As the pedoter craze swept Japan, a new temptation quietly captured children's attention.
Toy store windows in shopping districts transford overnight, as if enchanted.
Spaces once filled with traditional dolls and robots were now overtaken by vibrant, varied "new residents."
Licensed manufacturers like Tomy, San-X, and Mattel, authorized by Sega, rolled out the first wave of Pokémon rchandise at astonishing speed.
Plush Pikachu grinned adorably, Charmander's tail tip seed to flicker with warm flas, Squirtle's round head begged to be petted, and Bulbasaur lay quietly in a corner, its seed brimming with life.
Crystal-clear Poké Ball keychains shimred under lights, catching the eye.
Shiny Pokémon stickers sparked young kids' primal collecting urges.
Most captivating was the "Poké Ball belt" modeled after Ash's gear in the ani.
With simple nylon buckles, available in three- or six-ball styles, it instantly struck boys' dreams of becoming "true trainers."
At the dismissal bell, kids flocked like freed birds, chattering, to these stores.
They pressed against the glass, faces nearly glued, eyes gleaming with longing.
"Wow! That Pikachu hat—it's like having Pikachu on your head!"
"I want that Charmander backpack! It's like it's riding on my back!"
"That belt's so cool! I'd be a Pokémon Master with it!"
Excited chatter filled the air with pure eagerness and possessiveness.
This rchandise wave spread from street shops to mall toy sections, even reaching school-adjacent convenience stores.
Product variety grew visibly.
Pokémon-patterned canvas backpacks turned school commutes into adventures.
Eevee-printed insulated water bottles made plain water taste better.
Pikachu umbrellas brightened rainy days.
Even plain pencil cases, adorned with Bulbasaur, beca special.
These products, well-designed and colorful, perfectly matched their target audience's tastes.
Kyosuke was distracted lately.
His eyes kept drifting to a classmate's waist, where a new "three-ball" Poké Ball belt proudly declared its owner's "style."
That classmate walked with a straighter back than usual.
Kyosuke touched his empty waist, then the precious Pikachu pet in his pocket, gripped by intense longing.
In class, he secretly calculated how much allowance he needed for the belt and how many chores he'd do for his mom to afford it.
It wasn't just kids like Kyosuke.
Young office won, passing mall counters during lunch, were drawn to cute, round Pokémon plush keychains.
They'd pick an Eevee or Pikachu to hang on their commute bags, adding color to their mundane work lives.
Pokémon's charm quietly perated all ages, showing its universal appeal.
At checkouts, parents wore helpless yet indulgent smiles, shelling out for their kids' passion.
Though not cheap, the buying fervor showed no signs of fading.
As this rchandise craze intensified, Pokémon episode four, "The Samurai Boy's Challenge!," aired on schedule.
When Ash's frail tapod, facing a fierce Beedrill, glowed with dazzling white light at a critical mont, a vibrant Butterfree erged, resolving the crisis with Sleep Powder.
Kids watching erupted in cheers.
Those with Caterpie or tapod pets leaped from their couches.
"It evolved! My tapod can beco Butterfree too!"
The day after, a fiercer "step-counting" passion exploded among kids.
They ran and walked more eagerly, desperate to see their Pokémon's dazzling transformation.
Butterfree plushies, stickers, and patterned goods surged in sales, becoming the new hot item.
Subtle changes spread to wider groups.
"My kid walks to school for his Caterpie now, even eats breakfast faster."
"I heard kids cried when Butterfree evolved. Unbelievable."
Topics like "Butterfree's tears" or "walking for Pokémon growth" popped up in young parents' chat groups and even fashion magazine columns tracking pop culture.
Pokémon's influence, like ripples from a stone in a lake, visibly spread beyond young kids, showing signs of "breaking out."
During a grading break, Kinoshita noticed this shift.
Colleagues who usually discussed dramas or celebrity gossip were now eagerly chatting about Pokémon's ani.
"That Pikachu's so cute, ending every word with 'Pika'—adorable!"
"Did you see the latest episode? Butterfree's gorgeous! I nearly cried when Ash released it."
Kinoshita set down her red pen, a smile tugging at her lips.
This craze, sparked by a tiny electronic pet, exceeded all expectations.
anwhile, at Sega's headquarters, a monthly performance review eting for the Pokémon project convened on the top floor.
In the ani's first month, electronic pet sales were explosive, causing nationwide stock shortages, with production lines struggling to et demand.
But for a company like Sega, the pets' profit margins weren't particularly high.
Considering the massive animation budget, complex licensing negotiations, and ongoing marketing costs, so skeptical directors and managers, favoring traditional arcade and console gas, grumbled privately.
To them, the project was "big thunder, little rain," with returns not matching investnt.
Takuya Nakayama sat at the table's end, calm.
He'd faced pressure from all levels within the company.
But he held near-obsessive confidence in the project's future profitability.
He knew the real harvest was just beginning.
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