Legend Games (6)
After that, we talked for quite a while longer.
CEO Scott kept venting his anger over the 30 percent commission, all while laying out Legend Games' clear vision.
“Do you have any idea how ridiculous thirty percent is? Thirty percent? What exactly are they doing to deserve thirty percent? Is that how big corporations are supposed to behave? How is that any different from thugs blocking a bridge and demanding tolls from everyone who crosses? On what possible grounds are they demanding a toll?”
“Because the thugs built the bridge?”
“Then why stop me if I want to swim across instead of using their bridge?”
“Well…”
They probably thought they owned the whole thing.
“Enple has always dressed itself up as an innovator fighting monopolies, but now it's the monopoly. Guble started out with that ‘don’t be evil’ slogan too, and now it’s more evil than any company out there.”
Honestly, you needed that much anger if you wanted to go toe-to-toe with Enple.
I joined him in cursing them out and sharpened my fighting spirit.
“I couldn’t agree more.”
CEO Scott lit up.
“You understand how I feel?”
“Of course.”
“You’re the first person I’ve ever talked to who actually gets it.”
“……”
Any normal investor would have tried to talk him out of it, asking why he was stepping in when everyone else was staying quiet.
But I was different.
“Let’s join forces and fight the thugs.”
The contract went through in a flash.
I left Legend Games with the signed papers in hand.
After Purple Games Studio, now Legend Games too!
With that, everything was in place—from development to distribution to sales. I’d built the perfect foundation for the game industry, or so it felt.
That’s where Snow Crash came in again, and why it mattered so much.
In effect, every investment Continue Capital made revolved around Snow Crash. Cloud infrastructure was the backbone of every industry, after all.
And at the center of Snow Crash was Sid Lucas.
From the start, if Sid wasn’t there, nothing moved.
I called him.
“Yes, Hyung.”
“I need to talk to you about something…”
“I know what it is. You’re calling about that, right?”
“Huh?”
“Tomorrow is the day.”
“The, uh, day?”
I froze.
What day was tomorrow?
It wasn’t my birthday. Was it Sid’s birthday? Or Snow Crash’s founding anniversary? I didn’t know what it was, but did I need to send over a cake and flowers right this second?
My brain went into overdrive, and Sid said in an excited voice, “It’s the day Zombienado 2 comes out! You weren’t calling about that?”
“R-right. Of course. You knew already.”
“Obviously. How could I not?”
Come to think of it, I did remember hearing that it was supposed to be released.
Maybe someone would think they’d made that movie in a hurry, roasting peanuts over a lightning strike, but for Prisoner, this was already the result of a lot of care and effort.
That was why Zombienado fans were even more excited.
“I’ve been so thrilled these past few days I haven’t been sleeping well.”
“Yeah, same.”
Why was something like this keeping me up at night?
“So where are you right now, Hyung?”
“South Carolina.”
“What are you doing there?”
“Ah! I just acquired Legend Games.”
“I see. More importantly, aren’t you insanely excited for Zombienado 2?”
“Uh-huh.”
Why was his reaction like that?
Compared to the release of Zombienado 2, was acquiring Legend Games really nothing at all?
“Thanks. It’s all because of you, Hyung.”
“Huh? Because of me?”
“If you hadn’t invested, Zombienado 2 wouldn’t have been made, right?”
“……”
No, that wasn’t true. Even if I hadn’t invested, Zombienado 2 would have come out just fine.
But I said it proudly anyway.
“That’s right.”
“I’m glad you’re such a Zombienado fan, Hyung.”
“Of course. No one loves it more than I do.”
“Still, I’m a little disappointed.”
“About what?”
“That it’s not getting a theatrical release. I wanted to see it on the big screen.”
Just like the first film, it was a low-budget B-movie, so it would go straight to DVD and streaming.
Sure, I could rent out a theater, but that still wouldn’t feel the same as going to see a movie that was actually screening.
Movies were better when everyone watched them together.
