The game was finished.
Not in the ideal sense, but in the only way that mattered: it didn't crash, it could be completed, and it fit within the available memory without last-minute hacks. The RPG—clearly inspired by Zelda, though no one said it aloud—had small dungeons, a simple combat system, and maps that guided the player without explicit instructions.
It wasn't innovative.It was solid.
The weeks after sending the master copy felt strange. The studio opened every morning as usual, but there was no urgent goal. No one rushed. No one stayed late out of obligation.
We worked on small things. Minor fixes. Documentation that had always been postponed.
Waiting turned out to be harder than I expected.Not because of anxiety, but because of silence.
No emails. No phone calls. The magazines hadn't published anything yet. The game existed—but only for us.
Sometimes I turned on the PC-9801 and loaded the final version without changing anything. I walked through the maps for a few minutes, saved, and shut it down.
I wasn't looking for errors.I was just confirming that it was real.
"Do you think anyone will play it?"Mori asked one afternoon, not looking up from her desk.
"Someone will," I replied."That's enough."
I wasn't sure I believed it, but it sounded correct.
Kisaragi didn't pressure us. He observed. As if he knew that this quiet period was also part of the process.
The studio had survived until that point.Now we only had to see if the world would notice.