It's only been a week since the Z-POD announcement and release, but the sleek music device is already writing headlines. People are buying it fast—faster than most stores expected—and the early photos are everywhere: commuters with headphones on, a small white device tucked into a pocket, the cable swinging as they walk like it's suddenly the most normal thing in the world.
Part of the shock is the price. At 35,000 yen, it's not even in the same "luxury gadget" bracket as the newest portable CD players or the most expensive Walkman models. And yet the features feel unreal for that number—one thousand songs, long battery life, playlists, shuffle, a library you control. Overnight, the way people talk about music changes. Instead of saying, "Which album did you bring?" they start saying, "What are you listening to today?" Like Zaboru promised, it's redefining music on the go.
And the momentum doesn't stop at the hardware. Only a few days after release, Z-Tunes gets updated. Suddenly there's a free section—mostly songs Zaboru owns, plus tracks Polygram wants to promote—so even people who haven't transferred their own CDs yet can immediately load up their Z-POD and walk out with a real library. The paid-song feature is still in development, but the message is clear: Z-Tunes isn't just a transfer tool anymore. It's starting to look like the beginning of a whole new music ecosystem.
The feedback from people using the Z-POD is overwhelmingly positive. Most users say it didn't just meet expectations—it exceeded them. ZAGE promised it could fit 1,000 songs, but early adopters quickly discovered it can often hold more than that, closer to 1,100–1,200 songs depending on track length and quality. The battery life surprises people too: instead of ten hours, many are reporting closer to eleven. Small differences on paper, but huge in daily life.
What really sells the "magic" is how elegant it feels. The device looks clean, it slips into a pocket without dragging your pants down, and it doesn't feel fragile like portable CD players. People mention the little details—how fast it boots, how easy it is to jump between playlists, how the buttons feel solid instead of cheap. Even the earphones get praised, because they're not the usual throwaway accessory. They sound clear, they sit comfortably, and they don't feel like something you'll replace immediately.
On the ZAGE forums, threads like this are everywhere:
"Man! The Z-POD is a miracle. Now I can run while listening to music and it's so easy to carry! And did you guys notice? The earphones are high-quality too! Damn—AKAI and ZAGE are really something else."
"Yes! Now my workouts at the gym feel way more pumped—listening to Iron Maiden on the Z-POD between sets is a total game-changer!"
Posts stack up beneath it—people comparing how many songs they managed to fit, sharing their favorite playlists, and bragging about how it feels to walk outside with their entire music world in one hand.
Meanwhile, the other big companies are watching all of this with the same mixed reaction—shock, admiration, and quiet fear. Right now, Hikaru Kurata, Sonaya's CEO and a major shareholder, sits in his office with a Z-POD resting in his hand like a piece of evidence. He turns it over once, studying the clean white shell, the small screen, the buttons that look almost too simple.
"So this is the device Zaboru said would revolutionize the music industry…" he murmurs.
Hikaru exhales slowly. He had agreed—calmly, professionally—to let a large selection of Sonaya songs be included on Z-Tunes. It was a trade: Zaboru would review Sonaya's new video game engine when it was ready, and in return Sonaya would benefit from the surge of attention Z-Tunes was clearly building. At the time, it felt safe. Music distribution was already huge for Sonaya.
But now, with the Z-POD in his palm, the agreement feels sharper.
"This literally kills our Walkman line," he thinks, eyes narrowing. "And portable CD players too."
What makes it worse is how easily it fits into Sonaya's existing world. It still uses a standard earphone jack—meaning it works with the headphones Sonaya has already been selling for years. People don't need to change habits. They just plug in and go. The transition is effortless, which means the market can shift overnight.
Hikaru sighs again, but he isn't furious. Unlike Sonaya's video game division—which needs time, teams, and long development cycles—Sonaya's music department is already massive, already global, already used to fighting format changes. He can feel the gears in his head turning.
"Still…" he thinks, the corner of his mouth lifting. "We can use this idea. We'll build our own version. A Sonaya Pod or something like that."
He chuckles once, quietly, then stops as another thought lands heavier.
"Zaboru…"
Not angry. Not jealous. Just… stunned.
"How brilliant is your mind?" Hikaru thinks. "And the fact that a mediocre company like AKAI could become this under you… that's the truly frightening part."
He remembers AKAI before the acquisition—not even competent, and just ordinary. Mediocre was the word people used when they were being polite. Yet after years under Zaboru's direction, AKAI didn't just improve; it transformed into an electronics giant.
Hikaru stands up, decision made. The Z-POD stays in his hand as he strides out of the office, heading straight for Sonaya's music department. There's a meeting to call. Strategies to draft. Countermeasures to build.
Because if the Z-POD is the start of a new era, Sonaya can't afford to be watching from the sidelines.
Meanwhile at Apple offices, work continues as usual. The building is busy, phones ringing, printers humming, people walking past each other with folders and floppy disks. The new video game department—working alongside ZUSUGA and Philips—keeps moving too, filled with engineers debating specs, artists sketching concepts, and managers juggling schedules like nothing in the world has changed.
