Sunday 3 August 1999 Evening.
Right now, people—especially gamers—have their eyes glued to their own TVs, or the televisions set up in nearby electronics stores, arcades, and other public spaces. Everyone is waiting, because in the next five minutes there will be the ZAGE ads for this month's releases. And when ZAGE drops a monthly trailer, it's never just one title—at minimum it means two more games are about to hit, sometimes even more. That pattern alone is enough to make the gaming crowd restless: friends leaning closer to the screen, kids pointing at the logo posters on the wall, and store staff quietly turning the volume up because they know the moment the ZAGE jingle plays, the whole room will react.
It's the same kind of tension you feel before a big match starts. People don't even pretend to be casual about it anymore. Some are holding snacks they forgot to eat, some are hovering near the arcade counter like they're afraid they'll miss a second, and some are already debating out loud what ZAGE might reveal—sports games, a surprise new IP, maybe another wild project from Zaboru's head. Across the world, it's the same scene repeated in different languages: five minutes of waiting that feels like forever, because ZAGE has trained everyone to expect something big.
Then, after those five minutes crawl by, the TV suddenly turns black. A beat of silence—then the iconic ZAGE logo slams onto the screen with that familiar sound: "ZAA GEE." The logo lingers just long enough to make everyone lean in, and then the screen flashes white like a camera bulb.
Zaboru appears.
His head is still bald from the accident, shining slightly under the studio lights, and he's grinning straight into the camera like he's about to pull the dumbest stunt imaginable. He raises his arms, steps into a dramatic stance, and snaps into a full henshin pose.
"HYAA! ZAGE! Henshin!"
A sharp sound effect slices through the air—whoosh!—and the screen erupts with streaks of light. For a second, Zaboru's silhouette breaks into panels like a transforming hero on TV. Then it resolves into the Zabo-Man outfit: the black-and-silver helmet, the blue visor, the "Z" on the forehead while showing his mouth, and the full costume posed like a superhero who just landed from the sky.
He even holds the pose a little too long, cape fluttering for no reason, like he knows exactly how ridiculous it looks.
Everyone watching starts giggling. It's so Zaboru—random, shameless, and completely confident. He just does whatever he wants, and somehow people love him more for it.
Then he grinned. "It's been a while since I did a henshin for everyone!" His tone was playful, like he was announcing fireworks instead of games. "But right now, I want to tell you something."
He snapped into another dramatic pose, cape flicking like the commercial had a mind of its own.
"This August, ZAGE will release a total of SIX games! YEAH!" He pointed straight at the camera like he was challenging the whole world. "That's right—six games!"
Everyone watching was flabbergasted. Six games? In one month? It sounded impossible, and that's exactly why the reaction exploded—electronics stores got noisy, arcades turned their heads toward the TVs, and even people who weren't planning to watch suddenly leaned in.
Zaboru held up two fingers. "First, we start with our yearly sports titles!" he announced, striking a proud stance. "Winning Eleven 99… and NBA Live 99!"
The screen shifted into gameplay—fast cuts, dramatic angles, and that punchy rock rhythm underneath. Winning Eleven 99 showed a cleaner pitch, smoother player movement, and sharper animations during tackles, passes, and shots. NBA Live 99 followed with brighter arenas, more fluid dribbling, and new camera sweeps that made it feel closer to a real broadcast.
Then bullet points appeared on-screen, listing what's improved:
"New story for Become a Legend in WE 99." "New story for NBA Live 99 MyCareer mode." "Improved Master League." "New modes and more."
Sports fans were instantly excited. They'd been waiting for the next yearly update, expecting the usual subtle upgrades—maybe a roster tweak, maybe a few new animations. But this trailer made it clear they were wrong. The improvements looked genuinely impressive, the kind that made people sit up straighter and say, "Okay… ZAGE is serious."
Then the screen shifted again—Zaboru was still Zabo-Man, now standing at the edge of a cliff like some overdramatic hero poster. His cape fluttered hard in the wind, and the camera angle made him look larger than life, silhouetted against a bright sky. It was absurd in the most Zaboru way, like he couldn't present a trailer without turning it into a mini show.
He pointed down at the "world" below like he was about to declare war on boredom. "After the sports games," he announced, voice booming, "we have something new—games from our brand-new team."
