinced it’ll make him go bald. He just towels it off after a shower. Sayoko, though, insists wet hair causes migraines and chases him around the bathroom with a hairdryer.  

Mornings often turn into playful tussles. Sayoko, in her floral house dress, inevitably ends up pinned down, mumbling protests while crouching on the floor, legs apart, as he teases her. 

It’s a life full of pressure but brimming with promise—and warmth. Fuyukawa cherishes it. 

As the days roll by and he settles into this rhythm—shuttling between the filming site and home—things at NTsoft take another turn. 

... 

“Total disaster! 4,327 copies sold. A ¥4.7 billion blockbuster, and it only moved 4,000 units on day one!” 

“Division Four’s in deep trouble now. I mean, we knew the fighting game market was struggling, but for a legacy studio like theirs to only sell 4,000 copies of a big-budget title like Dead or Alive? That’s wild.” 

“Yeah, I heard the president was so pissed last night he smashed a cup reading the report! Minister Miyano’s gonna have a rough time at the executive meeting.” 

“I don’t think it’s entirely her fault, though. Word is, a few days ago, Deputy Director Yamanaka from Dead or Alive asked Minister Miyano for more marketing budget, but she turned him down. They had a huge fight. Looking back, if she hadn’t said no, Division Four might’ve crashed even harder. But still, when things go wrong, the president’s coming for her.” 

“Getting chewed out is the least of her worries. The real issue is that even a legacy IP like Dead or Alive with a massive budget can’t pull players anymore. The fighting game market’s shrinking fast. She’s gotta find a new direction for Division Four.” 

“Exactly. I bet the higher-ups won’t fund another fighting game for them. But they’re not gonna let Division Four’s staff just sit around doing nothing. You think... they might dissolve the whole department?” 

“Maybe! Honestly, with the market this bad, it’d be better if they just cut Division Four loose. Then we’d be safer—oh! Section Chief Fuyukawa!” 

“Section Chief Fuyukawa, konnichiwa!” 

“Konnichiwa!” 

In the break room, a group of female employees gossiping over tea snap to attention when Fuyukawa walks in. Their greetings are polite, but their faces scream caught red-handed. 

Ugh, gossiping women are the worst. 

Fuyukawa mentally rolls his eyes. He’s got no time for these nobodies. Ignoring their greetings, he grabs a tea bag and starts brewing a cup of black tea. 

His aloof attitude only makes the women more nervous. They bow repeatedly, stammering apologies. 

So annoying. 

No situational awareness at all. 

Already stressed from work and Division Four’s mess, Fuyukawa’s in no mood. He slumps onto the windowsill, waving them off. “Go do your jobs. Don’t bother me.” 

“Hai, hai! Sorry, Section Chief Fuyukawa, we—sorry!” 

One woman, maybe 25 or 26, with a bit of charm and probably no shortage of suitors, freezes. She’s the one who said, “It’d be better if they cut Division Four.” Just moments ago, she was gloating, but now she’s bowing frantically, apologizing. When Fuyukawa glances at her with a slight frown, she trembles, grabs her colleague, and bolts. 

“Women who do nothing but gossip behind people’s backs are such a pain.” 

Sighing, Fuyukawa watches their hurried retreat, shaking his head. He sips his warm tea, legs crossed, staring out the window with a mix of frustration and resignation. 

Normally, he’s barely at the office since most of his work is on-set. But today’s Friday, the end-of-month company meeting. Not only do ministers like Miyano Mitei have to attend the executive meeting led by the president, but Division Four also has an internal meeting to report on monthly progress. 

It’s not a big deal. The intense workload and the fact that it’s the weekend meant he needed to submit some financial documents and progress reports to the company’s system anyway. So, he gave the film crew a day off and brought Sayoko and the team back to the office. 

Surrounded by Beauties is progressing smoothly and hasn’t hit the marketing phase yet, so Fuyukawa thought today’s meeting would be a formality. But now... 

“Miyano’s moving too fast.” 

Chapter 57: Cleaning Up the Mess 

“Man, Miyano’s moving way too fast,” Fuyukawa Tetsu muttered, leaning back in his office chair, gazing out at the bustling city streets below. He took a sip of his red tea, the faint aroma grounding him for a moment. 

