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Lucas's suggestions cracked open a whole new door for them. This could actually help them go toe-to-toe with Netflix and Disney+.

Sure, none of them knew jack about video games. And yeah, they were skeptical whether a video game adaptation could even work. But the guy pitching this was Lucas Knight—the same guy who'd helped Netflix build some of their biggest shows. So they kept their doubts to themselves.

They were more interested in the comic book properties Lucas mentioned—stuff outside of DC. One executive even jumped in and suggested they just buy the whole publisher, bring it under DC, and then purchase the specific comics Lucas was talking about directly from the creators.

Lucas shook his head. "Better to just license what we need. Buying a publisher's expensive, sure, but it's also a nightmare. You're taking on their entire catalog—the stuff you want and a ton of stuff you don't. You inherit their contracts, their staff, their distribution headaches."

"And if they're publicly traded or privately held with multiple stakeholders, the acquisition process alone could take years. We'd be bogged down in negotiations while Netflix and Disney snap up everything else."

What he didn't say out loud was simpler: he didn't trust them not to screw it up. Publishers got mismanaged all the time by studios that didn't understand the medium. Better to license rights directly from creators who actually cared about their work and deserved better deals.

Tobias and the others went quiet, thinking it over. Lucas had a point. Full control sounded nice, but the cost wasn't just money—it was time and hassle they couldn't afford right now.

"I'm with Lucas on this one," Tobias said, breaking the silence with a grin. "We're not Disney, after all."

Everyone chuckled.

Lucas smiled. When it came to controlling every little thing, Disney wrote the book. They didn't just own IP—they swallowed entire companies whole, dictated every creative decision, and built empires on ironclad contracts.

Warner couldn't compete with that level of corporate domination even if they wanted to.

"We need to move fast on this," Lucas said. "If the Mouse or Big Red get wind of what we're after, they'll start throwing money around. And trust me, when it turns into a bidding war, the highest offer wins. We lose."

That got everyone's attention. The room shifted. Urgency replaced casual interest.

After the meeting wrapped, Tobias and the other executives got to work immediately. They weren't about to miss their shot at competing with the two biggest players in streaming.

Meanwhile, Lucas wondered if the adaptations he'd suggested would actually turn out better with WB behind them. When it came to filmmaking, Warner had the pedigree. They had some of the best directors, cinematographers, and production designers in the business.

They knew how to build worlds on screen. If they applied that same level of craft to their streaming shows instead of treating them like cheap TV filler, they could make something special.

As for Prime Video? Lucas had noticed it wasn't nearly as aggressive in this timeline. Amazon was playing it safer here, less willing to dump billions into content.

But he didn't want to overthink it. This was a different world.

Similar to his old one, sure. But not the same. So much had already changed.

He'd saved Kobe's life. He'd helped the world recover faster from the pandemic with early vaccine funding. And now he was propping up a major studio.

As for what Netflix executives thought about him working with another streaming platform? He didn't give a damn.

He could do whatever he wanted.

---

Soon after, WB got to work and reached out to the publishers behind the comics Lucas had flagged—especially the ones he'd told them to prioritize.

At first, these publishers were blindsided. A major studio calling them up with serious offers? They didn't know what to make of it.

Before long, licensing deals for properties like Invincible and The Boys were in motion. Of course, the studio knew these were mature, R-rated properties.

The Boys in particular had history with Warner. It had originally been published by WildStorm, an imprint under DC, but got cancelled because it was too violent, too cynical, too dark for DC's brand.

So when Warner came back around wanting to license it, the creators—Garth Ennis and Darick Robertson—were caught completely off guard.

And they weren't the only ones surprised.

DC executives got wind of the negotiations when someone internally flagged it. They were even more confused. They were the ones who'd cancelled The Boys years ago because of its brutal, nihilistic tone. Now the parent company wanted to license it? What the hell?

One of the DC execs picked up the phone and called Warner's business affairs division.

