"First of all, no matter what I choose, there can't be any overlap. If someone accuses me of plagiarism, it'll be a nightmare."
Jinguu Yō frowned, chewing gum as his fingers tapped rhythmically on the desk.
"Still... I didn't notice anything overlapping just now."
Yō didn't have the best memory, but his short-term recall was decent. He'd already combed through the archive in his brain earlier, and while he still had the general outlines, nothing matched what he'd just spent the afternoon watching.
To be sure, he opened Google once more. Turns out classics like Dragon Ball and Saint Seiya did exist in this world.
With that confirmation, he delved back into the "hard drive" of his mind. He knew rushing wouldn't help—it's like trying to eat boiling tofu. No need to get ahead of himself. He combed through the data patiently, scanning every mental folder.
Eventually, the answer solidified: Dragon Ball and Saint Seiya existed here, but in his head, there wasn't a shred of their content left.
"Don't tell me this thing in my head is actually a neural terminal… and it's syncing with the internet of this world?"
Yō muttered to himself, incredulous.
"But either way, it doesn't matter. As long as anything that exists in the real world isn't in my head, then technically, I can copy anything I want and it won't be copyright infringement… Still, better to be safe. Every single time I make a decision, I have to double-check. Never risk repeating existing work."
In Japan, infringement was no joke. Yō had no interest in getting crucified with labels like "plagiarist" or "fraud."
"Alright... first step: where do I start?"
He unfolded a blank sheet of paper. Like he used to before starting a new manuscript, he began sketching out a concept map.
"First off, the cult classics are mandatory... Touhou, Type-Moon, Love Live, Kantai Collection—just one of these could make me famous. If I bring all of them to this world, the potential is... kind of intoxicating."
He licked his lips, unconsciously rubbing his palms together.
Yō might have claimed he didn't care about money, but that only applied if he'd already inherited the family fortune. As things stood, he had to fight for every inch. The cash in his pocket might seem substantial now, but once he embarked on this journey, all of it would become startup capital.
He'd given up on Hollywood, sure—but even in the world of anime and games, he could still rake in enough wealth to last multiple lifetimes.
Just look at Nasu Kinoko, constantly recycling old material, endlessly raking in cash—and no matter how shameless he got, fans still lined up to pay. Some even cursed him to go bankrupt, just so he'd be forced to release something new.
It was the same with Togashi the Lazy Bastard—people joked he only picked up the pen when he ran out of money playing mahjong. If he hadn't gone broke, Hunter x Hunter would never continue.
Just one franchise like Type-Moon could set Yō up for life. Add Touhou, Love Live, and KanColle into the mix, and the merchandise and brand expansion potential was astronomical.
But even cult classics needed the right strategy to blow up. Those fairytale plots where someone randomly posts a doujin and wakes up famous the next day? That's fiction. In reality, it doesn't work like that.
"Type-Moon and Touhou need to be at the core of my initial plan. Love Live and KanColle—those can wait a couple of years."
Yō narrowed his eyes and bit down slightly as he mulled over the strategy.
He'd need to walk the same path as Kinoko—hoping Tsukihime, as a doujin game, would go viral at Comiket and launch him from the indie scene straight into the commercial mainstream.
Which meant Tsukihime was his top priority.
Glancing at the date on his monitor—it was already June. Summer Comiket was a lost cause. He'd missed the window. That left only one option: finish Tsukihime within the next six months and launch it at Winter Comiket.
To most people, building a high-quality game in just half a year would be insane—but not for Yō. He already had all the materials in his head. What he needed to do was assemble them.
Still, unlike the original Kinoko, Yō wasn't content with a rough draft. Even if it was technically a doujin game, he wanted Tsukihime to be well-crafted—not flawless, but on par with the most respected visual novels of the current generation.
The original Tsukihime's CG and UI were painfully crude. Even as a kinetic novel, it left much to be desired.
So, Yō planned to remake it from the ground up. That meant time. A lot of it.
"Alright, the first step to making a name in the doujin world: Tsukihime goes into immediate production... and so does Touhou."
As a danmaku (bullet hell) series with simplistic, almost comical art, Touhou didn't exactly attract players with its aesthetics. What made it iconic were the hidden lore fragments scattered throughout its story—and above all, the massive second-hand creative boom it spawned.
Getting Touhou to explode in popularity wasn't easy. It needed time. Multiple releases. Then, as the community picked up steam, the sea of derivative works—both safe-for-work and NSFW—would begin filling the battlegrounds of Comiket.
With fan artists pouring their creativity into the gaps, the world of Touhou would deepen, characters would evolve, and one by one, its girls would begin to shine.
Only then would it become the immortal evergreen franchise it was destined to be.
Yō estimated that even if he managed to drop one new Touhou game every six months, putting out the early, high-impact titles as soon as possible, it'd still take two years to truly reach critical mass.
"Fame comes to those who strike fast. If you just scribble lazily and think you'll blow up, ignoring social trends, even plagiarizing won't save you. You'll still fail."
Yō chuckled to himself, basking in his own self-praise.
This wasn't an anime. It wasn't a novel. This was reality—and in the real world, there were a lot more factors to account for.