Legend Games (1)
Sara said to me,
“The fund’s operations will be handled by the Public Investment Fund. Any objections?”
It was only natural, since they were the ones pouring in all the money anyway, but...
“What if you end up running it however you like and take a loss?”
“Then we’ll give Continue Capital veto rights.”
In other words, she was offering us the right to reject investments.
The whole point of having the PIF set up a fund instead of investing directly was to get my advice in the first place. There was no reason they’d ignore me for no good reason.
Still, you never knew what might happen to people down the line.
“I’ll need to think about it a little, depending on who the final decision-maker for the fund is. What if it’s someone so stubborn they won’t listen to a word anyone says?”
“I’m the final decision-maker. As you can see, my ears work just fine.”
I’d expected as much.
I nodded.
“Good. In that case, that’s fine.”
Sara went on.
“As we discussed before, we’ll acquire 51 percent of Nextrogen for $8 billion. After that, we’re planning a 30 percent capital increase and will invest another $5 billion.”
“You’ve added $3 billion to the $2 billion you first mentioned. Looks like you’ve got a different plan in mind.”
At my words, Sara nodded.
“Even if we build the first plant in the United States, I want the second one in Saudi Arabia’s Neom City.”
So she’d already thought it through.
“A hydrogen-car plant in a new city. Not a bad idea. You can develop manufacturing and the hydrogen industry at the same time.”
“Saudi Arabia can’t keep selling only oil forever.”
In fact, after the coup, Prince Rashid would begin reforming Saudi Arabia’s economy. This investment could be seen as part of that effort.
“Then while you’re investing anyway, how about buying Blackwood International stock too, to help develop the tourism sector?”
When the stock had bottomed out during the ransomware incident, Continue Capital had closed out its short position and gone straight to scooping up shares like mad.
We’d ended up with more than 10 percent of the company.
The stake was so large that we couldn’t just sell it off carelessly. One wrong move, and the stock price could crash.
The best approach was a block deal, not an open-market sale.
That way, we could unload it without affecting supply and demand.
“The stock’s been surging lately.”
“It’ll still rise at least another two times from here. I can promise you that right now is the cheapest it’s ever going to get. If the stock falls below the sale price three years from now, Continue Capital will buy it back at that price.”
If it made money, great. If it lost money, we’d just hand it back to Continue Capital. It was an investment as easy as walking on dry ground and swimming across a shallow stream.
Of course, nobody actually knew where future stock prices would go.
People really could go bankrupt by making one bad option play like that. But I wasn’t worried in the slightest.
Sara asked, sounding intrigued,
“How can you be that confident?”
“Because I’m going to make it happen.”
Even in my first life, Blackwood had entered the home-sharing business. But it had only made a little noise in the high-end market, and it wasn’t a match for Airbnb.
This time, though, it would be different.
Back then it had partnered with ZWS. This time, it had Snow Crash on its side.
“Blackwood International is the perfect reference point for showing what Snow Crash can really do. If Blackwood succeeds, other companies will rush to hand their digital transformations over to Snow Crash as well. Three years from now, Blackwood won’t just be a hotel company anymore. It’ll be a hotel and home-sharing company.”
“If it’s going to grow that much, why sell it?”
“Because even after the sale, half of it will still belong to Continue Capital. And I’ve got another company I need that money for.”
Sara thought about it for a moment, then nodded.
“All right. I’ll look into it.”
“Glad we’re on the same page from the start.”
She held out her beer glass.
“I’ll be counting on you from here on out.”
I tapped my glass lightly against hers.
“Same here.”
With that, Saudi capital was now at my back.
“Come to think of it, we still haven’t decided the most important thing.”
“What’s that?”
“The fund’s name. Got any good ideas?”
I thought for a moment before answering.
“How about Rush Fund?”
“As in moving fast?”
“Something like that.”
In games, dumping endless money into something was called a coin rush.
Saudi Arabia had oil money coming out of its ears.
We were only starting with “just” $50 billion, but if the returns started coming in the way I expected, we’d be able to pull in far more investment capital after that.
The terms were all settled, so the written contract would be handled between Continue Capital and the PIF. Once the payment for the Nextrogen stake came in, I planned to transfer it straight to Alex Preston.
It did feel a little like I was shuffling money around from one pocket to another, but... well, it didn’t matter.
Even after we finished talking, we kept drinking.
“So where are you headed now?”
“Back to LA. I’m still on vacation.”
“Ah! So that’s why you came home—you’re on vacation. That works out. I have to go to LA too. Let’s go together.”
“For what?”
“I’ve got a company there I invested in.”
Sara nodded.
“It’s late today, so let’s leave tomorrow.”
“After your vacation ends, where will you be working?”
She was leaving A-Oil and moving over to the PIF. So would she be going back to Saudi Arabia? Or to the United States?
“I’ll be working back and forth between Korea and New York, since I’ll need to coordinate operations with you, Miru.”
“I see. That’s good.”
It really was easier when you knew someone already.
Once word got out that Continue Capital was making a joint investment with the PIF, our standing would rise even higher. I’d need to package that properly and get the word out.
Fortunately, I knew the perfect news outlet.
While we were deep in our drinking, my phone rang. When I answered, I heard Trish’s voice.
“Where are you? Are you at the hotel?”
“I’m having a drink at a pub nearby.”
“Alone?”
“I’m with someone I know. If you’re free, want to come over?”
“Is it okay for me to show up?”
“I’ve got a scoop for you.”
“Where are you? I’m coming right now.”
A little while later, Trish arrived.
Judging by how hard she was breathing, she really had run all the way here.
She looked back and forth between Sara and me with wide eyes, then leaned in and asked me in a small voice,
“Wait. Your girlfriend?”
To keep her from getting the wrong idea, I explained.