"Why are we suddenly licensing this comic?" the DC exec asked, clearly frustrated. "We cancelled it because it was too violent, too cynical, and we thought it would damage DC's image. And now you guys are actively going after it?"

The Warner exec on the other end stayed calm. "This is an executive-level decision. It's final."

He went on to explain that the show wouldn't touch DC's platform at all—it was being developed as original Max content for mature audiences. Completely separate branding.

They weren't positioning it as a DC property but as Warner Bros. Entertainment, a different lane entirely. The target was adult subscribers who wanted edgier, prestige content—HBO-level storytelling, not superhero fare.

In the corporate world, communication mattered. Misunderstandings like this could tank projects before they even started.

Within a few weeks, the studio had secured rights to the comics Lucas mentioned. They also opened talks with game developers about adapting their titles into TV shows.

Things were moving smoothly, but the licensing costs weren't cheap. The Boys alone ran them $8 million for multi-season TV rights, plus backend profit participation. Invincible cost around $5 million with similar terms. The video game rights were trickier—The Last of Us came with a $10 million upfront fee, plus royalties tied to viewership performance.

The Witcher was still available since Netflix had focused on Lucas's recommendations like Squid Game, Alice in Borderland, and the K-drama slate instead, so CD Projekt Red was asking $7 million for adaptation rights. Fallout was available too, and Bethesda wanted $12 million plus creative consultation fees.

All told, Warner was looking at roughly $45-55 million in upfront licensing costs before a single frame was shot. Not catastrophic, but not nothing either.

One game studio even negotiated something unusual into their deal—they wanted access to WB's patented "Nemesis System," the AI-driven enemy behavior mechanic from Middle-earth: Shadow of Mordor. Since Warner had been sitting on the patent without doing much with it, they agreed. It sweetened the deal and cost them nothing.

Word spread quickly among the other developers Warner was negotiating with, and soon they were asking for the same thing. Warner, realizing they could use it as a bargaining chip, started offering Nemesis System access as part of their standard licensing package for game adaptations.

Lucas had no idea that his involvement had just cracked open a new door for the gaming industry. Even if only the studios WB partnered with could use the Nemesis System, it was still a huge shift—multiple AAA game developers now had access to cutting-edge AI tech that had been locked away for years.

---

After acquiring licensing rights to multiple IPs, Warner had them greenlit as projects for Max. The development and production divisions got into action immediately. Since they were adapting several high-profile projects—independent comics and video games—it was too big to keep under wraps. Word leaked, and reports started popping up.

IGN: "Warner Bros. Goes All-In on Gaming Adaptations - The Last of Us, Fallout, and The Witcher Headed to Max"

The gaming community went absolutely wild.

"WAIT WAIT WAIT. WB is adapting The Last of Us?! Are you fucking kidding me right now? If they actually pull this off with HBO-level production... I might cry. This is everything I've ever wanted."

"The Witcher is finally getting adapted and it's Warner Bros?? After what they did with Game of Thrones, I'm actually optimistic. Please don't screw this up. PLEASE."

"Fallout adaptation?! Yo, if they nail the atmosphere and the dark humor, this could be insane. I'm so hyped but also terrified they'll mess it up lmao"

"I've been waiting YEARS for someone to adapt TLOU properly. If WB gives this the budget and respect it deserves, it could be one of the best shows ever made. No pressure or anything 😭"

At the same time, the comics side was blowing up too.

Comic Book Resources: "Warner Bros. Developing Mature Comic Adaptations for Max - The Boys and Invincible Among Greenlit Projects"

The comments exploded almost instantly.

"Hold on. The Boys is getting adapted? The same comic DC cancelled for being too violent? And now WB is making it anyway? I'm fucking STOKED."

"Invincible AND The Boys? Both getting adaptations? This is wild. I never thought I'd see the day these books got proper live-action treatment."

