"Alright, that's it for today," Takuya Nakayama said, standing up. "Rember, everything discussed in today's eting is classified as top secret. I don't want to hear any whispers about this within the company."
The three n stood up in unison, their expressions solemn as they acknowledged his words.
Shouldering their respective heavy responsibilities, they left the conference room.
The door closed behind them, shutting out the almost boiling fervor that had filled the room.
Takuya Nakayama walked slowly back to his executive office. Behind closed doors, the calm deanor of a strategist quietly transford into a thoughtful expression.
Yu Suzuki and the others had been assigned technical tasks, tasked with breaking down the barriers between hardware and software.
But what about Takuya Nakayama's mission?
He pulled out his chair and sat down, his fingers lightly tapping the smooth surface of his desk.
His battlefield wasn't in the laboratory or at the developnt console, but in that boardroom—a room decorated in a dignified, classical style, yet capable of becoming suffocatingly tense at any mont.
No matter how genius the technical blueprints or how revolutionary the controller design, none of it mattered to those old n who only cared about the bottom line. To them, nothing beat a single line of solid numbers.
The ga Drive was still selling like hotcakes, cash flowing into the company's accounts like a waterfall. At this point, proposing to invest over a billion dollars in a project called "the future"—even if spread out over two years—would likely make them sound like lunatics.
After all, this was Japan.
A comical scene from his past life surfaced in Takuya Nakayama's mind: nearly a quarter of the way through the twenty-first century, governnt agencies were still scrambling around the world looking for computers that could read 3.5-inch floppy disks just to submit data.
He absolutely couldn't let Sega beco that kind of conservative organization.
Conservatism could be prudent, but sotis it was a shortcut to the grave.
He needed to prepare solid ammunition to blast open the profit-blinded minds of his colleagues.
Trying to convince them with empty words like "Trust , we can win" was sothing only fools did.
What he needed were ticulously detailed research reports that made people's hair stand on end, and irrefutable market data to back up his "prophecies."
With this thought, he pressed the intercom button, connecting to his assistant's desk.
"Kobayashi, co in."
Soon, Kobayashi knocked and entered, his posture deferential.
"Managing Director, what are your instructions?"
Takuya Nakayama's voice was calm. "I need you to imdiately coordinate with the marketing departnt and gather several reports on completely different topics."
Kobayashi imdiately took out his notebook, his expression focused.
"First, I want a report on the latest developnts in semiconductor and graphics technology among all potential global competitors. This includes Nintendo, Sony, and several North Arican tech companies. I need to know what technology patents they've acquired, what talent they've poached—even the slightest rumors must be included."
"Second, conduct an anonymous, in-depth survey of our current third-party developers. The focus should be on their expectations for future ga developnt, their views on 3D technology, and the pain points in their current developnt environnt. I want their genuine opinions, not PR spin."
"Third, I need a detailed report on household spending habits related to entertainnt. Specifically, I want to know how much a typical Japanese or Arican family in 1994-1995 would be willing to spend on a groundbreaking new gaming console. Would it be $299? $399? Or $499? I need precise ranges and supporting data."
"Fourth, I want a report on what players expect from the next-generation console in terms of gas."
Kobayashi scribbled furiously, his forehead already glistening with sweat.
Each of these tasks was massive and intricate, far beyond the scope of routine operations, and pointed towards a clear, specific goal.
"Yes, Managing Director!" Kobayashi nodded emphatically, sensing that a storm was brewing.
"Go ahead. Take your ti with these reports. I'm not in a rush, but I need them to be thorough and reliable," Takuya Nakayama said, waving him off.
After Kobayashi left, the office fell silent.
Nakayama leaned back in his chair and let out a long sigh.
With the assignnts delegated, all that remained was to let the process unfold step by step.
After finishing his urgent tasks, Takuya Nakayama glanced at his schedule and headed toward the ga developnt departnt.
He was going to check on Prince Hiroi.
Ever since that fateful eting in his office a year ago—a eting that could have been described as a "religious conversion"—Prince Hiroi had thrown himself into the romantic yet war-torn world of the Taisho Era, carrying the Sakura Wars project with him.
It had been exactly a year.
Takuya Nakayama believed in letting experts handle their specialties. Aside from overseeing project approval, finalizing the core production team, and approving periodic funding, he had interfered very little.
And Prince Hiroi had not disappointed him.
The character designs were by Kosuke Fujishima.
The overall script was by Hidenori Matsubara.
The music was composed by Kohei Tanaka.
The animation production was handled by Madhouse.
This dream team, perfectly replicating the lineup from the original series, put Takuya Nakayama's mind at ease.
His visit today was simply a routine check-in on this busy man who shuttled tirelessly between Sega Headquarters, his own company, and Madhouse.
At the door to Prince Hiroi's temporary office, before Takuya Nakayama could even knock, faint yet fervent strains of music seeped through the crack.
He pushed the door open and found Prince Hiroi wearing a pair of massive headphones, his right hand tapping out a rhythm on his crossed leg, his body swaying slightly to the beat. Completely imrsed in the music, he didn't even notice when soone entered.
Takuya Nakayama cleared his throat.
Prince Hiroi sprang up from his chair like a cat whose tail had been stepped on. When he saw it was Takuya Nakayama, he froze for a mont before his face erupted in a frenzy of excitent.
"Executive Director Nakayama! You're here just in ti! Co! Listen to this!"
Without waiting for a response, he yanked the headphones off his head and shoved them onto Takuya Nakayama's head, his eyes shining with anticipation like a child showing off a precious treasure.
The next mont, a storm of intense strings and wild rock guitar riffs crashed into Takuya Nakayama's ears.
It's that one!
[ Declaration! Imperial Guard Corps ]!
This battle the, etched into the DNA of every fan, now showcased its unparalleled impact in its rawest, purest instruntal form.
The romance of the Taisho Era, the collision of cherry blossoms and swords, the resolve of girls defending the Imperial Capital—all the emotions were perfectly captured in these few minutes of lody.
When the song ended, Takuya Nakayama slowly removed the headphones, a genuine smile spreading across his face.
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