Truth be told, having been a high-ranking exec in a major corporation in his past life, Fuyukawa was no stranger to corporate power struggles. But this? “It’s small potatoes,” he thought, a hint of exasperation in his eyes. These mid-to-low-level office battles were like kids playing house to him. Losing might cost you a job with a decent monthly salary, but it lacked the high-stakes thrill of a single misstep sending you plummeting into an abyss. 

Still, like it or not, he was already tangled up in this mess. 

“Miyano’s pushing for company reform, so of course there’s pushback. But there’s gotta be others who share her vision, or Chairman Ozuru wouldn’t have gone all out to poach her at this exact moment. That said, you’ve gotta secure the home front before taking on external battles,” Fuyukawa mused, his mind turning over the situation. 

The fighting game market was shrinking, and before Miyano Mitei parachuted into Department Four, many of its studios had already been shuttered. The biggest one left was Firefly Studio, the team behind Dead or Alive. Firefly was the department’s flagship, built on fighting games and nothing else. So, Miyano’s plan to pivot to action RPGs didn’t just ruffle feathers in Department Three—it also put Firefly’s head, Yamanaka Jichou, on edge. 

After all, if fighting games were out, Yamanaka’s value was out too. At over fifty, he had no room to reinvent himself. Sure, a veteran like him wouldn’t get fired or take a pay cut, but he’d likely be shuffled off to a smaller studio as a deputy, left to coast in a cushy but irrelevant role. It was a clear conflict of interest, and Fuyukawa didn’t believe for a second that Miyano couldn’t see it. 

Yet, she was charging ahead anyway. That could only mean one thing: Miyano was aiming to tear down Department Four and rebuild it from the ground up. 

He’d overheard some female employees whispering about “dissolving Department Four,” but that was nonsense. Department Four was once NTsoft’s crown jewel, like a military unit with a storied name. It carried clout in the industry and among gamers, a built-in fanbase. No company would lightly disband it—it’d tank both traffic and reputation. Similarly, Firefly Studio, as the department’s former star, made Yamanaka a tough nut to crack. 

“If I’m reading this right, Miyano’s probably banking on Dead or Alive’s flop and Chairman Ozuru’s influence to sideline Yamanaka. With the department pivoting, fighting games will get less and less funding, and Yamanaka would be a ticking time bomb. But she probably didn’t expect Dead or Alive to bomb this badly, enough to get the board’s attention.” 

With the board involved, Miyano couldn’t just wash her hands of the situation and shuffle Yamanaka out. Not when every department head was watching her like a hawk. If she tried to pin the blame on a subordinate to save herself, her industry rep would implode. But if she didn’t push Yamanaka out to take the fall… 

“Yamanaka’s an old fox. This hit woke him up. He’s probably realized Miyano’s plan for Department Four doesn’t just downgrade Firefly—it erases it entirely. He’s cornered, and a desperate beast is the hardest to deal with.” 

As Fuyukawa’s mind churned, a ding from his pocket interrupted his thoughts. 

[Urayuzu (Secretary): @All, group leaders and relevant members, please head to Meeting Room 3 on the 5th floor by 15:00 for Department Four’s monthly review meeting.] 

“Finally,” Fuyukawa said, glancing at his phone. “Three o’clock. Wrap this up, and I can make it back for Aoi’s birthday.” He downed the rest of his tea, crushed the paper cup, and tossed it into the trash. As he strode out of the break room, the casual air he’d worn moments ago was gone. 

NTsoft was a major game company. It wasn’t on the level of global giants like Activision Blizzard or Ubisoft from his past life, but with nearly 2,000 employees, it was no small fry. The fifth-floor corridor was already buzzing with Department Four staff, clutching notebooks and moving in small clusters. Fuyukawa, however, walked alone, briefcase in hand, like a lone samurai heading into battle. 

“Hey, afternoon, Fuyukawa-san!” 

“How’s your team’s progress?” 

“Heard you hired three idol group members? Introduce me, man!” 

The greetings came from regular staff and other group leaders. Since their projects didn’t overlap, there was no bad blood, and familiar faces were warm enough. Fuyukawa didn’t play the aloof card either. Smiling, he exchanged pleasantries as he pulled out a chair at the third spot on the right side of the long conference table. 

Then, the room fell silent. 

Clack, clack, clack—the heavy sound of leather shoes on tile echoed. Fuyukawa looked up to see a potbellied man in a gaudy gold suit, the kind you’d spot crooning in a karaoke lounge with a hostess on his arm. Yamanaka Jichou, the meeting’s main event, strutted in, flanked by his subordinates. 