"Okay so WB is really going after the adult animation/mature content crowd. Smart move honestly. Netflix has been dominating that space but if these shows are good, Max might actually have a shot."

"This wasn't on my 2020 bingo card but I'm here for it. Just please don't water them down. These comics are brutal and dark for a reason."

People were genuinely excited. Warner had a solid track record with prestige filmmaking—The Dark Knight, Game of Thrones, Joker.

Even when they made questionable decisions, their high-end productions usually delivered. And since these adaptations were for Max, expectations were high. People were hoping for HBO-quality storytelling, not cheap streaming filler.

The two streaming giants—Netflix and Disney+—reacted differently.

Netflix executives saw the headlines and weren't particularly worried.

Sure, Warner was making aggressive moves, but Netflix had years of dominance, a massive global subscriber base, and an unmatched content library.

They'd watched competitors like Disney and Apple throw billions at streaming without making a real dent. A few video game and comic adaptations weren't going to flip the script overnight.

Maybe Max would land one or two decent hits, but Netflix had Stranger Things, The Crown, Squid Game, and dozens of other juggernauts. They figured they'd be fine.

Disney+ was more cautious. They weren't panicking, but they also weren't dismissing it.

Disney had the ultimate trump cards—Marvel, Star Wars, Pixar—but those franchises skewed younger.

If Max started pulling in older, mature audiences with prestige content, that could chip away at Disney's market share. Still, they had their own massive pipeline locked in for years. They'd keep an eye on Warner's moves but weren't changing course just yet.

Of course, rumors started swirling that Lucas Knight was actively involved in Warner's Max strategy.

That raised eyebrows.

Word reached Netflix's executive team pretty quickly. They were slightly uneasy about Lucas getting cozy with a direct competitor, but there wasn't much they could do. He was a shareholder, not an employee. He could consult with whoever he wanted.

Still, even though Lucas had helped them greenlight some of their biggest hits—Squid Game, Alice in Borderland, Stranger Things—they didn't see him as a serious threat to their dominance.

In their minds, lightning didn't strike twice. Lucas had gotten lucky with a few high-profile bets at Netflix, but replicating that success at a struggling platform like Max? Unlikely.

Max was still playing catch-up, and one Hollywood star—no matter how successful—wasn't going to change that overnight.

---

At the Warner conference room, Lucas sat with the executives, going over recent progress on their new slate of projects.

As part of the company now, Lucas made it a point to visit once a week to stay in the loop. It almost felt like he was the CEO instead of Tobias—not that anyone seemed to mind.

"We're moving production forward on multiple fronts," Tobias said, leaning back in his chair. There was a controlled excitement in his voice. "We're expediting where we can without rushing things. Last thing we need is to compromise quality just to hit a deadline. But the teams are fired up. They know this is a big swing for us."

Christina, one of the senior executives, crossed her arms and frowned slightly. "I'm still nervous about the video game adaptations. I don't know anything about the gaming market, and I keep wondering—will regular people even understand these stories? Or is this just catering to a niche audience?"

Lucas smiled. "Have any of you actually tried playing the games you just licensed?"

The room went quiet. A few executives exchanged glances.

Tobias cleared his throat. "Actually, I did. My son's been bugging me to play The Last of Us for a while, so I finally sat down with him last weekend." He chuckled. "Took me a while to get the hang of the controller, but once I got into it? Man, it's intense. The story's incredible. Easy to follow, emotional as hell. If we translate that to the screen properly, it's gonna work. I have no doubt."

Another exec nodded. "I looked into The Witcher. That game won Game of the Year in 2015. The story's solid—fantasy, politics, monsters. It's basically Game of Thrones but with a different flavor."

Gradually, the doubts in the room started fading. They'd already spent millions on these licenses. No turning back now. They had to believe it would pay off.

One of the executives, clearly feeling more optimistic, leaned back with a satisfied smile. "You know, with these adaptations in our pipeline, I think we've got a real shot at grabbing market share from Disney and Netflix. This could be what puts us on the map."

