"This—" Takuya blinked, somewhat dazed.
He was used to the elaborate cosplay at conventions in his previous life, but this was the streets of 1994 Japan.
The appearance of this wild cosplay meant that Sakura Wars was no longer just a game; it was beginning to seep into the very capillaries of popular culture.
"Looks like your little sweetheart is quite popular," Eri said with a chuckle, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "You can even run into her in the park."
Takuya cleared his throat, trying to maintain a serious demeanor. "That's not true. Besides, isn't my real goddess right here next to me?"
"Smooth talker," Eri rolled her eyes, but she readily peeled a grape and popped it into his mouth. "But honestly, even though I don't quite understand men's idea of romance, seeing how much everyone loves that story makes me proud too. My father called the other day complaining that the station's hotline was being flooded by viewers demanding a rerun."
"That's good," Takuya said, chewing on a grape and watching the "Sakura Shinguji" cosplayer striking a pose. His eyes were deep with thought. "When we get back next week, I can have Mr. Hiroi put the Sakura Wars stage play on the schedule. Now that we've got this fire going, we need to add more fuel."
"You're such a workaholic," Eri said, shaking her head helplessly. She reached out to wipe a smear of candy from Kazuki's mouth. "We finally came out to spend time with our son, and you're still thinking about business."
"I'm earning money to buy this little guy his formula," Takuya said, ruffling his son's hair. The boy was staring longingly at the wooden sword in the cosplayer's hand, his mouth watering.
A gust of wind swept through, sending cherry blossoms swirling through the air.
Watching this pink world unfold before him, with young people in the distance mimicking poses from the game, Takuya felt an indescribable sense of accomplishment.
This is right.
Games shouldn't just be a pastime hidden away in dim rooms. They should come out into the sunlight and become a shared memory for everyone.
When the vacation ended, Takuya Nakayama had barely settled into his seat in the Executive Office when Oguchi Hisao burst in, clutching a stack of folders.
"Progress report on the Jupiter launch escort team's development progress," Oguchi Hisao said, slapping the top file onto the desk. His expression wasn't one of reporting work, but of boasting about achievements. "Thanks to your insistence that the Development Team use Model 2 development machines for the foundational build, we've seamlessly transitioned to the Jupiter architecture. This approach has put us an average of two months ahead of schedule compared to waiting for the Jupiter development machines to arrive."
Takuya Nakayama casually flipped through the pages. The densely packed progress bars were all a comforting shade of green.
The result was as he'd expected. After all, Jupiter and Model 2 shared a certain architectural lineage. If this "head start" strategy hadn't worked, it would have been a miracle.
"Well done," Takuya Nakayama said, closing the folder. "Since we're ahead of schedule, I want each Development Team to use the extra time to refine the details. For the new console's debut, I want it to be 'stunning'—not just 'good enough'."
With Oguchi Hisao, the "master manager," overseeing the details, Takuya no longer had to personally monitor development progress or ponder the broader strategic direction of the group.
Yet, the greatest lie a boss tells is that he's free.
The phone on the desk rang.
"Executive Director Nakayama, that's not fair," Chuta Mitsui, an executive director at Bandai, said from the receiver, his voice tinged with sourness, like a wronged little wife. "You take Sunrise to the States for all the good times, and leave us at Bandai freezing in Tokyo? What, is Sega so big now they look down on us poor relatives who sell plastic figures?"
It was clear Sunrise had already relayed the news of their contract with Turner back home. When the Bandai executives saw that their anime was about to air on a major American channel, they felt both proud and resentful.
"Mr. Mitsui, you're being unfair," Takuya Nakayama replied, holding the receiver between his shoulder and ear while signing another document. "I'm just doing the grunt work for you. I've paved the way with Turner. When you start shipping Gundam models to the States by the boatload, don't be shy about counting the cash. And don't forget to buy me a drink when you do."
"A drink is a small matter," Mitsui Mitsui said, his tone shifting to a more serious note. "President Yamashina feels the same way. He's noticed you haven't been visiting Bandai as often lately, and he thinks we're growing distant. He keeps saying he'd like to find an opportunity to catch up with you."
"Catch up" was a pretense. The real purpose was to probe for information.
Sega had been making waves lately, with both a new console and a major push into the United States. While Bandai remained a staunch ally, they couldn't help but feel anxious about keeping up, their confidence wavering.
Takuya Nakayama glanced at the desk calendar, his gaze lingering on the date circled in red at the end of the month.
That was the deadline for the Third Group to submit the prototype for Gundam Battle Operation.
"Alright, no need for President Yamashina to run errands. Please come to Sega in early April," Takuya Nakayama said with a smile, tapping his fingers lightly on the desk. "I have something interesting I'd like to show you both."
There was a pause on the other end of the line, followed by Chuta Mitsui's voice, tinged with anticipation: "Then I'll eagerly await it?"
After hanging up with Mitsui, Takuya rubbed his stiff neck and casually pushed the Bandai documents aside. From the bottom drawer, he retrieved a plain, unlabeled package.
This was the "internal secret" Tanaka Tsuyoshi had personally carried back from Hong Kong.
As he opened the package, the pungent smell of cheap plastic filled the air.
Takuya couldn't help but frown as he pulled out a crudely made black console.
The seams of the casing were rough and burred, and a gentle shake sent parts rattling inside.
A crooked line of gold-leaf letters was stamped on the front: "SEGAMEGADRIVER."
The addition of an "R" made it sound even more "dynamic."
This was the Nine-Tattooed Dragon's masterpiece in mainland China.
According to Tanaka's report, the loyal Triad Boss had indeed kept his word. In just a few months, he had established an underground network across Guangdong Province, even extending his reach to the capital cities of neighboring provinces. Four workshops, operating under the guise of "electronic toy factories," worked day and night. One was responsible for injection molding and assembling these "MegaDrivers," another counterfeited the GamePocket, and the remaining two specialized in converting Japanese cartridges into "understandable" Chinese versions.
Takuya Nakayama plugged the counterfeit GamePocket into a 100V to 220V voltage converter, then inserted a yellow cartridge labeled Pikachu's Great Adventure.
When he powered it on, the familiar startup sound had been replaced by a grating electronic tone that sounded like a duck being strangled.
Could the counterfeit manufacturer have cut costs by using cheaper audio components? If it's just the audio components, the impact on the GamePocket won't be too severe. Let's hope the other aspects are better.
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