Fuyukawa’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing, settling into his seat while subtly scanning the room. Yamanaka was clearly here to stir things up, his face grim as he whispered to his team from the prime seat on the left. 

Yamanaka was up to something—that much was obvious. But Fuyukawa wasn’t just watching him; he was gauging everyone else’s reactions. Yamanaka had decades at NTsoft, deep ties in Department Four, but rank trumped connections. Even if he’d rallied support from other departments, swaying the room or embarrassing Miyano would require getting the other group leaders on his side. 

“It all comes down to interests,” Fuyukawa thought, twirling his pen. Yamanaka’s biggest bargaining chip was likely some verbal promises from other department heads looking to undermine Miyano. With the fighting game market shrinking and Dead or Alive’s catastrophic failure, Department Four was on shaky ground. Plenty of group leaders were already eyeing exits to other departments. 

The crux of it all circled back to one thing: could Miyano find a new growth market—a new track to race on? If she could, and if the other leaders saw a chance to score big, they’d have no reason to rock the boat. Heck, they wouldn’t even need a whole new track. 

“All it takes is one small hit to stabilize Miyano’s position, and the chatter dies down,” Fuyukawa realized. “Wait, why does it feel like the pressure’s back on me?” 

He rubbed his temples, exasperated at being dragged into the fray yet again. Just then, the sharp click-clack of high heels on tile cut through the air. Miyano Mitei appeared at the meeting room door, dressed in a sleek black OL (office lady) suit, her face as frosty as a winter rose. 

Her icy, elegant aura was as striking as ever, but when Fuyukawa met her gaze, he caught a flicker of exhaustion in those captivating, fox-like eyes. 

“You made this mess with your big moves, and now I’ve gotta clean it up,” he thought, his eyes briefly flicking to the sway of her curvaceous hips as she walked—those “93-grade peaches” he vividly remembered pressing against him when he’d held her close that day. Shaking his head with a wry smile, he turned his attention to Yamanaka. His gaze sharpened, ready for the battle ahead. 

Chapter 58: A Storm is Brewing 

“Good morning, Director!”  

As Miyako Miyano appeared at the meeting room door, everyone, including Tetsu Fuyukawa, stood and bowed in unison.  

“Please, take your seats,” Miyako said coldly, her face still frosty. Her gaze briefly lingered on Tetsu before shifting away. She strode to the head of the table, her figure accentuated by a form-fitting skirt, the click of her high heels sharp and piercing against the tiled floor.  

The room was dead silent, the air heavy with tension.  

She’s not backing down, Tetsu thought, his eyes lowering as he sat with the others.  

As expected, after the team leaders finished reporting on their respective game projects, the female secretary presented the first-day sales data for Dead or Alive.  

At the head of the long table, Miyako, elegantly crossing her legs, leaned forward slightly. A cold glint flashed in her eyes as her lips parted. “Deputy Director Yamanaka, regarding the 4,000 units sold, what are your thoughts on how to proceed?”  

Here it comes!  

The room fell even quieter, all eyes—including Tetsu’s—shifting to the bald man in a flashy gold suit sitting to the left.  

To be honest, if this had happened earlier, Miyako taking on Yamanaka wouldn’t have caused such a stir. A boss dressing down a subordinate was par for the course. But things were different now.  

A few days ago, before Dead or Alive launched, Yamanaka had approached Miyako with a request.  

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His ask was simple: increase the marketing budget.  

Dead or Alive had performed poorly in beta testing, but it was a legacy IP. Throwing big money at marketing could turn things around, much like Cyberpunk 2077. Despite its disastrous launch, 2077 had leveraged massive marketing to sell 13 million copies in ten days, raking in $780 million globally—far surpassing The Witcher 3’s debut. Pre-orders and hype from trailers alone recouped the $120 million development cost and over $120 million in marketing, even after platform cuts. A half-baked game had broken even and then some, all thanks to aggressive promotion.  

Sure, 2077’s studio, CD Projekt Red, had built trust with The Witcher 3, but Dead or Alive was also a storied fighting game IP. With enough marketing, its sales wouldn’t look so dismal.  

But everything comes at a cost.  