A few others nodded in agreement, the mood lifting.

Lucas let the moment sit for a second, then spoke up. "I hate to pour cold water on this, but what we've done so far? It's barely enough."

The room went quiet.

"Don't get me wrong," Lucas continued. "The video game and comic adaptations are great moves. They'll pull in viewers. But if you think that alone is going to compete with the Mouse and Big Red? It won't. Not even close. They've got years of infrastructure, brand loyalty, and content libraries we can't match overnight."

Tobias rubbed his jaw, processing that. "So what are you saying?"

Lucas gestured with one finger. "We go for the younger generation."

Everyone went quiet, processing that.

Lucas leaned forward, hands clasped together on the table. "If we really want an edge in this competition, we need to be more friendly with the young generation. Disney's absolutely killing it with parents and kids. But who says only they can dominate that space? We can have that advantage too."

He paused, letting that sink in. "We can get more involved in video games—not just mature content. Kid-friendly stuff. Minecraft. There's also this rising platform called Roblox. Making movies and shows based on games kids are obsessed with? That'll pull in a ton of children."

Tobias and the others leaned in, clearly interested.

Lucas slid a folder across the table. "I prepared something."

They opened it, scanning through the pages. Eyes widened.

They all knew the reality of the entertainment business: family content and kids' entertainment were goldmines. Not just ticket sales—merchandise, toys, repeat viewings, brand loyalty that lasted years. Adapting games kids loved? That was smart money.

In the documents, Lucas outlined a plan to adapt Minecraft into a movie—a block-building game that had kids worldwide hooked, even if most of the executives didn't quite understand why.

Then there was Roblox. That's where it got interesting.

The document explained that Roblox wasn't just a game—it was a platform. Developers could create their own games inside it. While it wasn't hugely popular yet, it was growing steadily among younger kids.

Lucas's strategy was straightforward: have WB Games create original games on the Roblox platform first. Build an audience there. Then, once those games gained traction, expand them into movies or animated series.

For example—make a Barbie game on Roblox, targeting young girls. Build a fanbase. Then turn it into an animated series using Roblox-style animation. Low production cost, massive potential reach.

And since making a game on Roblox wasn't expensive, the risk was minimal.

Tobias set the folder down, a slow smile spreading across his face. "This is really interesting." He glanced around the table, then back at Lucas. "So we're betting early on a growing platform, building our own content inside it, then expanding outward into movies and shows. That's actually brilliant." His eyes showed genuine admiration.

Lucas simply smiled.

Since he was now financially tied to Warner, he wasn't holding back. He'd give them everything he had.

In his view, Warner Bros. was better than the other major studios. They were like artists trapped in a corporate machine. They took risks on ambitious films that mattered, even when those projects cost a fortune. That was admirable—the complete opposite of Disney's safe, formulaic strategy.

But Warner's weakness was obvious: mismanagement and questionable decision-making. They were great at supporting filmmakers and treating artists with respect, but they struggled financially because of it.

So Lucas was more than willing to help them fix that. And what better way than targeting families and children?

He knew the mature content—The Last of Us, The Boys, Fallout—would pull in adults and build prestige. But family content had a different kind of profitability. CoComelon had proven that on streaming platforms—parents put it on repeat for their kids. Roblox, which wasn't even that big yet in this world, had proven it in his previous life.

It was about repeatability and merchandise. Kids watched things over and over. Parents bought the toys, the clothes, the games. Families subscribed to platforms that had content their kids loved. If you built a franchise that kids latched onto, the revenue streams multiplied—streaming subscriptions, box office, merchandise, theme park attractions, video games. If handled correctly, it was a money machine.

"Right now, everyone's talking about us adapting mature content," Lucas said. "But that's not even the main event. This—" he gestured to the documents, "—this is the main dish."

Eyes around the table lit up with possibilities.

They were walking straight into Disney's territory. Going after their core audience.

