There were less than two months left before the opening of the 2020 Olympics.
All of Japan had entered a festive and celebratory atmosphere.
In this world, there had been no pandemic.
But that didn't change the Japanese public's pessimism toward the Olympics.
The Japanese prime minister was clearly hoping to use this Olympics to restore people's confidence, to let the world once again see Japan's strength as a technological powerhouse.
Much like how Japan had once used the Olympics to boost national morale in the past.
But this time, things were different from before.
Back then, the entire nation was optimistic. Everyone believed life would only get better.
Now, however, people of this era had lived through the "lost decades." The burst economic bubble had plunged Japan into a prolonged recession.
To make someone positive and motivated requires constant stimulation—constant reassurance that the future will be better.
But to make someone give up only takes a single blow.
Japan's otaku culture and "parasite singles" emerged precisely under these circumstances. They no longer wanted to strive for a better future, preferring instead to sink into the comfort they already had.
No marriage. No children. No house. Just lying flat.
Under this broader social mood, street interviews about the Olympics revealed that most people weren't optimistic at all, believing it was merely a waste of taxpayers' money by the government.
That money could clearly be spent on far more meaningful things—pouring it into the Olympics was the worst possible decision.
However, there was one thing about the Olympics that people did praise: the opening and closing ceremonies.
Most young people were very much looking forward to them.
Because they represented the rise of fashion and pop culture.
At the Olympic opening and closing ceremonies, people would see anime, games, and related industries.
This was the one area where Japan's younger generation still felt confident.
According to surveys, about 70% of the population had no intention of watching the Olympics.
But nearly 80% said they would at least watch the opening and closing ceremonies.
On the streets, there were noticeably more foreigners than usual. This, at least, could be considered a positive effect of the Olympics—it attracted more people to spend money and travel.
"Hmm, let me check my itinerary."
An American man was holding a map of Japan.
On it were several hand-drawn travel plans.
"Alright, first stop—Tsushima Island."
He circled a very prominent mark on the map, slung his backpack over his shoulder, and headed straight for the airport, preparing to fly to Tsushima Island.
Tsushima Island had originally been a very obscure place in Japan.
A few years ago, almost no one outside the locals had even heard of it—let alone foreigners.
But everything changed because of a video game.
The game was called Tsushima Island.
It told the story of ancient Japanese resistance against Mongol invasions.
The story was portrayed so vividly in the game that it later even became part of Japanese school textbooks, receiving extensive coverage.
At the same time, the game sparked widespread curiosity about Tsushima Island itself, leading to a steady stream of visitors to the once-quiet place.
What had once been nearly uninhabited suddenly became a hot tourist destination, and the local government was overjoyed.
They had been worrying about how to make money—now the opportunity was right in front of them.
And the hero behind all this was Gamestar Electronic Entertainment.
To express their gratitude, the local government promised that all Gamestar Electronic Entertainment employees could receive free admission when visiting Tsushima Island.
If Takayuki, the game's creator himself, were to visit, he would receive the highest-level hospitality on the entire island.
Food, clothing, housing, and transportation would all be covered by the government—he wouldn't need to spend a single yen.
They even granted Takayuki the honorary title of village chief.
But in reality, Takayuki had never visited Tsushima Island even once. When gathering materials for the game, he had simply sent his subordinates to handle it.
That afternoon, the American successfully landed on Tsushima Island by helicopter.
At the airport, the most eye-catching displays were all related to the Tsushima Island game.
Some parts of the game were fictional, but the local government was extremely enthusiastic about recreating those fictional stories in real life.
The fictional clan buildings from the game were constructed with great effort and opened to the public as ticketed attractions—recouping their construction costs with profit in just the first year.
Later, the government also built pseudo-ancient-style hotels so visitors could stay overnight.
There were also many photo spots identical to scenes from the game.
Following online guides, the American visited each location one by one. In just a single day, he spent over a thousand dollars.
Photo fees, car rentals, tickets, hotel stays—it all added up.
"Thank you for visiting, sir! We look forward to seeing you again!"
Locals dressed in ancient armor enthusiastically welcomed and sent off each tourist.
Thanks to the Olympics, visitor traffic to Tsushima Island had surged even further.
Many of them were gamers to begin with, and since they were already in Japan for the Olympics, they naturally didn't want to miss a pilgrimage to this sacred site.
The American spent a full day and night on Tsushima Island, even participating in a stage performance where he personally played the game's protagonist, reenacting a classic battle from the game.
This cost him five hundred dollars—the most expensive activity of the trip.
Satisfied and fulfilled, he returned to the Japanese mainland.
"Alright, next stop… this place."
He circled another spot on the map.
It was a filming location for Street Fighter in Japan.
A kendo dojo located in Osaka.
This dojo was run by the family of Aizawa Eri, a board member in Gamestar Electronic Entertainment's engineering development division.
The Aizawa family had originally been involved in kendo instruction. By the time of Eri's father, only a single dojo in Tokyo was barely surviving.
Her father had hoped Eri would find a man to marry into the family to inherit the dojo.
