With this worry in mind, Takuya Nakayama entered the game.
However, after playing for only a short while, his previously calm expression instantly collapsed.
On the screen, a line of pixelated Chinese characters glared at him: "Fat Dragon used Fist Jab."
Takuya stared at the screen for a full half-minute before realizing that it should have read: "Dragonite used Thunder Punch."
He had already "leaked" all the original Japanese text files that were supposed to be burned onto the cartridges at the Taiwan factory to Nine-Tattooed Dragon. Logically, it should have been a simple matter of translating the Japanese text into Chinese and replacing it. How on earth did these people manage to butcher even the standard answers so badly? Could it be that the same group was responsible for the hànwà (Chinese localization) in his past life as well?
"What a talent..."
Takuya Nakayama threw the controller back on the desk with a wry smile.
The feel was stiff, the buttons springing back like they were pressing against a lump of hardened chewing gum.
He swapped to another RPG cartridge, and the situation was even more disastrous.
The plot dialogue was nonsensical, with "King" translated as "Class Monitor" and "Princess" as "Comrade." These were actually considered decent translations—at least they were faithful, understandable, and elegant. Not to mention the completely unintelligible garbled text.
In Japan or the United States, consumers would have torn down Sega Headquarters if they'd been sold such garbage.
But in China at the time, this was a child's treasure, the key to unlocking a new world.
Takuya Nakayama leaned back in his chair, his fingers lightly tapping the casing of the shoddy console.
The report mentioned that despite their questionable quality and high failure rate, these machines were conquering the childhoods of second-tier Chinese cities at a terrifying pace. This was thanks to their rock-bottom prices—a mere eighth to a tenth of the genuine article—and the widespread "rent-a-machine" model that had taken root in every alley and street.
That was enough.
At this stage, China's electronic component supply chain was simply not up to par. Expecting them to produce original-quality components would be like expecting pigs to fly.
As long as that blue hedgehog and Sega's logo could be imprinted in the minds of a generation, this seemingly passive move would have paid off.
As for the future—
Takuya Nakayama's gaze drifted out the window. He knew all too well that China's gaming market would follow a unique path for a long time to come: PC dominance.
The rise of internet cafes would completely reshape the gaming ecosystem.
But that wasn't bad news for him.
After all, across the ocean, the company called Blizzard had already been acquired by Sega.
By the time StarCraft, Warcraft, and Diablo swept through China's internet cafes, Sega remained the silent winner, counting its money behind the scenes.
And, if Takuya calculated correctly, the magazine Electronic Gaming Software, which would soon be hailed as a bible by countless Chinese gamers, was about to launch.
Watching those editors write fiery prose on paper, waving the Sega banner, would surely be an amusing sight.
"This overwhelming fortune... it seems the Nine-Tattooed Dragon has truly secured it," Takuya Nakayama chuckled softly, tucking the counterfeit console back into the file folder.
Better to keep this "dark history" locked away in a cabinet. As for Oguchi Hisao, letting him know it existed was enough; there was no need to let him see the actual item, lest he start worrying unnecessarily.
Unlike the unified North American market and Japan's relatively cohesive domestic scene, the European landscape was a chaotic stew.
Language barriers, disparate currencies, and wildly varying government policies toward video games made it a tough nut to crack. For Sega to tackle this challenge head-on would be exhausting and could easily lead to a broken tooth.
In this life, he continued with his previous strategy, tossing this hot potato to the French family business—Ubisoft.
One had to admit, the Guillemot Brothers were truly born businessmen.
Riding the coattails of Sega's global expansion in recent years, Ubisoft thrived in Europe far more than in their previous life.
They not only distributed Sega products in Parisian department stores but even plastered Sega posters across the streets of London.
"Managing Director, this is a fax from France," the assistant said, placing a document lightly on the desk. "Mr. Guillermo is asking if we can provide them with Jupiter development kits. They say they're assembling a new development team and want to test their skills on the new platform."
Takuya Nakayama glanced at the document, a faint smile curling his lips.
In his previous life, Ubisoft had still been stuck distributing games, occasionally dabbling in small projects to test the waters.
It seemed Sega's meteoric rise had ignited their ambition. These Frenchmen no longer wanted to remain mere carriers.
"Approve it," Takuya Nakayama said, picking up his pen and signing the document. "Tell Guillermo I'm not afraid of their ambition, only their incompetence. And remember to keep a backup of this level of matter with Koguchi's team from now on."
If he recalled correctly, Rayman, that armless and legless character who could fly all over the screen, was probably taking shape in the mind of the genius designer Michel Ancel.
Since Ubisoft had hitched their wagon to Sega in this timeline, it would be best for that onion-headed fellow to happily come to Jupiter.
After dealing with Western Europe, Takuya Nakayama's finger slid across the map eastward, stopping at Poland.
This was Eastern Europe, a virgin territory waiting to be cultivated.
Because Sega had dumped its surplus SG-1000 and Master System consoles in Eastern Europe early on, the gaming market there had awakened sooner than in his previous life.
Though piracy ran rampant, the seeds of legitimate business practices were beginning to sprout.
Among an obscure list of Eastern European distributors, Takuya Nakayama spotted a name all too familiar: CD Projekt.
This small company, which would only be registered in Warsaw in 1994 in their previous life, had already been established in 1993. Their core business remained importing games from the United States and reselling them at Warsaw's flea markets.
Marcin Iwiński and Michał Kiciński, these two young men, could never have dreamed that they would one day become the "Polish Dumbass" that global gamers would worship.
"Interesting," Takuya Nakayama mused, gently tapping the name with his finger. "It seems the butterfly effect has even reached Warsaw's flea markets."
Though these men were still just resellers at the time, their passion for RPGs and their unwavering commitment to localization (in this case, Polonization) were etched into their very bones.
"Koguchi," Takuya Nakayama pressed the call button on his desk.
"Yes?"
"Check our distribution agreement with Ubisoft. When does the clause regarding Eastern Europe expire?"
"One moment—December 31, 1995." Oguchi Hisao's voice quickly came back. "The current terms grant Ubisoft exclusive distribution rights for the entire European continent."
"Two more years..." Takuya Nakayama leaned back in his chair, lost in thought.
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