Starting as a Manga Editor

Chapter 81: You Can Explain Poaching Like That?

Tang Yao hadn’t expected things to go this smoothly.

In her previous life, the early days of anime-style mobile games were essentially a slow burn: hype gradually rising, the anime fanbase steadily growing, early adopters making a killing, capital rushing in… and then the bubble burst and everyone scattered.

What many people didn’t know was that during the early days of this genre—back when Million Arthur was the reigning king—mobile games in China didn’t even require licensing approval to go online.

It was the wild frontier of mobile gaming. That same lawless window allowed the import success of that game to spark a gold rush. A wave of anime-style mobile games followed, with blockbuster hits like Onmyoji, Fate/Grand Order, Honkai Impact 3rd, Girls' Frontline, and Azur Lane all debuting around 2016–2017.

Back then, just calling your game anime-style was enough to attract investors by the truckload.

But good times didn’t last.

In 2018, the so-called “Winter” hit—the now-infamous license freeze brought everything to a halt. Investors and developers were cut off from their slice of the anime-game pie, and countless producers’ dreams were shattered.

Only when the freeze began to thaw did the market start recovering. During that time, anime-style games began shifting toward more distinct art styles and deeply immersive story worlds. Games like Arknights and Punishing: Gray Raven became key examples of this evolution.

And then came the game that launched a thousand memes—Genshin Impact.

Its unprecedented success sent the industry into overdrive. Studios everywhere scrambled to replicate it. Some giants, like Tencent, even greenlit dozens of anime-style projects in one go. But a second Genshin never came.

Instead, the market quickly hit saturation. With one game after another flooding in, developers started fighting over a finite user base. The era of unlimited growth was over.

Through all this, phone hardware kept improving, the anime market kept heating up, and the general audience of casual anime fans kept expanding—eventually shaping the thriving mobile game industry she once knew.

But in this world?

They were still in the prehistoric era of mobile gaming.

Tang Yao had thought she’d need to take her time and grow a user base.

She hadn’t expected the anime-leaning user crowd to be already this large.

And even more shockingly, not a single real anime-style mobile game had appeared yet.

Maybe it was because Sakura Prefecture had its own semi-autonomous rules? Tang Yao didn’t know.

All she knew was—she’d arrived at just the right time.Any later, and she might’ve been caught in the wave.

After the initial thrill wore off, Tang Yao calmed down and looked thoughtfully at her monitor.

The website was doing great, but the readers still weren’t associating it with the game.She couldn’t afford to get complacent.

As long as Fate/Zero kept its momentum, the promise of a direct sequel—even readers who weren’t into games would at least be curious. So while she continued development on Fate/stay night as the narrative prologue, she also had to nail the core gameplay, the monetization model, and strike a balance.

Even if it couldn’t be perfect, it had to feel fair and sustainable.

After all, this was the first true anime-style mobile game.

And speed mattered.

Game studios had keen senses.Now that PC gaming was an all-out battlefield, a lot of companies were shifting focus to mobile.

Sure, big companies often didn’t take blue-ocean markets seriously without proof of success. Even Onmyoji started with only nine devs.

But what if some studio had already started laying groundwork?

What if they saw Fate/Zero gaining traction and decided to launch an anime-style game too?

Yeah… not good.

Tang Yao turned to look at Chu Yuxin.Mingyu Tech probably still had some staff out of work. Maybe she could recruit a few more? These people already had hands-on experience.

Developers and artists—both departments were still short-handed.

Even the leftover folks in the operations team…

Thinking that, Tang Yao stood up.

“You need more people?”Chu Yuxin frowned, her thick eyebrows twitching. “What kind of roles? I didn’t work much with other departments back at Mingyu Tech…”

“Programmers and artists. You should’ve worked with them the most, right?”Tang Yao thought for a second. “Anyone left a strong impression on you?”

Honestly, the best person to ask would’ve been Mingyu Tech’s boss, Si Jinliang. He’d know exactly which employees were strongest.

But…

Straight-up poaching like that? From the boss himself?Even Tang Yao found that a bit much.

Most importantly, how would she even say it?

"Hey, my studio’s short on people. Your company’s crashing anyway. Why not send over the folks you still owe back pay to?"

Yeah, no.

That just sounded cruel.

“There are a few… pretty solid ones,”Chu Yuxin said after thinking carefully. “I’ll reach out and ask, but no guarantees. Also, for every person who joins—if things fall through, we’re taking that many computers.”

“Alright, alright.”Tang Yao laughed. “If it fails, you can haul out as many machines as you want.”

“I’m not saying you’ll fail,”Chu Yuxin added quickly, a little embarrassed.“But they all worked under Si Jinliang. You guys were cheering earlier, right? The site launch? Mingyu Tech had moments like that too. We got excited… and then realized it was just a dream.”

“You mean a pipe dream,”Tang Yao corrected her gently. “So that’s why you guys just watched us celebrate so calmly?”

“Yeah. We were worried it would happen again…”

Chu Yuxin pressed her lips together.“If it were a new place, it’d be different. But we’re still in the same Mingyu Tech office—it feels like déjà vu. That’s why I asked you for a guarantee. I think the others feel the same when they see your team all excited. If I’m going to ask them to join, I need to be sure they have a way out.”

“Understood. I promise.”

Tang Yao nodded. She completely got it.

“But.”

She shifted her tone.“We’re not Mingyu Tech. I’m not Si Jinliang. And you—you’re not with them anymore. You’re with Avalon now. You’re part of the Ideal Land.”

“Why’s it called that?”Chu Yuxin blinked, repeating the name aloud.

She honestly didn’t know.Back when Tang Yao pitched the name to Kang Ming and the others, she hadn’t joined yet.

“In Arthurian legend, Avalon is an island surrounded by mists and swamps—you can only reach it by boat,”Tang Yao said seriously.“It’s guarded by fae, untouched by time, and nothing ever ages.”

“You saw our logo, right? The little boat? We’re physically located inside Mingyu Tech right now, yeah? So what’s Mingyu Tech? The swamp and mist.”

“The failures and suffering you all went through there—it was just part of the journey to bring you here. To Avalon. The Ideal Land.”

“…Huh?”

Chu Yuxin was dumbfounded.

Wait… you can explain poaching people like that?

“I’m kidding,”Tang Yao couldn’t help but laugh.“What I really mean is—yeah, we’re in the same building. Same floor, even. But this isn’t your old company. This is Avalon.”

“I’m confident. Help me reach out to those former Mingyu Tech employees…They’ll see the difference. Trust me!”

“……”

Chu Yuxin looked at the radiant smile on Tang Yao’s face and felt the confidence flowing off her like sunlight.

She found herself nodding instinctively.“…Alright.”

…What is different, exactly?

They were still making games.

She still couldn’t figure it out. But this new boss…

Shone so brightly.