But Eri turned out to be extremely rebellious.
Not only that—she later became quite successful. Her work at Gamestar Electronic Entertainment ended up revitalizing the family dojo business.
Later, fueled by the popularity of Street Fighter and other games, kendo instruction surged again. Eri's father seized the opportunity to expand the dojo business across multiple locations.
The Osaka dojo was now the largest in their operations—and also one of Street Fighter's background filming locations.
"Hey!"
"Hah!"
"Good! Raise your swords! Swing! Shout it out! Strong spirit!"
A stern-looking kendo master stood with his hands behind his back, watching rows of middle-aged and elderly trainees practicing with disciplined precision.
Their movements were uniform and aesthetically pleasing.
These were the dojo's core students—the foundation of its professional credibility.
In another training area, however, were people of all appearances: Westerners, Asians, Africans, Americans.
They were here for only one reason—to make a pilgrimage, pay some money, experience the atmosphere of kendo, and take photos.
The American decisively pulled out two thousand dollars, hiring two professional kendo instructors to train with him and take a few cool photos.
In the end, he was very satisfied. He gained new skills and some impressive photos.
The dojo operators were also very satisfied.
A fat sheep like this—why not shear it?
In the past, they could never have imagined that a video game could wield such enormous influence.
People were willingly "slaughtered" just because they loved games.
Two thousand dollars just to experience kendo and take photos at a Street Fighter location.
Their most profitable business wasn't tuition from core students.
Training those students was simply to maintain professionalism.
The Osaka dojo's biggest income actually came from these pilgrimage tourists.
A single photo recreating a Street Fighter battle scene started at two thousand dollars—with no upper limit.
If you wanted a one-to-one recreation, you'd need extras, professional sparring partners, and a photographer.
That kind of service easily reached five thousand dollars.
Even at such outrageous prices, people still lined up willingly.
All that could be said was—these people were rich, with money to burn.
In the end, the American shelled out another five thousand dollars to shoot a five-minute Street Fighter-style battle video.
After filming, he changed out of his kendo uniform, and the dojo solemnly awarded him their highest-level training certificate, complete with the master's personal signature.
The total cost of all this didn't exceed one hundred dollars.
He was even given a kendo uniform that looked quite decent—though it only cost twenty or thirty dollars to make.
Yet he happily paid for everything.
"Alright, next is Gamestar Electronic Entertainment's old headquarters."
In the suburbs of Tokyo stood a low-rise standalone office building.
This was where Gamestar Electronic Entertainment had started.
It was the birthplace of the Famicom, Super Mario, and many other classics.
Now it was a protected building, housing the crowdfunding game division and the game industry committee offices.
When the American arrived, over a hundred people were lined up taking photos.
Some even brought classic physical Gamestar games for commemorative shots.
This was where he spent the least money—there was no entrance fee.
Of course, if you wanted professional photos, you'd have to hire one of the eager photographers nearby, cameras ready.
These photographers were in high demand—ten dollars per photo, easily shooting hundreds a day.
If business stayed this good, one might think Japan had returned to its golden age.
He silently thanked Gamestar Electronic Entertainment.
Without it, he wouldn't have such an easy job.
Just snapping photos for money—what could be better?
The American spent one hundred dollars on a professional photo. The photographer promised to frame it and deliver it within a week, with shipping paid by the American, or mailed to a Japanese address if provided.
He left his Tokyo hotel address and departed satisfied.
Next came Gamestar Electronic Entertainment's current headquarters.
It was just as popular.
By the time he arrived, the Gamestar Tower was completely packed. Local authorities had to help maintain order so employees could still commute.
Occasionally, lucky visitors caught sight of famous producers, now enjoying celebrity-level treatment.
The American regretted missing the chance to take photos with them—he'd arrived too late. He planned to return in the coming days, hoping to run into a famous producer, or even Takayuki himself.
If that happened, he'd thank God.
After snapping a quick check-in photo, he left.
Now came his final stop.
His last destination in Japan, aside from the Olympics.
Gamestar Park.
The paradise every gamer dreamed of visiting.
He'd traveled halfway across the world—missing it wasn't an option.
But for the past half month, Gamestar Park operated strictly on reservations.
Without one, you couldn't even enter.
There were simply too many people.
The park was enormous, but capacity still had limits—two hundred thousand visitors at most.
During the Olympics, it hit full capacity every single day.
No reservation, no entry.
Of course, there were discreet channels to obtain tickets.
The American paid double the ticket price to buy one from someone else.
Coming to Japan without visiting Gamestar Park was basically a wasted trip.
He even felt that skipping the Olympics would be acceptable, but skipping Gamestar Park would not.
Gamestar Park now had seven themed areas.
Each had its own unique style.
Mario Theme Park, Pokémon Master Gym, Final Fantasy Pavilion, Comprehensive Entertainment Park…
To visit them all would take at least three to five days.
Park cost: $10,000 for a five-day pass.
And that was just the ticket.
It included admission and fast-pass access.
He had no interest in waiting—he just wanted to experience as much fun as possible, as quickly as possible.