And no one could say they hated the idea. The potential was too clear.

Even the executives who'd been skeptical of Lucas earlier were looking at him differently now. His ideas kept surprising them—and more importantly, they made sense.

---

Over the next few weeks, Warner Bros. was slammed with work. They closed a deal with Mojang about a potential Minecraft film adaptation—and Mojang was all in.

It made sense. Their game got the prestige of being on the big screen while reaching a massive new audience. Sure, Minecraft was already popular, but they couldn't ignore the potential boost. Even Microsoft was eager, willing to co-invest in the project.

After all, Minecraft had been written off as a "dead game" not too long ago. If not for certain YouTubers reviving it and making it cool again, it might've stayed that way. So Mojang wasn't about to get arrogant and turn down Hollywood.

As for Roblox, when Warner Bros. reached out, they had the same enthusiastic response as Mojang.

Since Roblox was still rising—not yet the juggernaut it could become—they had massive room for growth. A partnership with a major Hollywood studio? That was a golden opportunity. They jumped at it.

For everyone involved, it felt like a gift from the heavens.

Meanwhile, Netflix and Disney+ had no idea any of this was happening.

Sometimes the most dangerous competition isn't the rival you can see—it's the one building momentum in silence, preparing moves you won't notice until it's too late.

---

Meanwhile, Lucas had wrapped up most of his recording sessions at Electric Lady Studios. The crowds outside had been relentless—paparazzi, fans camping out, people hoping for a glimpse—but it hadn't slowed him down much. Increased security and better crowd management kept things under control.

He'd gotten through it smoothly. Every time he left the studio, his team formed a tight perimeter around him. Fortunately, nothing got out of hand.

Now, the first concert of his world tour—The Knight Tour—was just around the corner.

Tickets for the opening venue had sold out in minutes. Scalpers were already reselling them online for triple the price, sometimes more. Lucas's team had tried to combat it with verified ticket systems, but it was an uphill battle.

---ᕙ⁠(⁠ ⁠~⁠ ⁠.⁠ ⁠~⁠ ⁠)⁠ᕗ---

Las Vegas, May 15, 2020

The entertainment capital of the world was about to get even louder.

Las Vegas was always buzzing—tourists flooding the Strip, casinos lighting up the desert night, shows running 24/7. But with Lucas Knight's world tour officially kicking off here? The city hit a different level entirely.

Allegiant Stadium, the massive domed venue that had just opened, had become ground zero. The stadium could hold over 65,000 people for concerts, and every single ticket had sold out in under five minutes.

Even three days before the concert, the energy was palpable.

News vans lined the streets surrounding the stadium. Reporters set up camp on corner, cameras ready to capture anything remotely newsworthy. This wasn't normal. Even for artists at Taylor Swift's level, selling out a stadium this size on a tour's opening night was rare.

This was the effect of having the world's biggest star—Oscar winner, billion-dollar actor, chart-topping musician—launching a tour in your city.

"We're seeing unprecedented crowds," one reporter said into the camera, gesturing behind her at the throngs of people already gathering. "And the concert isn't until tomorrow night. Las Vegas has hosted some of the biggest names in entertainment, but Lucas Knight is bringing something we've never quite seen before."

Around the stadium grounds, small business booths were being set up. Local vendors, independent designers, artisan food trucks—Lucas's team had reached out to them weeks ago, offering them prime spots to sell their goods during the tour kickoff.

It was Lucas's way of giving back. He could've signed an exclusive deal with a massive merchandising company and pocketed millions.

Instead, he split it—official tour merch would be handled by professionals inside the venue, but outside? That space belonged to local businesses.

A young jewelry maker named Jasmine was setting up her booth, hands shaking slightly as she arranged handmade necklaces on display racks. Her best friend, Brianna, stood beside her, holding up a banner that read "Silver & Stone - Handcrafted in Las Vegas".

"I still can't believe this is happening," Jasmine said, adjusting a turquoise bracelet for the third time. "Lucas Knight's team called me. Me!"