The screen flashed the team logo in bold letters.
"KODO."
Zaboru nodded proudly, as if he was introducing rookies who had already won trophies. "They're really talented," he continued, "and they made THREE games." He held up three fingers, then snapped into another pose like a ranger leader calling in reinforcements. "All related to our IP!"
He leaned closer to the camera, lowering his voice for dramatic effect. "And all of them are fighting games."
A beat.
"But they're not just normal fighting games." Zaboru's grin sharpened, like he was about to open a treasure chest. "Each one has its own identity—its own flavor, its own madness. New mechanics, cinematic moves, and style that hits like a finishing blow."
His cape whipped again as he turned slightly, staring straight into the lens. "So…"
He spread his hands wide.
"Let's take a look!"
Then the screen showcases the first KODO title: "Kamen Rider Ryuki." It opens on a dramatic clash—Riders crashing into each other with sparks and impact flashes—then the trailer immediately highlights the Vent Card system with cinematic flair. A Rider swipes a card, the UI flares like a seal, and the move transforms into a full finishing sequence: weapons materialize, armor plates snap into place, and the camera swings low as if it's filming an action movie.
The graphics look shockingly good for something airing as a trailer—clean models, sharp lighting, and animation that feels fast without turning messy. You can actually read the choreography: a kick that lands, a guard that breaks, a counter that turns into a short combo. It's still exaggerated, still heroic, but it's polished.
And the timing couldn't be better. Kamen Rider Ryuki is currently airing, produced by Rekka Studio—one of ZAGE's subsidiaries—and it's wildly popular right now. So the moment the title appears, fans in living rooms and electronics stores start reacting like they just got a gift. People point at the screen. Some shout the name of their favorite Rider. Others just laugh in disbelief.
A Ryuki game—made by ZAGE—already looking this strong? For the fans, it feels like the show just stepped out of the TV and into their hands.
Next, the screen shifts to Gundam—and the energy in the room changes instantly. The trailer flashes the title: "Gundam Battle Assault." Just like Kamen Rider Ryuki, Gundam is a ZAGE-owned anime in this world, and it's insanely popular across Japan right now. So when people realize this is the first Gundam game, reactions spike immediately—fans leaning closer, mouths open, some even pointing at the TV like they're scared it might disappear.
The gameplay hits like a surprise punch. Giant mobile suits clash in a side-on arena, but it doesn't feel like a cheap brawler—it feels heavy. Every step looks like it has weight, every landing sends a small tremor through the stage, and the sound design sells the metal-on-metal impact. The suits move clunky, yes—but clunky in the right way, the way a hundred-ton machine should move. It makes each dash and jump feel like an event, not a default action.
Then people notice the art style—and that's where the real surprise lands. It's not trying to look like a normal "realistic" game. It has this unique, almost painterly look with sharp highlights and bold shadows, like the anime's intensity was translated directly into the models. Beam sabers glow with a clean flare, energy shots streak across the screen, and when a suit blocks or takes a hit, sparks burst like fireworks.
A quick montage shows different suits entering with signature poses, and the crowd watching starts reacting to each reveal like it's a character roster announcement. One suit raises a shield and the camera shakes slightly from the impact. Another fires a beam rifle and the recoil actually pushes the model back a step. Even the explosions look stylish—bright, dramatic, and clean instead of messy.
By the end of the segment, the message is clear: this isn't just "a Gundam game exists." It's a Gundam fighting game with personality, with weight, and with an art style so beautiful and distinct that even people who weren't Gundam fans start paying attention.
Then the last game is "One Piece Grand Battle". Just like Gundam and Kamen Rider Ryuki, One Piece is owned by ZAGE as well—but unlike in Zaboru's previous life, One Piece (along with Naruto and Bleach) isn't a manga at all. In this world it's an original anime, airing on YaDo's subscription channel, produced by YaDo itself—another ZAGE subsidiary. That detail alone makes the reveal feel bigger, because the audience isn't just seeing "a game of a famous series." They're seeing ZAGE connect its own TV pipeline to its own game pipeline, like the whole entertainment machine is syncing perfectly.