Unlike 2077, which was salvaged with relentless patches, fighting games like Dead or Alive have a lower ceiling. Fixing issues wouldn’t attract many new players, and Miyako had no intention of sticking with fighting games. She wasn’t about to keep Firefly Studio’s team on payroll just to churn out patches, nor would she divert Department 4’s resources to prop up a failing project. This meant abandoning Yamanaka.  

The two had completely burned their bridges.  

Yamanaka knew his seat at the table wasn’t due to Miyako’s mercy—it was the board’s intervention.  

No need for pleasantries. His fierce, browless eyes locked onto Miyako as he stood and bowed deeply to the room. “I deeply apologize for Firefly’s failure. As the team leader and a 31-year veteran of Department 4, I take full responsibility for this shameful performance that has embarrassed us in front of our industry peers. Please accept my sincerest apologies, colleagues. Sumimasen!”  

With a loud declaration, Yamanaka stepped back, snapped to attention, and bowed a full 90 degrees, his head nearly touching the table.  

The Saikeirei.  

In Japan, bowing carries different meanings based on the angle. A 15-degree bow, or eshaku, is a casual greeting among colleagues. A 30-degree bow is more formal, often seen in business discussions. But a 90-degree bow, the saikeirei, is the most sincere gesture short of a dogeza—a humbling act, especially from someone as senior as Yamanaka.  

In a society that values seniority, this was him casting aside all pride.  

But…  

“It’s coming,” Tetsu thought.  

No one spoke. The room grew heavier, and Tetsu’s gaze fixed on Yamanaka’s bald head. A storm always follows dark clouds and thunder.  

After his bow, Yamanaka straightened and glared at Miyako. “The failure of Dead or Alive is entirely on me, and I have no complaints. But, Director Miyano, have you decided to completely abandon Department 4’s legacy and give up on fighting games?”  

Boom!  

The words hit like a thunderclap. The other team leaders and core staff grew visibly tense, their expressions darkening as they looked at Miyako.  

The room’s atmosphere plummeted to freezing.  

What a sly old fox, Tetsu thought, his brow furrowing. Yamanaka had gone straight for the jugular. If he’d dodged responsibility or tried to pin the game’s failure on Miyako, he’d have looked like a clown. But this was different.  

Department 4 was built on fighting games. Talk of “legacy” might sound intangible, and few cared deeply about it. The real issue was interests.  

Most understood Miyako was pivoting to new genres, gradually phasing out fighting games. That was fine—fighting games were a dying market. A hit to performance bonuses or job security was tolerable, especially for younger employees who could adapt.  

But Yamanaka had just accused Miyako of scrapping fighting games entirely.  

No more coasting. Employees would either have to pivot fast, get kicked out of Department 4, or be shipped off from Akihabara HQ altogether.  

This was a direct attack on their livelihoods—an irreconcilable conflict.  

“He’s got people ready to back him up,” Tetsu realized.  

A single clap doesn’t make a sound unless it’s fast enough to break the air. If Miyako brushed this off, the issue might fizzle out.  

But just as Tetsu thought this, a tall, lanky man with glasses sitting beside him spoke up. “Director Miyano, I heard you submitted a proposal to the board yesterday to downgrade Dead or Alive’s marketing priority to C-level. Is that true?” 

Chapter 59: My Little Lion 

Lower the marketing weight?! 

The moment those words left Miyano Mitei’s lips, the meeting room erupted into chaos. 

The “marketing weight” referred to the intensity of a game’s promotional campaign. Each department had a fixed marketing budget every year. Typically, S-tier projects were massive company-wide endeavors, with all resources pooled to push them. A-tier projects used the department’s budget for promotion, while C-tier… 

For a small-scale project like I’m Surrounded by Beautiful Women, with its 100-million-yen budget, the proposal listed it as having a C-tier marketing weight. 

Of course, the marketing weight in the proposal was just a pre-launch estimate. If a game’s sales soared, the department head could increase its weight, even requesting S-tier status from the company. But if it flopped, the marketing budget would be slashed to save resources. 

While Dead or Alive had indeed tanked spectacularly, applying to lower its marketing weight just three days after launch sent a clear signal: Miyano Mitei had lost patience with fighting games. 

The room buzzed with tension. Everyone felt the stakes. 

Looking at the restless crowd and locking eyes with Deputy Director Yamanaka and the tall, lanky man beside him, Miyano furrowed her brow and said coldly, “Yes, I submitted the request yesterday. I don’t think a game with 4,000 first-day sales deserves to keep eating up A-tier marketing resources. It’s unfair to the other studios in our department.” 

