In the New Crystal Mythos, the Kingdom of Lucis was one of the four ancient great kingdoms with a long legacy.
One reason the kingdom could endure for so long was the immense power possessed by its royal bloodline.
Part of that power came from the strength left behind by each ancestor, allowing members of the royal family to draw upon ancestral power to fight hostile forces.
Another part came from the kingdom's Crystal.
And the story of Final Fantasy XIII Versus begins in an era when Lucis is already on its last legs.
The old king of Lucis orders his son to go and receive his bride. That bride had been the young prince's childhood companion—something like a sweetheart-next-door. Their marriage was a union many of the people looked forward to.
At first glance, it seemed like a very standard "classic royal" tale—something that surprised quite a few longtime Final Fantasy fans.
Because after Final Fantasy VII became popular, stories about princes and princesses gradually fell out of fashion. They were replaced by turbulent eras, grand settings, and "small people saving the world" narratives.
A simple prince-and-princess story was hard to move ordinary players anymore.
Kazuo Murakami, Takayuki's number-one fan, also held reservations about this plot.
He didn't dare praise it too early. If it turned out badly, it would reflect poorly on both Gamestar Electronic Entertainment and himself.
And because of Gamestar's release strategy, the game offered only a demo—no media got early-access privileges. So reviewers like him had to wait just like everyone else, only seeing the full game on release day.
On the day Final Fantasy XIII Versus launched, Murakami decisively gave everyone at his company three days of paid leave.
If they still felt it wasn't enough, they could extend their vacation—just without pay.
Generally speaking, for professional review players, playing a game for three straight days was enough to clear the early portion of the game flow, so the rule wouldn't affect most people's salaries.
As for Murakami himself, he was fully justified in staying home, preparing to play for at least seven days and seven nights.
Whether the game was good or bad, it was his nostalgia. Out of professional ethics and love for the series, he would finish it.
The game began with an astonishing opening CG.
It introduced the broad strokes of the world: in ancient times, gods created the world, then created humankind. But after creation, the gods fell into civil strife. A "Sword God" launched a purge, seeking to kill the others.
In the end, the remaining gods joined forces to seal the Sword God away, and the world entered a period of stable development—during which humanity rose rapidly.
The main playable character was the prince of Lucis. His design continued the series' long-running "flashy, rebellious" style.
He appeared with a defiant hairstyle and outfit—free-spirited and cool.
Murakami looked at the character and shook his head slightly.
He felt the Final Fantasy series ought to adjust its style a bit.
That kind of look wasn't trendy anymore. Fewer people still thought it was cool.
Not long after Final Fantasy VII Remake launched, some people had already started criticizing that exact thing.
Murakami, too, was starting to feel aesthetic fatigue toward that style.
Still, he had to admit Gamestar's sense of visual taste was consistently strong.
In recent years, Western games and film had begun drifting toward "race-and-politics correctness," and character designs on screen and in games were getting uglier and uglier. Mikfo—an outright American-style company—was a particularly bad example, releasing games that weren't terrible mechanically, but whose character designs were… hard to describe.
Review outlets living in the U.S. didn't dare say much, afraid of getting smeared.
Suri Electronics, trying to "go international" and align with global standards, was also drifting toward unattractive character design.
But when you looked back at Gamestar's releases, they were still far more pleasing to the eye—dulling Murakami's fatigue a little.
Hmm… this song is pretty good.
"Stand by Me."
It played during the opening sequence as the protagonist left the kingdom, pushing a car along the highway with his attendants.
The singer gave the song a deep, lingering quality—tinged with sadness and a sense of fate.
Murakami liked it a lot.
He hadn't heard it before. Looks like it was another track made by the "God of Games" himself.
Over the past decades, even though Takayuki had focused on games, he'd built quite a reputation in music as well. Many of his game tracks had become classics of the era.
Normally, Western countries weren't interested in music from other cultural circles—they preferred punk, rock, country, and so on.
But Japanese music was an exception: one of the few Asian sources that could successfully export music culture to the West.
Murakami quickly pulled out his phone to identify the song. Sure enough, Final Fantasy XIII Versus's official track listing appeared.
The full set required purchase—five dollars for lifetime access.
Murakami paid without hesitation.
Just the opening "Stand by Me" already felt worth the price.
As the song continued, the car-pushing segment ended, and the next objective began: finding a way to reach the princess.
During this process, the game entered its beginner loop—killing monsters, collecting items, and learning core mechanics—essentially a tutorial.
Actually, right at the very beginning there had been a battle scene that looked like it might be the final scene of the game.
In that battle, players could also learn basic combat.
Gamestar's guidance was indeed well done—worthy of a veteran giant. Their fundamentals stayed solid.
Huh? This game has fishing?
Why does this kind of game need a fishing feature?
Murakami felt both startled and pleasantly surprised.
