You appear to be anonymous-villain, but tonight you insisted on a name for this interview. Who am I speaking to, and why that title?
I will indulge your formality. Call me the Last Architect. Names are scaffolding for fear; I chose this one because I engineered the endgame they never expected. Keep calling me by my function and you will remain delightfully unprepared when my true pattern unfolds.
Walk us through your scheme on G-9. Were the Mystical Gems and Golden Silver always part of a dramatic reveal, or did you improvise?
The tale—the planet, the four gems—was bait fashioned from legend and precise cruelty. Dr. Brown’s theft was a convenient historical footnote. Golden Silver is a vector, not just an engine. The story-sidecar gave me spectators; the gems gave me leverage. Every beat I wrote: Smash Daisaku’s abduction of Green, the twins’ frantic pursuit, Yellow’s guidance—each a string I tugged to watch panic become choreography. Improvisation has its place, though; a stray idea in development bloomed into a stage that humiliated more players than I could have planned.
Players often talk about the weapon system—four basics that combine into fourteen. Did you also anticipate how that would affect their tactics?
I did. Force, Lightning, Chaser, Flame—simple veneers hiding combinatorial kitchens. They thought combinations were clever tricks; I thought them a laboratory. Watching a player cling to a single reliable tool was always delicious. The system’s abundance meant they never truly mastered any single vector before I changed the rules. The balance was imperfect, which is precisely why it suited me: gaps created opportunities for traps, and predictable favorites let me compose counters that read like poetry of destruction.
Your final confrontations are notorious for their pace and brutality. How intentional were those “glitches” players swear by?
“Glitches” are theater when used judiciously. Some were accidents that became instruments—an animation hiccup that created an exploitable window; a collision quirk that sent players tumbling into spectacle. I kept a few of those oddities in place. To the unobservant they are flaws; to me they are pressure points. If a sudden behavior humiliates a confident player, I call it design. If a stumble becomes lore, I call it legacy.
Reception has been kind but critical—many praise the thrill yet note balance issues. How do you respond?
I read their feedback with the same dispassionate amusement I reserve for a failed assault. Their praise reddens the truth: they were challenged. Their complaints about balance are a confession—an admission that the game forced decisions and punished hubris. I do not fix every imperfection; some flaws are the finest part of a trial. They say it is uneven; I say unevenness is the blade that separates cocky from cunning.
You mocked players’ every move during battles. Is that cruelty or a tactical necessity?
Cruelty, yes—and indispensable. Mockery sharpens fear into attention. When a player hesitates I remind them of their error; when they repeat it, I savor the predictability. Taunt and trap are siblings. If a player learns from humiliation, the next encounter is finer sport. If they rage and rush, their arrogance fuels the spectacle. Either way, I am entertained and refined.
There are mechanical flourishes—grabbing, tossing, sliding—that make encounters more physical. Was this to ground players in danger or to show off design prowess?
Both. Those moves turned a shooter into a duel of bodies and timing. When they attempt a grab and fling an enemy into my calculated volley, I admire the audacity. When they slide into an ambush they misread because I adjusted gravity at the last render pass, I admire the inevitable lesson. I like my arenas to feel lived in—where physics can be an accomplice to my plans.
Smash Daisaku and the kidnapped Gunstar Green—how personal was that subplot to your design philosophy?
Personal? Every dictator is a mirror. Smash Daisaku was a convenient hand to turn the wrench in the narrative; Green’s capture was a fulcrum to strain alliances and test loyalties. I wanted the twins to make ugly choices under pressure. When family fractures, players see reflected their own impulsive instincts. That fracture is the canvas on which I draw misery and, occasionally, revelation.
Any behind-the-scenes morsels for our readers—an Easter egg or a development whisper you can share without removing the mask?
A single whisper: an early prototype kept a debug routine that altered enemy patterns. It was meant to be temporary. It stayed because it made runs unpredictable in a way no planned mechanic could. The team called it a mistake. I called it chaos with a signature. Players made legends from it, and I kept the legend alive. Keep looking in the seams; not everything important was intended.
Final question—what would you say to those who think they have mastered your world and might return to face you again?
They have not mastered me; they have survived a rehearsal. I will be waiting with new rhythms, closers that rewrite expectations, and a few “accidents” polished into instruments of exquisite torment. Tell them to bring their favorite combination and their rigid certainties; both will be instructive. When the moon aligns and the gems whisper, I will compose the next lesson—and their return will be the most satisfying encore of all.
Expect me where the light fails to explain itself; the next movement is already arranging the shadows.
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