After Zaboru awakened, he quickly realized he had missed several days of work. True to his nature, he didn't waste time resting longer than necessary. Without further ado, he returned to the office only two days after regaining consciousness—still bruised, still bald, and still moving carefully, but fully present.
The moment he stepped back into ZAGE Tower, the mood across the floors visibly lifted. Employees who had been anxious and distracted suddenly looked energized again. Some tried to act professional, but many couldn't hide their relief; a few even bowed a little deeper than usual, like they were silently thanking him for coming back.
Zaboru, of course, didn't make it dramatic. He simply smiled, waved them off, and reassured everyone in his usual half‑joking, half‑serious tone that he wouldn't die easily. The words made people laugh, but they also carried weight—because everyone knew he meant it.
A week after Zaboru regained consciousness, the drunk driver, Katsuo Miyoshi, finally appeared in court. He walked in with empty eyes, like a man whose spirit had already been drained out of him. He didn't argue. He didn't protest. He didn't even try to fight the charges thrown at him. When the prosecutor spoke, he simply stared forward. When the judge asked questions, his answers were short, flat, almost automatic—like he was reading lines from a script he no longer cared about.
In the end, the verdict was clear: four years in prison and a fine of 1.5 million yen. The courtroom expected tears, excuses, anger—anything human. Instead, Katsuo smiled. Not a normal smile, not relief, not remorse. It was an unsettling, hollow grin that stayed on his face even as the sentence was read out loud, as if the punishment meant nothing to him anymore.
To outsiders, it looked like a shock. Some whispered that he had lost his mind. Others assumed he was trying to act tough. But the truth was simpler and far darker—Akechi had already broken him. Whatever happened in that warehouse had erased the person Katsuo used to be, leaving only a shell that could sit in court and accept anything without resistance.
Nobody in the courtroom knew that. Nobody needed to. Officially, justice was served, the case was closed, and the world moved on. The real verdict had already been delivered long before the judge raised the gavel.
Zaboru received countless invitations from TV studios to interview him about the incident, but as usual, he rejected them all. He was simply too busy—and the moment he could stand on his own, he returned to work at ZAGE as if nothing had happened. Some producers tried to push harder, sending multiple requests or offering "exclusive" airtime, but Zaboru either ignored them entirely or dismissed them with a flat, "Not interested."
It was typical of him. Getting an interview with Zaboru was almost impossible if the topic didn't interest him. He hated wasting time on questions that felt repetitive, sensational, or hollow. But if the subject genuinely intrigued him—something about game design, hardware, or the future of entertainment—then he could become unexpectedly easy to approach, even enthusiastic. That contrast was exactly why the media found him so frustrating: the world wanted a heroic story, while Zaboru only cared about moving forward and making the next thing.
The family Zaboru had saved was deeply grateful. When Zaboru is still in hospital, the child's mother and her family come visit him with a carefully packed meal, insisting it was the least she could do. It turned out she owned a small restaurant that specialized in Chinese food, and she had cooked the dishes herself with extra care—warm, fragrant, and far better than anything the hospital kitchen could ever offer.
Zaboru accepted it with a rare softness in his expression, genuinely impressed by how good it was. He even asked about her restaurant and said he wanted to place a proper order—more food, paid in full, and generously. The woman tried to refuse at first, saying this was only a thank-you and she couldn't take his money. But Zaboru insisted, firmly and politely, explaining that gratitude didn't mean he should take advantage of her kindness. In the end, she reluctantly agreed, and Zaboru just got another take away that night and a good one too.
July had already arrived, and the atmosphere inside ZAGE Tower finally felt normal again. Team OMNI had finished their current assignment—Super Shot Football—so Zaboru could shift his attention back to the next wave of internal projects. Even with bandages hidden under his clothes and a head that was still embarrassingly bald, he moved like nothing could slow him down for long.
Tuesday, 8 July 1999. In one of the meeting rooms at ZAGE Tower Japan, Zaboru stepped inside and immediately felt the familiar pressure of talent filling the space. The room was already occupied by the five leads of Team IZAN.
First were the original three leaders: Shinji Mikami, Shinji Owara, and Shinji Suiyoko—men who had proven themselves over and over as the backbone of IZAN's momentum. Then came the newly appointed leaders: Hideaki Itsuno and Hideki Kamiya.
The moment Zaboru saw the full lineup together, he couldn't help but smile. In his previous life, these names were legends—Capcom bigshots, the kind of creators who could carry entire action franchises on their shoulders. Now, in this world, they were sitting in the same room under the ZAGE banner, listening to him like this was the most natural thing in the world.
Zaboru found it amusing in the best way. Team IZAN was basically overflowing with action‑game talent, and he could already picture the kind of fast, stylish, high‑impact projects they could build if he pointed them in the right direction. That was exactly why he had called this meeting.
He wasn't here to waste time.
He was here to give them their next task.
Zaboru smiled and asked, "Are you ready for more mecha, guys?"
Everyone grinned. A few of them laughed like they'd been waiting for those words since the meeting started.
"Hell yes!" someone answered immediately, and the others echoed it without hesitation. No man says no to mecha—especially in Japan.