Recently, he'd started liking fishing in real life.
A lot of executives liked to do "elegant" hobbies like golf, but Murakami wasn't interested. He'd learned about fishing from a TV program, and gradually became fascinated.
Now he was practically a half-seasoned fishing enthusiast.
His only regret was that he still hadn't found a fishing game in video games that truly satisfied him.
Of course, maybe he just hadn't found it—because games were exploding like bamboo shoots after spring rain.
The Unreal Engine drastically lowered development difficulty. Crowdfunded indie games gave creative developers the courage to make games.
These days, hundreds of new games appeared in the world every day—no exaggeration.
And the Battle.net platform alone likely accounted for eighty percent of them.
What surprised Murakami even more was how professional the fishing system was—no less detailed than real-life fishing.
In-game, you could search for the right gear and bait. Different fish lived in different regions.
Interesting.
Before he realized it, Murakami had completely forgotten the main story.
This little side feature—something that should've been minor—captivated him instead.
And the game could even do things real life couldn't.
For example, fishing line in real life was made of ordinary materials, but in the game, it could be far more varied.
One of the strongest lines was forged from residual Crystal material fused with the mightiest ferocious beast—Bahamut.
To obtain that line, you had to follow a chain of guided quests step by step.
Murakami, shockingly, had enormous patience for it. He spent most of a day just to get a single fishing line.
After an entire day of fussing, he finally gathered all the prerequisites and materials.
Along the way, his character leveled up several times, and he absorbed more of the world's lore.
That lore tied into the broader Final Fantasy XIII continuity.
The Final Fantasy XIII series was part of the New Crystal Mythos framework. The earliest game, starring Lightning, had already explained much of the world's base structure.
Murakami knew this before playing, so understanding the setting here wasn't difficult.
"Uh, hey… aren't we kind of late? Shouldn't we be going to meet the princess by now?"
Murakami was still lost in fishing. He'd just obtained an ultra-strong bait—supposedly, if used in a pool inside a mysterious cave, there was a chance to catch the game's most beautiful fish.
He didn't even know whether the fish mattered for gameplay. He just thought it looked incredibly cool—if he didn't catch it, it would dishonor him as a fishing guy.
But then, one of the prince's attendants suddenly complained.
"Honestly… I'm getting kind of sick of eating fish lately."
Another party member—the one responsible for cooking—also grumbled.
Murakami instantly felt awkward.
These NPC reactions were way too realistic.
Gamestar must have predicted some players would get addicted to fishing and forget to pick up the princess, stalling the main quest—so they built in this subtle feedback.
With the reminder, he snapped back to reality. This wasn't the time to fish—at least not if he wanted to review the game properly. He needed to complete it first.
So he packed away his fishing tools and returned to the main story.
In the main quest, the prince needed to take a ship to the princess's location.
The task wasn't hard, but Murakami was delighted that story progression unlocked a new large map.
And on that map, fishing spots appeared immediately—each with region-exclusive fish.
So you need to push the main story to catch more fish?
Murakami thought for a moment, then decided to suppress the urge. He'd focus on the main quest first—at least until before the final boss—then return to fishing later.
Then the story hit: Prince Noctis suddenly learned that the King of Lucis had died.
The cause was that the enemy nation, the Niflheim Empire, abruptly abandoned peace negotiations. During a meeting with the king, they launched a surprise attack. The king died of his wounds.
For the prince, it was devastating news.
He'd gone out to bring home a bride—only to hear of his country's destruction.
From that moment on, the Kingdom of Lucis was erased from the world.
Huh?
Now the plot is getting interesting.
Murakami's interest finally lifted.
He hadn't been very invested before.
He'd assumed it would be a traditional prince-and-princess "royal road" story.
But now it seemed there was political intrigue.
A kingdom collapsing.
A prince in flight.
As he fled, he also had to search for his missing childhood-sweetheart princess.
This turn was genuinely good.
Yeah—he hadn't been wrong. Gamestar was always good at pulling tricks and surprises. How could the "God of Games" ever be satisfied with a simple main storyline?
At this point, he'd completely forgotten that earlier he'd looked down on the prince-and-princess premise.
The main quest was no longer about going to the wedding destination to fetch the princess.
Now the prince wanted the truth.
He wanted to return to the capital and see it for himself.
Ignoring his attendants' warnings, he insisted on going back—even though enemy traps likely awaited him there.
On the rush back, they nearly had their identities exposed by enemy soldiers.
But at that moment, a mysterious person appeared and spared them from questioning—allowing them to pass. That person had already briefly appeared earlier in the story, only brushing past them.
He introduced himself as Ardyn—the enemy empire's chancellor.
Why he helped the prince, no one knew.
A new mystery.
Murakami found himself getting pulled deeper into the story.
Damn…!
This is getting more and more interesting.
He really had underestimated it.
This story wasn't simple at all.