But in Steve Jobs's office, the mood is different.
He sits behind his desk with a Z-POD resting in his hands, turning it slowly like he's weighing it against his own instincts. His eyes trace the clean white shell, the small screen, the deliberate simplicity of the buttons.
"Such… great design," he thinks. "So simple… yet so efficient."
It's the kind of object he normally respects immediately—minimalist, futuristic, confident without being loud. It doesn't beg for attention, yet it steals it anyway. It looks like something that belongs on his desk, like it was made for someone who values restraint.
And then something strange hits him.
A faint sense of familiarity, like déjà vu that doesn't make sense. Not in memory, but in feeling—like he's looking at a future he hasn't lived yet.
"Why do I feel something when I look at this?" he wonders. "Why does it feel… familiar?"
He exhales and rubs his temple, annoyed at himself for even thinking like that. Steve shakes his head, forcing the thought away.
"Probably just a hunch," he mutters, almost dismissive. "Or the usual excitement when I see good industrial design."
He sets the Z-POD down for a moment, then picks it back up again, unable to resist turning it one more time under the light.
Little does he know why that feeling is there. If the world had waited five more years, a device like this would have been born at Apple—an iPod in another life, another timeline. But Steve doesn't know that. All he knows is that something in his chest recognizes the shape of an idea… and it makes him strangely quiet.
Meanwhile, at Microsoft's offices, Bill Gates lets out a slow sigh as he turns the Z-POD over in his hands. He studies it the way he studies everything—quietly, analytically, as if the plastic shell might confess its secrets if he stares long enough.
"Digital music, huh…" he thinks. "They really think far ahead. And that settles it—Zaboru is hiding things from me."
A small laugh escapes him, not angry, more amused than anything. Not long ago, when he met Zaboru, Bill had asked the question directly—almost casually, as if it was just another topic on a long list.
Has ZAGE ever thought about venturing into digital music?
It wasn't a random curiosity. Microsoft had been circling the idea for a while—music as data, libraries living on computers, distribution moving away from physical media. The plan wasn't ready yet, not fully implemented, but Bill could already see the direction the world was drifting.
Zaboru's answer back then had been smooth.
"ZAGE is interested in digital music," he had said, calm as always, "but we don't have the manpower to focus on it right now, so I'm not pursuing it."
Bill had smiled at the time, half convinced, half entertained.
Zaboru wasn't lying. ZAGE truly didn't have the manpower to focus on digital music—at least not on paper. But AKAI did, and Bill Gates understood that loophole immediately.
"I guess he's not that stupid, huh?" Bill murmurs now, remembering the tone—how natural it sounded, how reasonable it seemed.
And yet, here it is. A polished device, a full ecosystem, a public launch that feels like it was planned months—maybe years—in advance. Bill taps a finger lightly against the Z-POD's buttons, thinking about the real motive behind the move: not the hardware alone, but Z-Tunes. The pipeline. The habits it will create. The way it will train consumers to treat music like software.
Still, he doesn't feel threatened—not really. Whether the Z-POD sells well or not doesn't directly shake Microsoft's foundations. Microsoft isn't a music company. It doesn't live or die on headphones and playlists.
But Bill is paying attention.
Because the pattern is familiar: take something ordinary, make it effortless, then build an ecosystem around it until the world can't imagine going back. If Zaboru can do that with music, he can do it with anything.
Bill sets the Z-POD down and leans back, eyes narrowing slightly—not with anger, but with focus.
"Interesting," he thinks. "Very interesting."
A shadow of regret passes across Bill Gates's face, subtle but real. "I should've tried harder to acquire ZAGE back in 1992," he mutters, half to himself.
He lets out a low chuckle, because the memory is still vivid—too vivid. The first time he met Zaboru, the kid was already on the rise, already carrying that calm confidence that made older executives feel strangely impatient. Bill had offered billions for the company, a number designed to end the conversation instantly. In Bill's world, most doors opened when you pushed hard enough with money.
Zaboru didn't even blink.
He rejected it without hesitation, without bargaining, without the usual polite performance. Like selling ZAGE wasn't even an option that existed in his head.
Bill's chuckle turns into a small sigh. "No matter how much I offer him, he doesn't want to sell," he says quietly. Then, with a crooked smile, he adds, "And I wanted him working under me… but I guess that's impossible now. Hahaha."
There's humor in the laugh, but also a bite of truth. Bill understands ambition when he sees it—and Zaboru's ambition isn't the kind that fits inside someone else's company.
He stands up from his chair and reaches for the earphones. For a moment he pauses, as if realizing how ridiculous this is—him, in his office, about to try the very device he's been analyzing like a rival's chess move.
Then he plugs the earphones in, places them over his ears, and taps play.
Music fills the silence.
Bill adjusts the wire once, pockets the Z-POD with practiced ease, and starts walking out of the office, already thinking in the background—about software, platforms, distribution, and how quickly the world can be trained to accept a new normal.
And so, the Z-POD truly takes the world by storm—and it looks like it's here to stay.
To be continue
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