“This is Sara Avery. She used to work at A-Oil and now works for Saudi Arabia’s sovereign wealth fund. And this is Trish O'Connor, a reporter for WST.”
Sara was the first to hold out her hand.
“I’ve heard a lot about you. I’ve read your articles too.”
“Yes. Hello. Nice to meet you.”
Once the greetings were over, Trish asked,
“So what’s the scoop?”
I handed her a beer glass and said,
“Sit down first and have a drink. Catch your breath.”
The next day.
After telling Syd I was leaving, I boarded the plane with Sara.
From here to LA, it was a quick trip.
When we arrived at Los Angeles International Airport, we parted ways at the terminal.
“See you in Korea later.”
“Take care.”
I put Sara in a taxi first, then took one myself to Santa Monica.
On the western coast of LA, the seaside city of about 100,000 people was packed with famous game companies.
And here, too, was Purple Games Studio, the company Continue Capital had invested in.
Until recently, they’d been working out of a living room in someone’s house, but after taking on our investment, they’d set up a proper studio with some actual scale.
They’d also hired about fifteen employees.
When I walked into the company, Charles Griffin and Ken Utley welcomed me warmly.
“Welcome.”
“Long time no see.”
It had been the first time since the day I’d met them for the initial investment.
For some reason, both of them looked more worn out than they had back then. Game development did that to people.
The first thing they did was introduce me to a man.
He looked to be in his early thirties, around 180 centimeters tall, with a build that looked like he weighed at least 150 kilograms. He had an untrimmed beard across his whole face and wore round glasses with tiny lenses.
“This is Rufus Bailey.”
I already knew who he was before they even introduced him.
I held out my hand.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Han Miru from Continue Capital.”
Rufus wiped his hand, which had crumbs on it, against his pants once before taking mine.
“Oh, h-hello.”
He stuttered and couldn’t hold eye contact, looking away whenever our eyes nearly met. He didn’t seem to be good with people.
In fact, after Block Valley took off, Charles and Ken were the ones who appeared in public and handled communication with the outside world, while he barely showed his face at all.
But his skills were top-tier, and it wasn’t an exaggeration to say that he’d effectively built the backbone of Block Valley.
“I-I actually wanted to ask you something...”
“Me?”
“Ah, no. To CEO Lucas.”
“Sure. Then I’ll give you my phone number—no, email would probably be easier. I’ll give you the address. I’ll let Syd know, so just send him an email.”
“Th-thank you.”
The look on his face made it obvious that he was genuinely happy.
Among developers, Syd’s popularity was something else entirely...
Rufus went back to his seat and kept working, while the three of us sat down in the meeting room.
I got a report on the state of the game’s development.
“We were planning to release on PC first, see how people react, and then develop mobile and console versions.”
I shook my head.
“Why do that? How about turning it into a cloud game instead?”
“Excuse me?”
“Run the game on cloud-computing servers and stream it. That way, you wouldn’t need separate development for each platform. PC, mobile, console—hell, if they’ve just got a monitor and a TV, people could still log in and play freely.”
In other words, they’d be able to connect to the game anytime, anywhere.
Charles looked troubled.
“Technically, that’s not easy...”
“Don’t worry about that. Snow Crash will handle the technical side.”
At that, both of their expressions brightened.
Charles said,
“When we first received your investment, we had no idea Continue Capital was such a huge company. We were shocked when we later heard about the Snow Crash acquisition.”
Ken chimed in from the side.
“Everyone was cheering when the Blackwood incident broke. When the news came out that the ransomware had been solved, we all raised our hands and shouted.”
Continue Capital’s status was completely different now from what it had been then.
The same went for Purple Games.
“You’ve been swamped with investment offers from everywhere, haven’t you?”
Ever since the Block Valley concept was revealed, huge game companies, IT firms, and private equity funds had all shown major interest and declared their intent to invest.
“But now that we don’t have to worry about capital anymore, we turned them all down.”
Then Ken seemed to remember something.
“Oh! Come to think of it, Steve contacted us a few days ago too.”
Steve Bostick had been one of Purple Games’ co-founders.
“For what?”
“He asked if he could come back. Said he wanted to return to the company.”
Purple Games had been founded by four employees from a game outsourcing company called Stargate Studio who decided to make a game of their own.
Charles Griffin, Ken Utley, Rufus Bailey, and Steve Bostick had each invested $50,000 and split the shares evenly at 25 percent apiece.
But their first game, Hammer Warrior, hadn’t been a major success, and when development on the next game stalled, Steve left the company, walking away from his stake.
Then the company everyone had thought was doomed to fail came roaring back to life with Continue Capital’s investment.
And Block Valley, which had once looked like a sandcastle, became a game the whole world was paying attention to.
Once a game succeeds, making tens of millions—or even hundreds of millions—of dollars is nothing unusual.
Of course his mind had changed.
“So what did you say?”
Charles answered,
“Naturally, we told him no.”
Ken shook his head.
“Steve had always been trouble. He never did the work he was supposed to, and more than once we ended up suffering for it ourselves. Honestly, it’s easier just having the three of us work together.”
It wasn’t as if we could take back a friend who had run away the moment things got hard.
“Did he take that well?”
“No. Then he said we should at least give him back the $50,000 he originally invested.”
“And?”
“That doesn’t make any sense either. The original investment was used to develop Hammer Warrior, and after the game launched, each of us earned more than $100,000 in profit. We’re still paying out 25 percent each from Hammer Warrior revenue to this day.”
Ken added to Charles’s explanation.
“He probably just got jealous because we’re doing well now.”
The two of them didn’t seem to think much of Steve’s call. But this wasn’t something that could be brushed off so casually.
In my first life, this issue had exploded into a massive lawsuit.