The trailer bursts into color. The art style fits One Piece immediately—bold outlines, expressive faces, exaggerated motion, and that lively, adventurous energy that makes the world feel playful even when someone is getting launched across the screen. The gameplay looks unique too. It isn't trying to be a standard fighting game like the KODO titles before it. It feels like an action brawler mixed with chaos, with characters dashing, launching, and chaining attacks in a way that looks like anime scenes turned into controls.
The arena isn't just a flat stage. It's a hazard-filled playground. Barrels roll in from the sides. Cannons fire at random intervals. Platforms break. Wind gusts shove fighters off balance. In one quick cut, the floor cracks and someone drops into a lower level mid-combo. In another, a sudden wave washes across the arena and drags everyone a step like the environment itself is part of the fight.
It showcases pure chaos—exactly the kind of chaos One Piece fans love. You can feel the audience getting interested not because it looks "serious," but because it looks fun in a way only that series can be: loud, dramatic, comedic, and still strangely competitive when you imagine people learning the hazards and turning them into traps.
These five games are released on ZEPS 3
Then, after showcasing the three KODO games, Zaboru appears on-screen again. This time he's thrown straight into a mini action skit—still in full Zabo-Man gear—brawling with a squad of metallic robots like something out of a Kamen Rider episode. The robots rush him in a messy swarm, sparks flying as he blocks and counters with exaggerated hero punches.
Then Zabo-Man slides back, plants his feet, and raises his palm toward the camera.
"ZABO-BEAM!"
A bright blast erupts from his hand, washing the screen in white. The robots explode into harmless cartoon scrap, and the smoke clears just in time for Zaboru to step forward and point directly at the audience again, like he's about to drop the real punchline.
"Our last game isn't for ZEPS 3," he announces, voice booming with pride. "It's for the Arcade—and that's the reason I'm fighting these evil robots! ARCADES never die!"
He pauses for half a beat, then snaps into a pose so sharp it feels like a logo.
"And because our next game is a fighting game… it's none other than Tekken 2!"
The trailer slams into gameplay. The difference is immediate. The visuals look like they belong to a higher tier—smoother motion, cleaner lighting, sharper character models, and stages with depth that makes ZEPS 3 suddenly feel like it's watching from the sidelines. People in stores and arcades lean closer without even realizing it.
This Tekken 2 doesn't look like a simple sequel—it looks like a leap. The presentation screams "arcade power," with fast camera cuts and impact flashes that make every hit feel heavy. Even the sound effects are louder, tighter, more metallic.
And then the roster reveals hits.
Jin Kazama steps onto the stage with that cold, focused posture—then the screen cuts to his opponent: a new fighter named Hwoarang. The announcer punches his name like a challenge, and Hwoarang answers with a fierce taekwondo stance, feet light, ready to explode.
They clash. Jin's strikes are crisp and precise. Hwoarang's kicks snap out like whips—chains of fast, stylish pressure that make the fight look like a choreographed duel instead of button-mashing. The trailer teases more characters in quick flashes, hinting at a roster closer to Tekken 3 from Zaboru's previous life, while the overall look pushes toward the kind of polish people would associate with Tekken 4-level visuals.
Anyone watching isn't used to seeing arcade graphics this insane at home—especially not right after ZEPS 3 footage. The contrast makes it feel even more shocking.
On TV, in arcades, in electronics stores—the audience is flabbergasted!
Then, after the Tekken 2 segment ends, Zaboru pops back onto the screen one last time. He's still Zabo-Man—back against the glowing backdrop like a hero at the end of an episode—his cape fluttering in slow motion as if the wind machine refuses to stop working.
He doesn't rush. He lets the silence sit for a beat, letting the hype settle in everyone's chest. Then he tilts his helmet slightly toward the camera, like he's sharing a secret with the entire world.
"Just buy it, okay?"
The line lands like a punchline and a command at the same time. In stores, people laugh. In arcades, people shout. At home, kids repeat it immediately, copying the pose like it's already a catchphrase.
The screen fades out—first the music, then the image, then after that it shows the release date 23 August 1999 then after it leaving only a final ZAGE logo as if stamping the month into memory.
And once again, ZAGE proves why it's different. Six games in one month, each one carrying insane quality and confidence, like the company refuses to understand the meaning of "slow down." Nobody else can do it like this. And the people watching—players, fans, even curious outsiders—are left buzzing with one simple thought:
August is going to be ridiculous.
To be continue
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