“Unfair?!” 

The gloves were off. Yamanaka dropped all pretense. 

His gaze lingered brazenly on Miyano’s 36D curves before pointing at Fuyukawa Tetsu. “You’re talking about fairness, Minister Miyano? Then why does Team Leader Fuyukawa’s 100-million-yen debut project get a C-tier marketing weight?! As far as I know, even experienced deputy directors get D-tier for their first trial project! 

“And what’s more unfair than promoting Fuyukawa to team leader after just four years? Every team leader here worked their tails off for years to get where they are. Matsushima, how long did it take you to become team leader?” 

“Twelve years, Deputy Director!” 

“Maruyama, you?!” 

“Eleven years, Deputy Director!” 

“Sekiya?!” 

“Nine years, Deputy Director!” 

“Oshima…” 

One by one, the bald Yamanaka called out names with fierce authority. Team leaders around the long table stood up, their presence amplifying the tension. The room’s atmosphere grew colder by the second. Miyano’s female secretary looked visibly nervous, but it wasn’t over yet. 

The team leaders didn’t sit back down after reporting. Instead, they fixed icy stares on Fuyukawa. These were seasoned veterans, loyal to Yamanaka, ready to pounce on his command. 

Even the onlookers joined in—some with smirks, others with worry, and plenty with schadenfreude, all directed at Fuyukawa. 

“Yamanaka’s going all out this time.” 

“He’s been backed into a corner. If he doesn’t escalate this and get the board involved, Miyano will crush him eventually. Poor Fuyukawa’s just caught in the crossfire.” 

“Crossfire? He climbed the ranks by clinging to Miyano’s coattails! Whatever perks he got before, he’s gonna have to cough them up now!” 

“With the minister backing him, he’ll probably be fine.” 

“Don’t count on it. Yamanaka’s threatening Miyano here. Dead or Alive flopped so hard the board’s already annoyed. If our department stirs up more trouble, Yamanaka’s toast, but Miyano won’t escape unscathed either!” 

Most in the room were reveling in the drama. Fuyukawa’s rapid rise had sparked envy among younger employees, but every coin has two sides. A team leader position was a zero-sum game—one person’s gain was another’s loss. 

When people fail, they rarely look inward. Instead, they hunt for flaws in others to prove they’re just “unlucky” or “undiscovered talent.” Until now, Fuyukawa had been untouchable. But Yamanaka had made him the weak point. 

As more names were called, the room grew louder, and more eyes turned to Fuyukawa. 

The eye of the storm. 

Fuyukawa sat at the center of it all, every gaze in the room locked on him. 

“Damn it!” 

Seeing Fuyukawa’s darkening expression under the relentless scrutiny, Miyano’s eyes grew colder, her fists clenching unconsciously on the table. 

Truthfully, she was cornered. She’d anticipated this and could back down today, play nice, and deal with Yamanaka later. But… 

Thinking of her recent interactions with Fuyukawa, his talent, his fire, Miyano’s resolve hardened. Her lips parted, ready to speak, when— 

Tap, tap, tap. 

In the noisy meeting room, amid Yamanaka’s ongoing roll call, in this chaotic yet oddly “quiet” atmosphere, the sound of Fuyukawa’s fingernail tapping the table cut through, reaching every ear. 

Under the stunned gazes of the female employee beside him and everyone else, Fuyukawa stopped tapping and looked up at Yamanaka. “So, Deputy Director Yamanaka, are you saying positions and resources should be decided by age and seniority?” 

His tone was casual, but the words were anything but. 

The room fell deathly silent. Even Miyano blinked in surprise, though a flicker of amusement soon danced in her fox-like eyes. Everyone else was dumbfounded. 

No one expected Fuyukawa to openly challenge the veteran Yamanaka in a department meeting! 

Even Yamanaka himself was caught off guard, but facing this junior, he didn’t lose his temper. Instead, he sneered dismissively. “Didn’t your mother teach you to stand and bow to your seniors before speaking in the workplace?” 

Heavy words, laced with a jab at propriety. But Fuyukawa just stared back calmly. “Then, as my senior, can you answer my question, Deputy Director? Do you believe positions and resources should be allocated by age and years of service?” 