Zaboru nodded, amused, then slid a thick folder across the table like he was dealing a winning hand. "Good. Then Team IZAN, your next project is Gear Fight Dendoh."
The name alone made a couple of eyes sharpen with interest. Zaboru continued, keeping his tone light but confident. "There's a strong concept behind this title. Think of it as a complete mecha world—characters, rival factions, upgrades, and a story with real momentum."
He tapped the folder with two fingers. "Normally, projects like this start as animation first, then the game follows. But we're doing it the ZAGE way. We'll build the game first—make it the foundation. If we execute it properly, the game won't be 'based on' anything. It will be the original source that everything else grows from."
Zaboru's smile didn't change, but inside, his thoughts were crystal clear. If he guided the tone, the pacing, and the mechanical identity from day one, then even if this world eventually got an anime adaptation, it would be forced to follow the game's canon—his canon. And this time, Gear Fight Dendoh wouldn't be quietly forgotten or trapped behind a limited release. Not on his watch.
He let that sink in for a moment, then smiled again. "And yes, it's mecha. Real mecha. Steel, sparks, upgrades, dramatic punches—everything you want."
In Zaboru's previous life, Gear Fight Dendoh had been far ahead of its time, yet almost nobody outside Japan truly knew it. It stayed a Japan‑only release despite being an excellent game, and that limited reach buried it under louder titles. But the quality was undeniable: the graphics were clean and stylish, the animation and movement felt unusually smooth, and the sense of weight in every action was years ahead of what most people expected from that era.
Even in the 2020s of Zaboru's previous life, the game still looked solid and played well. That was why he chose it now—because with ZEPS 3's power and Team IZAN's talent, they could finally give Gear Fight Dendoh the treatment it always deserved.
Then, after Zaboru let the leaders finish reading the Gear Fight Dendoh folder, he began to explain the core vision.
"So, this will be a beat 'em up—single‑player focused," Zaboru said, tapping the document lightly. "The player controls Dendoh directly, stage by stage, with a clear story that keeps pushing you forward. I want it to feel like you're always moving toward the next big moment, not just clearing rooms."
He leaned back slightly, speaking with calm confidence. "Progression is the key. As you play, you'll earn new weapons and modules. Dendoh doesn't just 'level up' in numbers—he upgrades in ways you can feel. Every new weapon should translate into new moves, new combo routes, and new ways to solve fights. When the player equips something new, they should immediately think, 'Oh… I can do things I couldn't do before.' That's the thrill."
Zaboru smiled, then continued without rushing. "Now, the bosses—this is important. Boss fights won't follow the same rhythm as the regular stages. When you face a boss, the game shifts into a more fighting‑game style duel. Cleaner spacing, more readable patterns, tighter timing. I want players to feel the pressure, like they're being tested one‑on‑one. It'll break the beat 'em up flow on purpose, so every boss feels like a highlight instead of just a bigger enemy with more health."
He nodded toward the concept art pages. "And the art style is the most important part. We're not chasing realism here. We're chasing a 3D anime aesthetic on our 64‑bit system—bold shapes, strong silhouettes, expressive animations, and clean color. The goal is to make it look good in motion, not just in graphics. A beat 'em up lives and dies by movement. If the motion isn't smooth—if attacks don't feel sharp and satisfying—the whole game collapses."
Zaboru's tone stayed casual, but his expectations were clear. "So we focus on readability, impact, and style. Make every punch and every weapon feel like it has weight. Make every animation communicate intent. If we do that, Gear Fight Dendoh won't just be a good mecha game—it'll be the kind of action game people use as a reference for years especailly for mecha just like our Armored Core did."
Everyone nodded, and the room immediately shifted into a lively Q&A session. One by one, the leads began firing questions—about camera distance, combo priority, boss AI logic, weapon balance, and how far they could push the 3D anime look without sacrificing performance. Zaboru answered smoothly, sometimes with quick, decisive clarity, and sometimes by throwing the question back at them to see how they thought.
Then he delivered the key detail that made everyone straighten up.
"Release target is April 2000," Zaboru said.
That gave Team IZAN exactly nine months.
It was ambitious, but not reckless. Zaboru wasn't just giving them time to build a beat 'em up—he was giving them time to build an experience. He wanted the storyline to be longer and more character-driven than typical action games, with in‑game "anime-like" cutscenes that carried real emotion and momentum. Not stiff exposition. Not cheap text dumps. He wanted cinematic sequences that felt like the opening episodes of a series—clean staging, expressive faces, strong voice direction, and transitions that flowed naturally back into gameplay.
In other words: the game itself would cover the story that an anime normally would. That was why the schedule, while still demanding, was intentionally spacious by ZAGE standards. Zaboru wanted polish. He wanted rhythm. He wanted the cutscenes to be memorable enough that, if the world ever got an animated adaptation later, it would have to follow what the game established.
When the meeting finally wrapped, the room was full of energized chatter—already discussing how to divide tasks, how to prototype combat, and how to lock the visual style early.
After that, Zaboru prepared to head to AKAI. The development of the Z‑Pod was almost ready, and he planned to introduce it to the world in the near future.
To be continue .
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