Kobayashi Tetsu really wanted, as he usually did, to try and seize the initiative in the conversation. But very quickly, he realized how difficult that was going to be.
Ōkawa Isao was chatting casually, yet firmly controlling the rhythm of the conversation. Every time Tetsu tried to say something, Ōkawa would smoothly switch topics in the midst of idle talk, leaving Tetsu with no choice but to follow along.
Ōkawa lifted the gauze cover on the table, revealing what lay beneath: a few simple side dishes. They carried the rough, unmistakable feel of home cooking. The plating was far from refined—everything was simply placed on different small plates and set out together.
Beside them, the elderly woman brought over a lacquered bowl filled with steaming white rice.
"Eat," Ōkawa said curtly. "I'll just watch."
As he spoke, he tapped the mask covering his face. Tetsu understood immediately.
Tuberculosis.
Without further hesitation, he picked up his bowl and chopsticks and began eating. In just a few bites, he had finished everything, then handed the empty bowl back to the elderly woman.
"Another bowl, please."
When the dishes were cleared and Tetsu set down his chopsticks, he looked straight at Ōkawa across the table.
It was obvious—the small talk was over. Now it was time for business.
"Sega's next step will be overseas expansion," Ōkawa said. "Both hardware and software will be adjusted accordingly. Tetsu, what do you think?"
"The first step has to be the United States," Tetsu replied.
At last, it was his turn to speak. Once he started, the words poured out.
"The console market right now is a war without gunfire. Whoever wins gains the initiative. Latecomers can only chase and struggle for a comeback."
"And the key to winning that war is the U.S. The United States sits at the top of global culture, yet Atari—the American giant of the game industry—collapsed due to critical internal problems. That bankruptcy plunged the entire U.S. market into deep pessimism."
"At a time like this, whoever enters the U.S. as Atari's replacement and brings out products that meet a basic standard of quality can seize the market."
"With America's enormous market size and purchasing power, even a small or mid-sized company could become a giant overnight."
There was, in truth, an even larger market—but one that simply wasn't accessible right now.
Tetsu paused briefly, then continued. "But all of this is just theory. The real issue is how to enter the U.S. market. America isn't lacking good games or companies capable of making them. The root cause of the current slump is still the chain reaction left behind by Atari."
"In other words, as long as you can restore Americans' confidence—in the console, and in the company behind it—anyone can open that door."
At that point, Tetsu stopped speaking.
He knew exactly how Nintendo had done it in history. It was a strategy that was almost zero-cost—and yet potentially the most expensive choice imaginable, to the point that Yamauchi Hiroshi had once fired the head of North American operations in fury.
But it worked.
Paired with the release of Super Mario Bros. 2 in 1985, it singlehandedly restored America's faith in the game industry.
When the Atari crash happened, U.S. experts had declared that the American game industry would take at least twenty years to recover.
Nintendo did it in just two.
Tetsu hadn't said this earlier because he was weighing whether it was something he should say at all—and what he would gain by saying it.
After a brief silence, he shook his head.
"What's the point of keeping it to myself?" he muttered. "It's not like I manufacture consoles anyway."
He looked up, meeting Ōkawa's gaze directly.
"Allow anyone who buys the console to return or exchange it—for one year, five years, even ten years."
That was it. One simple condition.
The cost could be low—or enormous. It depended entirely on the average integrity of American consumers.
When Nintendo first entered the U.S., its distribution agreements were ineffective. Sales in North America lagged behind Sega's. After all, Sega already had a North American branch and had once been an American company—it understood the environment far better.
But historically, Nintendo used this exact approach to rebuild consumer confidence in game consoles. Then, with a single, exceptionally high-quality game, it etched the name "Nintendo" into American memory—so deeply that history itself seemed to cry out.
"Nintendo? Don't!"
"Nintendon't! Get out of here!"
Of course, those cries came from domestic game companies. Players themselves wished Nintendo were an American company.
Tetsu finished speaking and said no more.
Ōkawa folded his hands, pondering the seemingly simple proposal.
Allowing returns—with such long time limits—meant taking responsibility for anything that happened during that period.
And yet, he had to admit it.
If Sega truly did this, America's purchasing power made it highly likely that people would buy the console.
If a truly outstanding game followed, the U.S. market could be opened completely.
Even so, the consequences would be immense.
A five- or ten-year guarantee meant Sega would be bearing staggering costs.
Ōkawa didn't know about Pinduoduo. If he did, he would understand that no-questions-asked returns created exactly this kind of problem—where costs were pushed onto merchants, and some people exploited the system by refunding without returning goods.
After a long while, Ōkawa finally lowered his hands.
"You can't overestimate people's character," he said.
"Then why underestimate it?" Tetsu replied.
Even if some people abused refunds for profit, the vast majority would still use the rules properly to protect their legitimate rights.
A small loss did not mean everything was a loss.
Ōkawa raised his eyes slightly. A strange light flickered within them.
"Underestimate… or overestimate?" he murmured. "Interesting."
He stood up, clearly signaling the end of the meeting.
"It's late. You should go back and rest. If possible, I'd like you to stay with Sega."
He explained his terms one by one.
"The revenue split cannot be adjusted further. You know very well that this price has no room left—go any higher, and profits become negligible."
"However, I can personally approve cartridge production. Atlus has the qualifications and status to manufacture cartridges independently, without going through Sega's designated factories."
"And most importantly," Ōkawa continued, "Atlus should retain its independence. It doesn't matter if you make games for other companies. Without that independence, passion fades. On this point, I can't offer better terms than Nintendo—because Nintendo can't offer better terms than Sega."
"The only promise I can make is this: when Sega operates and publishes in North America, all Atlus titles will receive the highest priority. They'll be scheduled first and treated as flagship titles during promotion."
Tetsu knew Ōkawa was right.
Even if he started his own company and sold games independently, achieving a 15% profit margin would be difficult. Only massive corporations negotiating at scale could manage more than that.
That was why, the moment Nakayama mentioned a 15% split, Tetsu knew he wasn't sincere—because at that level, Sega itself made almost no profit.
So when Ōkawa said he couldn't raise the price further, it was the truth.
The royalty system was both a shackle and a guarantee of quality. Sega and Nintendo alike would never abandon it—at most, they would optimize certain clauses.
That was why Ōkawa said neither he nor Nintendo could offer better terms.
When conditions were nearly identical, the deciding factor was emotion.
Kentarō had told Tetsu not to let emotions guide his decisions.
But now, Tetsu wanted to listen to them.
"I've heard Sega plans to launch a new console in North America," Tetsu said, bowing slightly. "Development has long been underway. I'm working on a title designed specifically for this new hardware. I call it a 'triple-A game.'"
"Because making it requires enormous funding, massive resources, and a great deal of time. Atlus will use this game to escort Sega's future North American console forward."
Ōkawa slowly shook his head.
"No," he said. "It should be said the other way around. Sega's new console will be the one escorting this game."
He picked up his fountain pen and wrote a string of numbers on the back of a newspaper.
"When you have time, come visit me. I like watching young people eat—devouring food with that kind of appetite."
Tetsu carefully folded the newspaper, bowed deeply to Ōkawa, and followed the elderly woman out.
Ōkawa certainly had business cards. Writing a number on a newspaper meant this was a private home number—one that couldn't be shared.
At that moment, Tetsu truly understood how Yuji Naka had felt back then.
As he stepped out of the small villa, he stood outside, looking at the darkened sky, and let out a long yawn.
Now he was genuinely exhausted.
He needed to find somewhere to sleep—and fast.
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