Chapter 292: Jackals! Vivendi and Cornick Are Ready to Strike!

Big trouble was brewing.

The Golden Bull Challenge’s success sent shockwaves through the gaming world.

Tencel Bull’s 507% profit spike in the Americas and 382% in Europe (Chapter 294) was nuts. WindyPeak’s seven-day profits tripled, raking in tens of millions, leaving the industry stunned.

Gus Harper had no clue about Tencel Bull’s inner workings, but WindyPeak’s inbox was flooded—partnership offers, investment pitches, IPO pushes, even companies begging to be acquired.

Investment and IPO requests led the pack.

Gus saw through it. WindyPeak’s three-year profit streak made it a cash cow, and vultures wanted a bite.

In the U.S., like many countries, firms needed three years of profitability to go public. WindyPeak was ripe for it. Investment banks and trusts swarmed, urging them to hit the stock market, shake up gaming, and “usher in a new era.”

Gus just laughed.

Why go public? Two reasons:

1. Fund long-term projects to stay competitive.

2. Boost core team wealth and give investors exit ramps.

Companies needed cash to grow; investors wanted profits from that growth. A balloon inflated by money, scented with cash.

Most firms needed that step to scale.

Not WindyPeak.

Zoey Parker, despite growing as CEO, stuck to two rules: slack off when possible, and never go public.

Gus didn’t know why Zoey hated IPOs, but he wasn’t keen either. Other companies went public to expand. WindyPeak didn’t need to.

Their studios—Golden Experience and Steel Chain Fingers—churned out games efficiently. Profits kept cash flowing smoothly.

Too much money could mess things up.

If WindyPeak went public, their rep could land them on Nasdaq, maybe even the NYSE. But what do you do with nine- or ten-figure funds?

Investors wouldn’t let that cash sit in a bank. You’d have to spend it—generate value.

That would wreck Gus’s game release plans. Studios would scramble, forced into mega-projects worth hundreds of millions, maybe billions.

Big steps sound cool, but overreach can crash you.

That was one reason to stay private.

The bigger fear?

Mergers and acquisitions.

In Vivendi Group’s U.S. office, Barb Cornick, Yunwei Group’s CEO, lounged on a reception sofa, grinning at the woman across from him, his tone almost fawning.

Cornick, early fifties, stocky with slicked-back brown hair, a big nose, small eyes, and a permanent “J” wrinkle on his forehead, screamed Long Island exec.

The woman, Sarah Gascogne, Vivendi’s Vice Chairman, was in her fifties, impeccably polished. Blonde, in a bright pink suit and tailored skirt, she carried a refined air, her every move dripping with old-money Gallic charm.

Cornick’s deference showed her power.

“If WindyPeak goes public,” he said, “we hit their new projects, tank their stock, and buy them out.”

Sarah nodded, expressionless, signaling him to go on.

“Five years ago, we nabbed Ubisoft for $800M,” Cornick continued. “Now, Rayman Crazy, Speed Racer, Skyhawk, Origin Island—tenfold profits.”

“But Ubisoft’s fading. They’re behind on motion-cabin tech, and their IPs are tapped out. I’m selling the team this year for another big payout.”

That was Yunwei-Vivendi’s game. Unlike Nebula Games, the “copy-paste” giant, or Komina, the “sequel spammer,” Yunwei-Vivendi mixed both, dominating the West as a global titan.

Take Ubisoft. Five years ago, they bet big on Origin Island’s motion-cabin remake, a PC-era hit. They sank cash into Origin 2, issuing shares to fund it.

Cornick pounced.

He trashed Origin 2 to spook investors, then pumped money into a fake “Void Game” mimicking Origin 2’s pitch. No real game—just slick CG and “demos.”

Ubisoft’s tech couldn’t match Cornick’s flash. Their stock tanked. Yunwei-Vivendi swooped in, becoming majority shareholders.

Then, the kicker: Cornick folded the “Void Game” into Origin 2’s release. It sold big, despite being weaker than promised, cashing out for Vivendi.

Cornick called it a “merger.”

Anyone with eyes called it a hostile takeover.

If it stopped there, Ubisoft might’ve thrived under Vivendi’s cash. But Cornick wasn’t done.

Year one post-takeover, he strip-mined Ubisoft. Every hit IP got sequels, mobile games, anything to milk cash fast. Quality tanked.

In four years, Ubisoft, a 20-year gaming titan, was a husk—reputation trashed, games unsellable.

But Cornick wasn’t finished.

As he told Sarah, Ubisoft’s wreckage still had value. Its developers were top-tier. Restructure, sell them off, squeeze the last drops.

“And if we snag WindyPeak?” Cornick’s eyes glinted, a shark smelling blood.

Left 4 Dead sequel.
Titanfall sequel.
A Way Out sequel.
Sekiro sequel.

Three or four sequels each in two years? Gold bars raining into Vivendi’s accounts.

“Small company? Two studios can’t handle it?” Cornick smirked. “Break ‘em up. Sekiro team does Sekiro, Titan team does Titan. Whatever gets the game out.”

WindyPeak’s IPs and spotless rep were the prize. Slap “WindyPeak” on a title, back it with Vivendi’s marketing, and players would eat it up.

Smaller games? Mobile-ify them. Overcooked with pay-to-win skins for faster cooking. Stamina bars. Cross-game lotteries—BT mecha skins, Sekiro gourds, Plants vs. Zombies sunflower pets.

Too much? Nah—players would pay.

After milking the IPs, Golden Experience and Steel Chain Fingers would be husks. Even Gus Harper and Tetsuya Moritani couldn’t save them.

But those devs? Sellable. They’d crafted hits that outshone Komina.

Cornick trembled, greed pulsing.

How much could WindyPeak bring? $1B? $3B? $5B?

Maybe more.

Ubisoft took too long to gut. WindyPeak? Two years, max, to drain and flip. Tens of billions, guaranteed.

Cornick was antsy. WindyPeak’s growing game slate was heating up the market, especially in the U.S.

Trailing them, studios like Phantom Tech, Apex Interactive, and Bluebird Games were rising—ripe peanuts, ready to be crushed.