“Baka! Who do you think you are to talk here?!” It wasn’t Yamanaka who snapped, but the tall, lanky man beside him. “Fuyukawa, know your place! Baka! Japan’s in this mess because of youngsters like you who don’t respect hierarchy! Apologize to Deputy Director Yamanaka now with a bow!” 

Japan’s rigid hierarchy meant employees couldn’t defy their bosses—or their seniors. No matter how exploited or oppressed, juniors were expected to swallow their pride, or they’d be labeled “rude,” “uneducated,” or “ignorant of social rules.” 

It was a heavy accusation. The lanky man, perhaps nervous about challenging Miyano head-on, shouted fiercely, his small eyes bulging, his face contorted, his pointing finger trembling slightly. 

But under his gleeful gaze, under everyone’s eyes, and under Miyano’s disappointed stare, Fuyukawa slowly stood, buttoning his suit jacket. 

“He’s going to apologize?!” 

“Serves him right! Challenging a senior like that? He’s got no manners!” 

“They should strip him of his team leader title. People like him don’t belong in the workplace!” 

“Youngsters need to learn to keep their heads down.” 

The room buzzed again with chatter. But then, with his jacket buttoned, Fuyukawa planted his hands on the table and locked eyes with Yamanaka. 

“If positions and resources are decided by age and seniority, then you should be a minister by now, Deputy Director. But you’re not. And the only reason I can think of is that your abilities just aren’t up to par.” 

“!” 

“!” 

“!” 

Your abilities aren’t up to par. 

The words dropped like a bomb. The room went dead silent, every jaw on the floor. 

Even Miyano’s eyes widened, but as she watched Fuyukawa—hands on the table, leaning forward, still commanding the room—something stirred in her alluring gaze. 

Yamanaka’s face turned beet red, the pores on his bald head practically steaming. 

But Fuyukawa wasn’t done. 

Looking at the fuming Yamanaka, he tilted his head nonchalantly. “I don’t get it. Why do older folks like you love acting wise and lecturing the young? 

“Age only proves you were born before me—nothing else. Some people stop growing at 30, even 20, yet you act like your ‘experience’ and ‘wisdom’—intangible things impossible to measure—give you the right to order us around. 

“Don’t you have anything tangible to show, something that would actually make us youngsters respect you? Or is ‘age’ and ‘seniority’ just an excuse for people like you, who haven’t achieved much, to exploit and oppress the young?” 

Boom! 

Fuyukawa’s words detonated the room. Everyone stared, shell-shocked, exchanging glances. 

At the head of the table, Miyano’s sharp, icy gaze melted into pools of autumn water, reflecting Fuyukawa’s figure. Watching his strong back and commanding aura, her scalp tingled, her cheeks flushed, and she unconsciously shifted, rubbing her plump thighs, wrapped in sheer black stockings, crossed in a refined manner. 

“How should I reward you for this performance… my little lion?” 

Chapter 60: Tensions Boil Over 

“How should I reward you for such an impressive performance?” 

Following Fuyukawa Tetsu’s explosive remark, the meeting room falls into dead silence. But Miyano Mitei? She’s practically buzzing with excitement! 

Watching Fuyukawa lean on the table, glaring daggers at Deputy Director Yamanaka, her eyes gleam with something akin to a spring tide. 

Before this meeting started, she’d predicted Yamanaka would target Fuyukawa as the weak link. After all, Fuyukawa’s rapid promotion made him an easy target for envy. 

Her initial plan was to shield him, even if it meant weathering pressure from the board. It wasn’t just their close relationship—there were also matters of pride and mutual benefit at play.  

But there was no way around it: one misstep led to a cascade of problems. Dead or Alive’s catastrophic failure exceeded her worst expectations, prompting the board to intervene. This gave Yamanaka the perfect opening to stir trouble at today’s meeting. What she didn’t expect was Fuyukawa handling it himself! 

Yes, the situation was nearly resolved! 

Yamanaka tried to paint a narrative of “unfairness,” accusing her and Fuyukawa of some shady deal to shift focus. But Fuyukawa deftly redirected the conversation to “competence.” 

At 53, Yamanaka has been with NTsoft for 31 years. With that tenure, if he were truly capable, he’d be a minister by now. His lack of promotion speaks volumes about his mediocrity. 

Before turning 50, Yamanaka led several project teams, but his games were lackluster, barely breaking even. He only became the head of Firefly Studio, Division Four’s flagship team, because the previous leader retired early due to health issues, and Yamanaka’s seniority filled the gap. 

