A female reporter in the front row set down her coffee cup.
The humanoid figure slowly turned its head. While the facial modeling wasn't particularly refined by the technology of the ti, the rotting skin texture, the gash stretching from the corner of its mouth to its ear, and the milky film covering its eyes still delivered a powerful visual impact on the big screen.
It stood up.
Its joints were twisted at unnatural angles.
Its knees bent backward at an abnormal angle, its center of gravity leaning forward. Its arms hung limply as it shuffled toward the cara, step by step.
The audience held its breath.
The scene shifted.
A short-haired female character, pistol in hand, pressed herself against a wall. The cara cut to a fixed, high-angle overhead shot.
Three identical humanoids appeared at the end of the corridor. They moved slowly, but the sheer number of them created an undeniable sense of pressure.
The editing pace quickened.
A door burst open, revealing a room cramd with filing cabinets. Docunts and photographs were scattered across the desk.
A close-up of text flashed on screen—an experintal log. The clinical tone of the writing contrasted sharply with the stomach-churning content.
The cara panned down another long corridor. The windows on either side were shattered, and moonlight stread in, illuminating two mangled corpses lying on the floor. As the character passed, one of the bodies twitched.
The entire trailer was silent.
Only environntal sounds filled the air: footsteps, the creak of doors opening and closing, and the occasional muffled thud of sothing collapsing in the distance.
In the final three seconds, the fra froze on a close-up: a hand clawed its way out of a crack in the floor, its fingers spasming open.
Black screen.
Two English words materialized in the center of the screen:
BIOHAZARD.
The audience fell silent for about three seconds.
Then, applause erupted—not the polite clapping from before, but a visceral reaction, as if they'd been physically struck.
The flashbulbs of several front-row photographers blazed simultaneously, furiously snapping photos of the title still lingering on the screen.
Yoshiki Okamoto returned to the microphone, a restrained smirk playing on his lips.
"This title is scheduled for release on PlayStation and Jupiter. The release date is yet to be determined."
With that, he bowed and exited the stage.
"If they actually make this, the ESRB will have to invent a whole new rating category for it," muttered a GaPro reporter, scratching his head as if trying to calm the lingering shock.
"The subject matter is brutal," said soone from Electronic Gaming Monthly, flipping through their materials. The information about the ga was sparse—just a single line listing the title, planned platforms, and the genre tag "survival horror." "Survival horror? I've never heard that genre na before."
"Capcom probably made it up."
"Whatever they call it, the atmosphere in that trailer was so effective it could have been a movie."
At the manufacturer's table, Takuya Nakayama twirled his pen.
Capcom's press conference structure was clever. They front-loaded eleven gas, exhausting the dia's attention and ink. Everyone thought it was over.
Then they saved one final ga for the grand finale, ending with a completely different pace and tone.
Yoshiki Okamoto had played his cards well.
After Capcom's presentation, two other manufacturers briefly showcased their content.
Tecmo presented Tecmo Super Bowl III, for both the Super Famicom and ga Drive.
Arican football was a safe bet at E3. The Arican journalists and retailers in the audience naturally gravitated toward the genre.
Though the demonstration was brief, the audience's reaction was far more enthusiastic than for Konami's Japanese football ga.
Intelligent Systems' Panel de Pon for the Super Famicom.
A vibrant and charming puzzle ga with a fast-paced and engaging gaplay loop.
This company, a Nintendo developnt studio, had its products released under the Nintendo banner, but its presentation ti was allocated separately.
Amidst the relentless barrage of ga trailers, it was now past 11:30.
The residual tension from Capcom's Resident Evil trailer had barely dissipated when the main stage screen went dark.
Staff mbers swiftly replaced the naplate on the podium.
The PlayStation logo lit up.
It was Sony's turn.
Ken Kutaragi strode onto the stage.
He wore a dark suit without a tie, his collar unbuttoned twice.
This semi-formal attire made him stand out among the sea of sharply dressed Japanese executives.
Approaching the microphone, he offered brief greetings and an introduction before imdiately raising his hand to point at the screen behind him.
Actions speak louder than words.
The screen lit up.
The first ga was unveiled.
Its art style leaned towards Japanese fantasy, with highly saturated colors.
The character models, while impressive for the 3D technology of the ti, showed so effort in controlling jagged edges to an acceptable level.
Fairy Warrior.
A gaplay demonstration began.
The male protagonist wandered through a village, with smooth cara transitions.
During the combat system showcase, magic spells filled half the screen with light and shadow effects.
The content was standard, demonstrating the PlayStation's ability to handle traditional Japanese RPGs at a passing grade.
The company logo at the beginning of the video caused a small stir in the dia section.
Sony Computer Entertainnt X Square.
Several Japanese reporters in the front row stopped writing and exchanged glances.
"Square?" The Famitsu editor adjusted his glasses. "Doesn't Sega have a stake in Square?"
His colleague whispered back, "Sega's investnt was purely financial. They didn't demand an exclusivity agreent. Square is still free to develop gas for other platforms."
"That's too generous! They spent real money to buy their 'adopted son' and then turned around and endorsed a rival."
"Generous? No, it's smart. Sega wants Square's production capacity and technical expertise, not to tie them down to one platform. And look closely—this ga is listed as a collaborative developnt. Sony is funding it, and Square is providing the manpower. Everyone gets what they need. Square must be making a killing on this deal."
Regardless of the murmurs in the audience, the words remained fixed on the screen.
Even as a collaborative partner, Square's golden brand was enough to bolster the PlayStation's lineup of Japanese RPGs.
The Fairy Warrior demo lasted three minutes.
Ken Kutaragi remained silent.
The screen went black for two seconds.
Second ga.
No producer interviews. No background introductions.
The footage began imdiately.
A glowing track hovered in mid-air.
There was no sound of tires skidding on pavent.
Instead, the sound system blasted high-intensity electronic synth music with a breakneck rhythm.
A streamlined aircraft entered the fra.
No wheels.
It flew close to the track surface, its tail spewing blue particles.
Speed.
Visceral speed.
As the aircraft rounded a bend, the tallic texture of the track surface blurred into streaks, and the cyberpunk-style buildings on either side dissolved into indistinct color blocks.
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