“Then I’ll see what I can do to get it into theaters.”
Sid perked up.
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
Even if I didn’t push for it myself, the zombie maniacs would turn it into a cult hit and the theatrical release would probably happen on its own anyway.
“More importantly, there’s something I need from you…”
“What is it?”
“Legend Store is a complete mess. You’ll need to tidy it up for me.”
There was already a mountain of work piled up in front of Sid as it was.
If I dumped more on him now, it wouldn’t be strange at all if he cursed me out and ran for it. Then I’d have to go after him like a man chasing a runaway servant.
But Sid said, as if he didn’t care at all, “Got it. But are they really going to release it in theaters?”
“Yeah. Until then, don’t worry about anything and keep working hard.”
“Yes!”
I hung up and thought, What would I have done if I hadn’t invested in Prisoner?
(Excerpt)
PIF announced that it had agreed to join forces with Continue Capital to establish a $50 billion fund.
It was highly unusual for a sovereign wealth fund to set up a joint fund with a young investment firm that had existed for less than a year.
That alone was proof of how highly Continue Capital’s asset-management capabilities were regarded.
Whereas most sovereign wealth funds aim for stable returns rather than aggressive performance, the Rush Fund signaled a far more aggressive approach to tech stocks and startups.
The first moves were the purchase of shares in Nextrogen, a hydrogen car startup held by Continue Capital, and in Blackwood International.
Since the fund’s exact investment ratio had not been disclosed, it was also possible that Continue Capital had contributed its investment capital in the form of stock.
A key source close to the Rush Fund said the size of the fund could be expanded in the future depending on performance.
(End excerpt)
I flew back to New York.
For some reason, it felt like I hadn’t been here in ages.
Just as hunger was starting to catch up with me, and since I wanted to say hello anyway, I headed straight to O'Connor Pub.
After O'Connor Burger’s popularity in Silicon Valley became known, the craze had spread to New York too.
I’d worried there might be a line, but fortunately there wasn’t.
Unfortunately, the shop was closed. A sign on the door said it was closed for the time being.
I called Trish.
“O'Connor Pub is closed. Did something happen?”
“Are you in New York right now?”
“Yes.”
“I’m nearby, so I’ll come over there. Wait for me at the café next door for a bit.”
“Okay.”
I sat at the café, sipping coffee at a leisurely pace, when Trish came rushing in.
She didn’t need to sprint all the way here.
I slid the iced Americano I’d ordered ahead of time toward her.
“Drink this first.”
After a few sips and a chance to catch her breath, she asked, “When did you get back?”
“Just now.”
“I thought you’d be back before me.”
“I had a few places to stop on the way.”
She had finished her coverage of Snow Crash and Sid, and had already returned to New York ahead of me.
“So why is O'Connor Pub closed?”
“Didn’t you check Facenote? Dad’s in California right now.”
“For what?”
“He’s traveling around in a food truck with my brother.”
“What?”
“He said if they were going to franchise, they needed to do it right, so he’d go with him and teach him all the things that were still lacking.”
I remembered Sean making O'Connor Burger.
“Was there really anything left to teach?”
Trish smiled.
“Even I think that sounds like an excuse. He probably just wanted to travel around with Sean in a food truck. I think he figured this was his last chance.”
Well, things were going to get insanely busy from here on out.
Come to think of it, that hadn’t happened in the first timeline either. Had my investment changed things after all?
Still, if it made father and son closer, then that was a good thing.
“Thanks to that, the Snow Crash investigation and the interview with CEO Lucas both went well. I’m putting everything together for a special feature, so I’ll send you the article once it runs.”
“I saw the piece that went up earlier.”
“The Rush Fund announcement has Wall Street buzzing. Everyone’s wondering how Continue Capital managed to land Saudi sovereign wealth money.”
Trish seemed to remember something and said, “Oh! By the way, what’s going on between you and Ms. Sara?”
“We met for work.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes. Why do you ask…?”
