Since Akanishi Ken had no intention of leaving, Sakata Taiji naturally stayed put as well.
Only Mizutani remained seated, feeling utterly awkward. It was as if he had bared his soul, only to have these two refuse to come closer, leaving him sitting alone in the wind, feeling utterly foolish and embarrassed.
Following Aoki Haruhi's instructions, Ishino Mika began distributing the pre-printed project proposals to each of the executives.
Previously, they had lacked the funds to get the project off the ground. Now, with DUN's investment, it was time to move forward quickly.
"Please take a look," Aoki Haruhi said. "This is the revised project proposal we negotiated with DUN. We'll be relying on all of you for the time being."
The executives lowered their heads to review the documents.
After a moment,
"Huh? We're switching to a blue game?" Mizutani blinked, doubting his own eyes.
What happened to the tear-jerking, healing, epic historical fantasy romance RPG we planned?
How did we end up stripping it all down now?
The outburst startled Akanishi, who was deeply engrossed in the proposal. His fingers trembled, and he nearly dropped the notebook.
Aoki Haruhi frowned sharply.
This struck a nerve for both Aoki Haruhi and Ishino Mika.
"It's a galgame, not a Blue Game," Aoki Haruhi corrected.
"Aren't they the same thing?" In Mizutani's mind, galgames were virtually synonymous with Blue Games.
"They're different. It's just about romance, no explicit content," Aoki Haruhi emphasized.
While he was right, galgames hadn't yet developed to the point where players could appreciate the beauty of pure romance. Mizutani's rigid stereotype was, in fact, the prevailing sentiment.
Aoki Haruhi hated this, which was why he didn't want to take on galgame projects.
"But why did you agree to do this kind of thing?" Tatsuya Mizutani couldn't understand.
"There was no choice," Aoki Haruhi said, shaking his head. "It was the only condition DUN had for investing in us."
"But this will ruin the game's essence," Mizutani said. "It feels like combat and romance just don't mix well."
We're screwed. Pokeni is completely finished.
Players who play galgames are all impatient. They want the explicit content shoved in their faces. You want them to play combat too?
Isn't this suicidal?
Everyone fast-forwarded through the two-hour movie, finishing it in ten minutes. How could an RPG with over ten hours of gameplay possibly let players experience the essence of romance in such a short time?
You're out of your mind, President!
However...
Tatsuya Mizutani silently congratulated himself. Fortunately, he had already found a new job. Otherwise, he'd be unemployed if Pokeni went bankrupt.
"Well, since we've made the promise, there's no turning back," Aoki Haruhi said, his resolve hardening.
"Can't we make any adjustments?" Ishino Mika, sitting beside him, chimed in. "What if we integrate the romance elements into the main story or make them a post-game Easter egg?"
"No..." Aoki Haruhi shook his head. "It's not about anything else. We need to uphold Pokeni's reputation and brand. That means we can't simplify the romance—we have to make it a core feature of the game.
I believe even in a galgame, we can achieve the most captivating experience and make players feel the soul we pour into our games."
Aoki Haruhi was not one to give up easily. He never once considered compromising, such as:
"Since we're making a romance game, let's just lean fully into that direction."
Nor did he think:
"We can't let the romance element ruin the game's overall tone, so let's hide the romance part."
The man was stubbornly single-minded, determined to excel at whatever he did.
In his mind, he could find a balance point between these two elements.
No, rather than a balance point, it was more like a fusion point.
There were already games that perfectly blended tearjerker narratives with galgame mechanics, so this was entirely possible.
Like writing a novel, there's always an optimal blend between commercial appeal and slice-of-life content.
This approach would make Onmyoji slightly different from the Chinese Paladin's linear, single-threaded structure.
Aoki Haruhi envisioned a game with greater freedom, allowing the male protagonist to choose which female lead to pursue through his own actions.
That was all.
Yeah, yeah!
Ishino Mika nodded vigorously, clenching her fist and silently cheering herself on in her heart.
After the meeting, Tatsuya Mizutani submitted his resignation.
Aoki Haruhi was taken aback. Mizutani had been so enthusiastic during the meeting; why was he leaving so abruptly now?
After a moment's hesitation, Aoki Haruhi accepted the resignation.
In Japan, employment contracts are typically lifelong. Companies cannot easily dismiss employees without their consent, or they face hefty severance packages.
Since Mizutani and Aoki Haruhi couldn't see eye-to-eye, it was probably for the best that he left.
The original planning team for the pokeni project, including the lead designer, consisted of only four people: a copywriter, a systems designer, and a level designer.
Small companies are like this; one person has to do the work of two.
With the lead designer gone, the project couldn't afford to fall behind, so Aoki Haruhi had to step in himself.
This meant that for the foreseeable future, Aoki Haruhi would be both the game's producer and lead designer.
Fortunately, Aoki Haruhi's thinking was clear, and his previous experience as a programmer gave him a solid grasp of the initial framework requirements for the project.
After more than a week of planning, the overall game plan was finalized. Requirements began flowing steadily to the programming and art teams, and the project officially got underway.
Though no one said it aloud, everyone knew—
Onmyoji might be Pokeni's last game. If it failed to sell, the company would go bankrupt, and they'd lose their jobs.
So everyone threw themselves into the work, putting in extra hours and working overtime.
A year ago, they wouldn't have been this driven.
The main reason was Japan's post-bubble economic slump, which had left the country in dire straits.
The project's progress was nothing short of remarkable.
Aoki Haruhi even had the illusion that he wasn't in Japan at all, but in China.
After all, in 2023, the average workweek in China's internet industry was 74 hours (internal data, not official statistics)—the absolute peak of overwork.
Pokeni was now nearly there.
The only difference was that this time, everyone was working voluntarily.
As the employees worked so hard, President Aoki Haruhi didn't rest either. He worked almost around the clock, overseeing the original art, pushing the planning and project teams for detailed requirements, occasionally reviewing code, and offering guidance on critical issues. It was a pace few could endure.
One month later.
"This music just isn't working," Aoki Haruhi said, taking off his headphones and frowning.
For Blue Games, the most crucial elements were a compelling script and stunning artwork that could ignite players' desires—especially those of straight men.
Now that they had those, the most vexing problem was the music.
In a great Blue Game—ahem, a great RPG—the soundtrack played a vital role, no less important than the art. It was like watching a movie: the immersive experience you gained was largely due to the background music drawing you into the world.
Imagine a horror film with its sound turned off—you'd lose at least 50% of the terror.
The same applied to healing games. If the music from Chinese Paladin were replaced with something like "Good Luck Is Here" or "The Most Dazzling Ethnic Style," you wouldn't be able to cry even when Ling'er died.
This showed just how crucial music was.
But where could they find a great soundtrack?