Brianna grinned. "Girl, your stuff is amazing. They knew what they were doing."

"Yeah, but this is insane. Do you know how many people are gonna walk past this booth tomorrow?"

"Sixty-five thousand inside the stadium, probably another ten thousand hanging around outside," Brianna said. "You're about to blow up."

Jasmine exhaled slowly, trying to calm her nerves. "Okay. Okay. I can do this."

Two booths down, a food truck owner named Carlos was prepping his setup. His truck, "Vegas Street Tacos", had been a local favorite for years, but this was his first major event.

His son, teenage kid named Diego, was helping him unload supplies.

"Pop, you think we made enough?" Diego asked, eyeing the coolers stacked in the truck.

Carlos wiped sweat from his forehead. "We tripled our usual prep. If we run out, we run out. But I'm not missing this shot."

"Lucas Knight, man," Diego said, shaking his head. "This is crazy."

"Crazy good," Carlos corrected with a grin.

---

May 16, 2020 - Concert Day

By 4 PM, the area around Allegiant Stadium was absolute chaos—in the best way possible.

Fans flooded the streets, decked out in Lucas Knight merch. Some wore homemade shirts with his face screen-printed on them. Others carried signs: "LUCAS MARRY ME", "THE KNIGHT IS HERE", "WE'VE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS".

Groups of friends screamed and hugged each other as they approached the venue, phones out, recording everything.

"Oh my god, oh my god, we're actually here!" one girl shrieked, practically jumping up and down. She turned to her friend, tears already forming. "I've been waiting for this since he announced the tour in January. I can't believe it's real!"

Her friend laughed, grabbing her shoulders. "Girl, breathe! We haven't even gone inside yet!"

"I know, but I'm already crying!"

Nearby, a guy in his twenties was Facetiming someone, holding his phone up to show the massive crowd. "Bro, you should've come! This is insane! There's gotta be tens of thousands of people out here already!"

The voice on the other end groaned. "Don't rub it in, man. I couldn't get tickets."

"Should've been faster," the guy teased, then panning his camera toward the stadium entrance where security was starting to let people in.

The small business booths were absolutely slammed.

Jasmine's jewelry booth had a line of at least fifteen people. She was moving as fast as she could, wrapping purchases, taking payments, answering questions.

"Do you have this in silver?" a woman asked, holding up a bracelet.

"Yes! Right here," Jasmine said, grabbing one from the display.

"I'll take two. One for me, one for my sister."

Brianna, handling transactions on the other side of the booth, caught Jasmine's eye and mouthed, "This is crazy!"

Jasmine just grinned, adrenaline pumping.

At Carlos's taco truck, the line stretched down the block.

"Two carne asada, one al pastor!" someone called out.

"Coming right up!" Carlos shouted back, working the grill like his life depended on it. Diego was taking orders, barely keeping up.

"How long's the wait?" a guy asked.

"Maybe ten minutes," Diego said. "We're moving fast."

Inside the stadium, fans were pouring into their seats, and the energy was building with every minute. The stage setup was massive—LED screens stretching across the back, elaborate lighting rigs hanging overhead, instruments positioned and ready.

Phones were everywhere. People snapping selfies, recording videos, posting to Twitter and Instagram in real time.

Near the front barricade, a girl stood with both hands gripping the rail, eyes locked on the empty stage. Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it.

Her friend nudged her. "You good?"

"No," she said, her voice shaking. "I'm not good. I'm about to see Lucas Knight perform live. I'm the opposite of good."

Her friend laughed. "Same, honestly."

That energy was everywhere. People who'd been waiting since January when the tour was announced, some who'd been hoping for this for years. And now it was actually happening.

The lights dimmed and the entire crowd erupted.

Sixty-five thousand people screaming at once, the sound absolutely deafening. The roar seemed to shake the entire stadium building until it felt like the noise alone could bring the roof down.