Back at Sega Headquarters, a flood of urgent tasks awaited.
Financing negotiations for the North American division, ramping up production for the new console, and scheduling the marketing campaigns for several major titles kept him on his feet.
The Metropolitan Police Department matter was quickly forgotten.
Until the afternoon of the third day.
Just as Takuya Nakayama finished signing a document, an urgent email notification popped up in the bottom right corner of his computer.
The sender was the liaison for the Ace Attorney project team, who was responsible for coordinating with the police. The subject line was followed by three exclamation marks.
[ Urgent Report on Nagano Prefecture Clues (Top Secret) ]
Nakayama raised an eyebrow and opened the email.
The message was written in a stilted, awkward tone, with every word betraying a struggle between the desire to speak and the fear of breaking a confidentiality agreement. It was as if the sender wanted to say something, but couldn't, yet felt compelled to let his boss know because the matter was too significant.
[ Boss, something big has happened. ]
[ The Task Force has imposed a gag order on the details—violating it means prison. But I have to inform you that the Metropolitan Police Department is making a major move. Just now, I saw several Self-Defense Forces-plated chemical warfare vehicles entering the Task Force headquarters. Chief Inspector Iwata held three consecutive hours of meetings, and when he came out, his face was ashen. ]
"Iwata asked me to relay that the official thank you letter and commendation might be delayed for quite some time, but he personally owes Sega a tremendous debt of gratitude."
"He said that without the high school student's lead, the consequences would have been catastrophic. His exact words were—'Sega might have indirectly saved half of Matsumoto City.'"
Takuya Nakayama's hand, gripping the mouse, froze.
Saved half of Matsumoto City?
This is no small case. But he had no memories of Matsumoto City from his past life.
After a moment of fruitless speculation, Takuya gave up. It's good news, and it's still classified. Best to act ignorant and avoid any trouble. The truth will come out when it's time.
Takuya refocused his attention on the Series B funding negotiations with Silicon Valley Online.
Frank was still handling the day-to-day negotiations, while Tom Kalinske had the final say.
After nearly a month of steadily rising blog operating data, Sequoia and KPCB were digging in, refusing to budge unless they got more funding and a larger equity stake.
In the Redwood City conference room, the air was as dry as tinder, ready to ignite at the slightest spark.
Donald Valentine stared at the equity structure table in his hand, the line "Sequoia Capital: 5%" now glaring at him.
During the Series A financing, he had considered the five million dollars for this 5% stake a shrewd deal, even a favor to the fledgling company.
But now, looking at the stubbornly upward-sloping user growth chart on the wall, that 5% felt like a fishbone stuck in his throat.
WeBlog's viral growth had been too rapid, so rapid it made the veteran venture capitalist uneasy.
If they went public with such a small stake, Sequoia's reputation in Silicon Valley would be ridiculed for a decade—like sitting on a gold mine and only scraping off a speck of gold dust with a fingernail.
The KPCB representative was visibly restless, repeatedly glancing at Donald. Clearly following Sequoia's lead, they were also as anxious as ants on a hot pan.
"Frank, Tom," Donald said, closing the folder. The sound echoed dully in the quiet room. "I don't like beating around the bush. 5% is too little. Before the IPO, Sequoia needs more leverage. This isn't just about returns; it's about our influence on the board."
Tom Kalinski, who had been fiddling with a fountain pen, merely raised an eyebrow and remained silent.
Frank leisurely refilled everyone's coffee, his movements as elegant as if he were hosting a tea party rather than negotiating a deal worth tens of millions of dollars.
"Donald, you've seen the current market." Frank gestured out the window, where a crowd of persistent media and opportunistic investors still lingered downstairs. "Silicon Valley Online is no longer the infant it once was. The line to get in now stretches all the way to San Francisco."
"Make an offer," Donald interrupted. "Don't waste my time with those vague options pools. I want a real share increase."
Frank paused, leaning forward slightly. He held up three fingers.
"Three hundred million dollars valuation."
A moment of silence hung in the air.
The Series A funding had been at one hundred million. Now they were asking for three hundred million.
The KPCB representative gasped, about to protest, but Donald raised a hand to stop him.
The shrewd Donald knew exactly what was going on.
With WeBlog's current user stickiness and the upcoming GG revenue sharing system, three hundred million dollars? By year-end, that figure would likely skyrocket. If they hesitated now, the value appreciation during the deliberation period alone would more than cover the cost.
This was a high-stakes gamble, a wager on the future of the Internet.
"Three hundred million valuation, and Sequoia takes another 10%." Donald's voice was tight. That meant thirty million dollars in cash, a sum even Sequoia would have to dig deep for. "But I have one condition: we must immediately start the IPO process."
"KPCB will co-invest." The representative beside him, afraid of falling behind, quickly raised his hand. "We'll also add 10%, under the same condition."
Sixty million dollars in cash injection.
Tom finally smiled, tossing his pen onto the table with a crisp clatter.
"Deal."
Frank stood up, smoothed the hem of his suit, and offered a professional, practiced smile. "A wise choice, gentlemen. Now that we're all in the same boat, there's no need for further hesitation. I've already arranged a meeting with the Goldman Sachs team; they're in the hotel next door."
Donald froze for a moment, then shook his head with a wry smile.
These guys had already dug the pit, just waiting for me to fall in.
"Oh, and," Tom added, his tone as casual as if discussing lunch plans, "tell those Goldman Sachs vampires to keep the underwriting fee low. I'll show them what value for money looks like."
Atlanta, CNN Center.
Betty, who was in charge of Cartoon Network's content scheduling, felt like she was not only suffering from frequent migraines lately but also losing her hearing.
The office phones rang incessantly, like a tireless swarm of electronic cicadas, their clamor even drowning out the low hum of the giant Earth globe rotating outside.
"Unplug the lines, or have the operator transfer all complaints to voicemail," the content director said, his brow furrowed so deeply he could have pinched a fly to death. He was clutching a ratings report. "Tell those parents we're a TV station, not a daycare."
Betty sighed and handed him a glass of warm water. "I'm afraid that won't work. This time, the phones aren't ringing with angry PTA moms protesting violence. It's parents driven to the brink of madness by their kids throwing tantrums at home because they weren't entertained enough."
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