Some envy Fuyukawa’s fast rise, but the room—filled with section chiefs and deputy directors in their thirties—resents Yamanaka even more. Despite his average skills, he snagged Firefly Studio’s leadership role purely through tenure.  

Firefly Studio gets the lion’s share of resources, higher pay, and more influence within the division. Yamanaka tried to rally the room around “unfairness,” but Fuyukawa struck at his weak point—his lack of ability—splitting the room’s emotions. 

As long as a full-blown revolt doesn’t erupt, letting this meeting proceed normally, the board’s scrutiny on Division Four will ease. That gives Miyano Mitei time to deal with Yamanaka and his failed project later. 

“His ability to read the room is terrifyingly sharp! His adaptability and presence are top-tier. When he speaks, everyone’s drawn to him—it’s a rare leadership quality. Tsk, tsk, I’ve really struck gold with this one. But…” 

Miyano’s gaze shifts from Fuyukawa to Yamanaka, her eyes turning cold and ruthless. 

“This guy can’t stay any longer.” 

“She won’t let me stay! I have to save myself! But this kid—he’s really only 25?!” 

Yamanaka glares at Fuyukawa, who remains unfazed, his heart a mix of shock and fury. 

Like Miyano, he never expected a young upstart like Fuyukawa to navigate workplace politics so deftly, cornering him in a single move! 

Yes, cornered! 

This is why he never dared challenge Miyano directly before. Japan’s strict hierarchical culture gives him power to bully subordinates but also binds him to those same rules. 

Attacking a superior in a monthly meeting like this—and missing the mark—guarantees harsh consequences unless he has a way to protect himself. Those consequences could easily cost him his position. 

He’s desperate. 

Very desperate. 

But Yamanaka’s face betrays no fear. A 30-year veteran of corporate games, he’s thick-skinned and not so easily rattled. Plus, he’s got a final, desperate gambit up his sleeve. 

With that thought, the round, bald Yamanaka slams the table, glaring at Fuyukawa like a tiger. “Competence? Fine, I admit I’m not on the level of NTsoft’s trailblazing pioneers. I take full responsibility for Dead or Alive’s failure. And now, being mocked by a rookie like you? I have nothing to say! All I can do is offer my sincerest apologies to everyone here! Sumimasen!” 

Yamanaka roars, bowing a full 90 degrees—toward Fuyukawa! 

His shiny bald head glints under the lights, and several people in the room frown slightly. 

The Japanese are a complex bunch. They resent the rigid hierarchy but also deeply value tradition and seniority. 

Yamanaka’s skills may be mediocre, and his reputation isn’t great—there’ve even been rumors of him bullying interns. But he’s served Division Four for over 30 years. Seeing a company veteran forced to bow and apologize to a newcomer like Fuyukawa stirs a twinge of sympathy in some, a sense of “when the rabbit dies, the fox grieves.” 

A clever retreat to gain the upper hand. 

Fuyukawa gazes coldly at Yamanaka’s bald head, not an ounce of sympathy in his eyes. 

It’s not that he dismisses NTsoft’s legacy. Having inherited fragments of this body’s memories, he feels some attachment to the company that shaped him. But he knows Yamanaka’s words are just a ploy to win pity. 

Don’t judge people by what they say—judge them by what they do. 

If Yamanaka truly cared about Division Four, he wouldn’t have pushed Miyano to pour more marketing funds into Dead or Alive when he knew it was a sinking ship, all to protect his own position. 

Sure enough, sensing the room’s atmosphere stabilizing, Yamanaka lifts his head and looks at Miyano. “Since Minister Miyano believes Section Chief Fuyukawa’s project has so much potential, granting it C-level marketing priority, why don’t we see just how capable this young man—who wants me gone—really is?! 

Fuyukawa! I challenge you to a man-to-man duel! My first independent project sold 73,672 copies in its first month. If your project surpasses that, I’ll submit a request to the board to transfer out of headquarters!” 

Transfer out of headquarters?! 

The room erupts. 

A transfer doesn’t always mean a demotion, but branch deputy directors earn far less and have less clout than those at headquarters. A branch deputy director would have to bow and scrape before a section chief like Fuyukawa at HQ. 

It’s tantamount to self-exile. Even more shocking is that Yamanaka’s pitting his first independent project against Fuyukawa’s.