In the Atlas garage, the other three were busy developing Excite Motocross, but Kobayashi Tetsu was different—his mission was the most "important" of all.
Tetsu's top priority was to order meals for the team… and play games.
If you've hired people, why would you still do the work yourself? That would defeat the purpose!
Every day after school, Kozakawa would ride over, play games for two hours, then pedal her bicycle back home.
"You're playing Jörmungandr, huh?"
Arms folded, Tetsu stood behind the mat watching for a moment before asking, "So for this esports tournament, you're planning to enter the Jörmungandr bracket?"
Kozakawa nodded vigorously, then turned to him with a look of shy expectation. "What about you, Tetsu-kun?"
"Oh, I'm not participating this time. I'm a judge."
Tetsu said it as casually as one might comment on the weather.
Kozakawa blinked in confusion.
Why is he a judge?!
"Playing in tournaments is boring. The first one was enough for me—it was just for fun. If I keep entering, everyone else will suffer, you know? They'd be facing an opponent they can't possibly beat."
Tetsu said this with absolute confidence. Kozakawa… did not believe a single word of it.
No one is that strong!
"Don't believe me?" Tetsu chuckled, rolled up his sleeves, and picked up the controller.
It was time to demonstrate true technique.
"For example—the first stage of Jörmungandr. There are several hidden point triggers. Hit them and you'll get an automatic score lead. Also, there are tricks for fast-clearing it. All enemies spawn in fixed locations and move along set routes."
As he spoke, his hands moved with effortless precision.
A line of enemy ships here, a cluster of fleshy walls there, interlocking tentacles elsewhere—everything was destroyed or dodged with perfect accuracy. Not a single monster slipped through the screen.
Kozakawa sat on a low stool beside him, chin in her hands, watching Tetsu command the battlefield with awe.
"For score runs, there's one route. For speedruns, another. But the most important thing is 'board memorization'—remembering every enemy and item spawn point, always knowing your upgrade level, and grabbing power cores at the right time."
Kozakawa suddenly raised her hand. "Rinko has a question! What if the monsters don't show up where they're supposed to? Then you can't memorize anything!"
"That's impossible. Games today rely on fixed positions. That's how they're designed."
Tetsu didn't pause the game—he simply explained while continuing flawlessly.
"To put it bluntly—you think the monsters are attacking you. But the monsters don't even know you exist. Everything follows a preset script. For example, a formation may look like many enemies, but only the lead enemy actually moves on a programmed path. The rest just copy that path."
"That way, the screen looks full of enemies, but only one is really being processed."
This was the hallmark of early video games: enemies had no AI.
Many modern players wonder why the games that were "impossible" in their childhood become so easy when replayed as adults.
The reason is simple—early games had no actual artificial intelligence.
Monsters followed simple, predefined routes.
Only stage bosses had even a hint of AI, and even that was primitive.
"For example, in the first stage of Contra, aside from the sniper up top, the fortress just fires endlessly. For speedruns, you can just somersault inside and hit the core. The cannons don't matter."
That was because, at the time, consoles simply didn't have the capacity for general AI. The grunts in Contra simply spawned randomly and ran around—they had no tactics whatsoever.
It was a necessary compromise. Starting from Contra's second stage, the bosses began having something resembling intelligence.
"Artificial intelligence… yeah, that's important. But it's really not my area."
Tetsu rubbed his eyebrows.
He was just an enthusiast—he had learned some early programming, studied some mid- and late-era game design, and even continued studying Kentaro's notebook regularly. But an enthusiast is still not a professional.
"I need to find someone who can improve monster AI… or figure out if we can do it ourselves."
Tetsu quietly added this to his mental schedule.
Kozakawa didn't really understand his explanation, but diligently scribbled in her notebook anyway.
Might be useful for submissions to Kadokawa Game Monthly!
"Speaking of which…" Kozakawa suddenly asked a very sharp question.
"Tetsu-kun, why do you know so much? You even know the hidden stuff in the levels. The game hasn't been out long. The anime didn't mention any of this!"
"Well, that's because we made Jörmungandr."
Tetsu suddenly paused the game, turned, and looked down at her.
Some things couldn't be hidden forever.
But her expression held no greed, no scheming—only excitement, admiration, and pure joy.
"Really? Ah!!" She looked up at him like she'd just discovered a new continent. "So the reason you play Kobayashi Blocks so well is because you made the game?!"
"That's right."
Tetsu answered calmly, but in his heart, something quietly loosened.
He hadn't seen the expression he feared most.
He resumed the game and, right before the stage boss—a giant brain—he suddenly rammed into it.
The brain exploded instantly.
"Because of the shield. With a shield, you're invincible. So you can just crash into the first boss to kill it. Only works for stage one."
Just another speedrunning trick—nothing special.
He explained several strategies for Jörmungandr—Salamander—until two hours later, when he finally saw Kozakawa off.
As soon as she left, the others in the garage all turned toward him.
Yuji Naka scratched his cheek. "President, you really kept something that big from her all this time?"
Tetsu shrugged. "I just… have a sort of cleanliness issue."
He tapped his chest.
Why like JKs?
Because in middle and high school, hearts are still pure.
The more successful a person is, the harder it becomes to find genuine love.
You can never be sure whether someone likes you, or just your money.
That's why, once people reach a certain level, relationships become nothing more than collecting stamps—feelings have long left the equation.
So yes, Tetsu had to admit—he had a kind of emotional "cleanliness," which was why he kept all these things from her.
But now…
Tetsu let out a small laugh and shook his head.
He had still been thinking too much like an adult, and far too little like a high schooler.
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