Was she asking because she needed it for the article?
At my answer, Trish laughed and brushed it off.
“Oh, nothing. You hungry? Let’s go get something to eat. I’ll treat.”
After eating with Trish and saying goodbye, I walked over to Continue Capital.
As soon as I stepped inside, someone called out to me warmly.
“Miru!”
He looked like someone who’d just been rescued after being kidnapped and forced into labor at a salt flat. Kim Beom-seok was beside him too.
“Oh! Senior, you were here.”
Then Dong-ho senior looked flustered and said, “W-what do you mean? You weren’t seriously about to forget us, were you?”
“……”
He’d been so easy to overlook that I really had forgotten.
I shook my head quickly.
“Of course not. I was always thinking about you.”
“R-right? You weren’t planning to leave us behind here or anything, were you?”
“……Of course not.”
I’d almost abandoned them and gone back to Korea on my own.
“Have you been learning a lot?”
“More than anything else, I learned English first. I’ve come to understand, with absolute certainty, that the English I used to write was garbage.”
Kim Beom-seok nodded beside him.
“So have I.”
“Good.”
Being good at English was a good thing.
That didn’t mean they hadn’t learned the work itself, though. Both of them had been thoroughly trained in investment as well as organizational management.
I had to make sure the Korean branch could run smoothly even without me.
Dong-ho senior looked like he might burst into tears any second.
“Where in the world have you been? I was terrified I’d be trapped here forever, forced to work with burger guys.”
“You’ve had it rough.”
He probably had suffered plenty, working with people he couldn’t even communicate with properly.
“Do you even know how many people here were ground down every time you blew something up outside?”
“I know.”
“You know nothing. I’m dying here.”
“That’s why I came back like this.”
As I soothed Dong-ho senior, who was close to tears, David came over.
“You’re back.”
“Have you been dieting? I think you’ve lost some weight.”
David gave a wry smile.
“I’d say it was because we’ve been busy. Every time Blackwood’s stock moved, it felt like swinging between heaven and hell.”
The other employees all looked utterly exhausted too.
Understandable. Unlike me, who already knew the future, they’d all been living with their nerves flayed raw.
On top of that, there were countless contracts to handle. We’d crammed what another investment firm would do in a year into less than a month.
We sat in the meeting room and talked over everything that had happened while I was gone.
“We’ve finished setting up the joint fund, and as discussed, we sold our stakes in Nextrogen and Blackwood International.”
Even if the sale took the form of a block deal instead of open-market selling, it was still a sale.
Up to now, every one of Continue Capital’s investments had succeeded, so any sale risked being treated as bad news.
But people understood that the fund capital had effectively been paid in stock, so it didn’t have much of an impact on the share price.
“How was the response?”
“The entire Wall Street was shocked. And the firms that had been fighting for the right to win PIF’s business were completely thrown off balance.”
Sovereign wealth funds and pension funds often managed anywhere from hundreds of billions to over a trillion dollars.
That money was invested broadly across real estate, stocks, bonds, commodities, and more, with only part of it managed in-house while the rest was entrusted to IBs and PEs.
After all, the world’s best financial experts were concentrated in those sectors.
Because the sums involved were so enormous, competition among investment firms to win that business was fierce.
But then the Saudi sovereign wealth fund had teamed up with Continue Capital for direct investment. That meant less business for everyone else.
“I’ve already paid Alex Preston the first $8 billion installment.”
“What did he say?”
“Not much.”
Seeing Snow Crash doing so well these days, I wondered if he was feeling a little bitter inside. After all, it was practically a shakedown to take something from him when he had said he didn’t want to sell it.
David said, sounding almost disbelieving, “It reminds me of when we first acquired Snow Crash. Back then I thought it was impossible, but I never imagined we’d get all the way to the final payment without a hitch.”
I gave a faint laugh.
“There’s still one more installment left.”
In six months, we’d have to pay another $8 billion.
To do that, we’d have to get back to work hard from this moment on.