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Chapter 265: Kenji Ueyama’s Resignation Gambit!
🕑 Added 2025-09-06 03:02:23 +0000 UTCMurmurs filled Komina’s boardroom.
Eight suits, including Kenji Ueyama, sat around the table—the shareholder council holding the company’s fate.
As Ted Moriarty had griped before, “managing directors” like him usually got bonuses, not equity. The real power? This board, the ones calling the shots.
Today’s emergency meeting wasn’t random. Torii: Phantom’s catastrophic losses demanded answers.
A month ago, Torii’s trailer dropped, kicking off pre-sales. This 3S blockbuster, with a $245 million budget, priced at $78 a pop, moved 800,000 units pre-launch. For any game, that’s a win.
Komina was hyped. A quarter of the budget was back before release.
But then, the Video Game Expo hit, and it all went south.
First, WindyPeak Games’ Sekiro stole the show. Then Torii’s demo tanked its rep. In two days, pre-sales froze. By day three, refunds rolled in as online buzz soured:
“This ain’t what the trailer promised…”
“Sekiro’s leagues ahead. I’ll pass.”
“If I’m picking one, it’s Sekiro.”
“This demo’s a joke. How’s it this bland?”
“Gaming disaster. Total flop.”
“Canceled my pre-order. Waiting for reviews.”
The verdict was brutal. In four days, Torii’s pre-sales crashed from 800,000 to under 600,000—200,000 refunds. A dream start became a nightmare.
Ted Moriarty had already bailed as lead director, and Kazu Okura was sidelined in a hospital bed, powerless to rally PR. Torii’s marketing stalled out.
Kenji Ueyama saw the writing on the wall. This wasn’t just bad—it was a disaster.
With Sekiro at $65 and Torii at $78, most players could only afford one 3S title. Torii was losing, hard.
Ueyama didn’t hesitate. Time to sacrifice pieces to save the game.
Post-launch, Torii sold 720,000 units total—$56.16 million, barely 22% of the budget. Sales were slowing, projected to flatline in a month.
No head director, a rival crushing them—what now?
Ueyama went nuclear: he halted all Torii marketing. Let the mess explode, force the board’s hand. It worked. Two weeks post-launch, with less than a third of costs recouped, the board demanded answers.
“Mr. Ueyama,” a gray-haired shareholder, slightly overweight, barked, “You said we were prepared. So why this disaster?”
Shareholders didn’t care about plans. Profits were king. Losses? Unacceptable.
Ueyama was ready. “Sometimes, plans can’t outrun chaos.”
He leaned in: “Our marketing was solid, our positioning strong. But Kazu Okura’s demo was a flop. He picked a dull segment, failing to showcase Torii’s strengths.”
“It tanked our rep,” Ueyama said, voice low. “We lost the buzz war.”
He paused, bowing his head. “I take responsibility. I didn’t oversee the project closely enough. My deepest apologies.”
Deflect, dodge, redirect. His somber face hid a smirk.
Any shareholder who’d played Torii could’ve called BS. The whole game was repetitive, not just the demo. But the board swapped glances, skeptical but not fully buying it.
Ueyama expected this. He pressed on: “Internally, we were short-handed. Our marketing lead, Ted Moriarty, was supposed to steer Torii and other projects.”
He frowned, feigning concern. “But Kazu Okura’s reckless PR stunt nearly sparked a PR crisis. Combined with Torii’s nosedive, Moriarty… resigned.”
Blame-shifting, 101. Moriarty didn’t just quit—he deserted. The board’s faces darkened. A managing director, second only to Ueyama, bailing? That’s not a misstep; it’s betrayal.
Ueyama’s eyes glinted. Time for the knockout.
“Actually,” he coughed, “I uncovered something else. The real reason for our losses.”
Eyes snapped to him. He gestured to the screen.
Click. A photo: an older man and a younger one in a diner, smiling, chatting. More photos—laughing, shaking hands.
“The older guy? Ted Moriarty, our managing director,” Ueyama said. “The other? Gus Harper, WindyPeak’s EVP and lead game director.”
Gasps. The room froze.
Ueyama’s voice cut through: “Three months ago, Harper called Moriarty, spilling Sekiro details. Moriarty never reported it. Later, WindyPeak hit a motion-capture snag. Moriarty hooked them up with MOSIA’s team and Kenji Tanigaki’s crew, quietly.”
“At the Expo, when WindyPeak faced pushback, Moriarty used his industry clout to smooth things over. Internally, he dodged aggressive anti-WindyPeak policies, let Torii and Sekiro launch together, sabotaged our manager, and quit at the worst moment.”
“If that’s not collusion, listen to this—”
Ueyama unleashed his verbal knockout. A recording played:
“Gus, anything I can help with?”
“This is hush-hush, Ted, but you’re a real friend in this industry. We’re building a motion-capture action game, need actors for data…”
“Alright, let’s meet and talk details.”
Moriarty and Harper’s voices, clear as day.
Sure, the recording was… less than legal. But for Ueyama, that was small potatoes.
The board’s faces twisted—shock, rage, disbelief piling on.
Ueyama took a breath. Time for the final play.
Bang. His chair scraped. He stood, bowing deeply. “My deepest apologies, shareholders. I failed to oversee the project and trusted the wrong executives.”
“I bear full responsibility for these losses. So, I formally submit my resignation and urge you to appoint someone more capable as president.”
Retreat to advance. The ultimate gambit.
