Takuya Nakayama casually tossed the roll of paper back to Sato, his tone as casual as if discussing what to have for lunch. "Also, 'accidentally' leak this data to the media. Make sure we look distressed—say Sega is facing a 'stockout crisis' because we severely underestimated player enthusiasm."
Sato paused, then understood the malicious intent.
This was about stoking the fear of missing out.
Once players believed the product might sell out, those who were still hesitating would rush to the stores.
And as for Sony? While everyone was focused on whether Sega could restock, who would remember that the PlayStation wouldn't be released for another two weeks?
"Nearly 500,000 units—" Takuya Nakayama gazed at the rising sun outside, his eyes showing no trace of sleepiness. "That's enough for Jupiter to quickly pull itself back from the brink. Ken Kutaragi must have caught wind of this by now. I'd love to see his expression right now."
Monday morning news was usually dull—mostly boring updates on stock market drops or political squabbles in Congress.
But today, TV Tokyo's Morning Finance studio was buzzing with an almost manic energy, as if they'd been injected with adrenaline.
No wonder. After all, the station's owner was Takuya Nakayama's father-in-law.
When your own son-in-law creates such a massive stir, it's the best exclusive news material. The so-called industry confidentiality agreements become just scrap paper in the face of family ties.
The director even cut the scheduled stock market forecast, focusing the camera relentlessly on a massive chart.
"480,000 units."
The anchor's voice trembled as he read the number, unsure whether it was from excitement or fear.
The scrolling text at the bottom of the screen broke down the terrifying data in detail: 310,000 units in North America, 120,000 units in Japan, and 50,000 units in Europe.
These were just the retail sales figures from the first 24 hours after launch, not inflated shipment numbers that included inventory sitting in warehouses.
Industry professionals watching at home likely felt their teeth ache at that moment.
What did this mean?
It meant that in just one day, global players had swarmed to line up and stuff nearly 20 billion Japanese Yen into Sega's pockets, as if possessed by some kind of frenzy.
This wasn't just selling electronics; it was Sega, with its "Jupiter" cash-printing machine, pulling off a legitimate bank robbery on a global scale.
For third-party manufacturers still on the fence, this number was a hundred times more effective than any slick PowerPoint presentation or grand promises Takuya Nakayama had painted.
At Namco Headquarters, Masaya Nakamura stared at the TV screen, his cigarette burning down to the filter without him noticing.
He was a shrewd businessman, and the title of "Sony Ally" now felt utterly hollow.
The 480,000 units sold on the first day represented a massive market that had already taken shape at birth.
At this point, clinging to loyalty meant turning your back on money.
Anyone with a functioning brain should immediately pull technical staff from the PlayStation project team and task them with studying Sega's development kit.
Meanwhile, in an office in Aoyama, the atmosphere was probably more stifling than a morgue.
Ken Kutaragi didn't need to watch TV; the number had already been placed on his desk through internal channels.
Four hundred eighty thousand.
The number struck everyone at Sony Computer Entertainment like a slap across the face, leaving their cheeks stinging.
They were still scrambling to secure 400,000 units for the PlayStation's launch, while their rival had already surpassed their initial sales target within 24 hours.
TV Tokyo, leveraging its connections, hogged the exclusive rights to the first-day sales figures. The remaining print and radio media could only stare blankly at the 480,000 number.
Since they couldn't get the launch sales data, these scribblers quickly pivoted. Even the usually nitpicky Famitsu had to swallow its sourness and focus its cameras on the four launch titles.
The editorial department was in chaos. Editors who normally had to play rock-paper-scissors just to get their hands on a Famicom controller were now huddled around a Jupiter, their eyes practically glued to the screen.
"The frame rate is remarkably stable," Editor-in-Chief Matsushita adjusted his glasses, his thumb mashing the D-pad with a rhythmic clicking sound.
Kusanagi Kyo on the screen just executed a flawless combo, his movements fluid and seamless, without any trace of hesitation. "If only Sega had released their Jupiter arcade stick accessory—the visuals and feel are already on par with the arcade version. And the load times are short enough to be completely acceptable."
Beside him, an editor who usually championed Nintendo games wore a constipated expression. He wanted to retort, but seeing the screen's meticulously detailed graphics—where even the folds in Kyo's clothes were clearly visible—he could only manage to stammer after a long pause: "Well, it's just a 2D fighting game; it doesn't demand much processing power—"
"Then look at this," Matsushita said without a word, inserting the Paper Pokémon Adventure disc.
They had initially assumed it was just a lighthearted treat for children. But the moment the game appeared on screen, the entire editorial department fell silent.
There were no forced polygons or showy special effects. Instead, the entire world had been cleverly constructed in a papercraft style.
When Pikachu squeezed through the door crack, the mesmerizing visual effect of 2D and 3D intertwining left even these seasoned gaming veterans stunned.
"The creativity—" the editor opened his mouth, then reluctantly grumbled, "How does Sega seem to understand 'Nintendo games' better than Nintendo itself?"
This wasn't a compromise born of technical limitations; it was a deliberate transformation of their technological shortcomings into an artistic style.
That night, major game magazines rushed to print, all featuring Jupiter on their covers.
There were no dry technical analyses, only editors' heartfelt praise.
One notoriously sharp-tongued review publication even wrote: "We once thought 'Next-Gen' was just marketing hype used by manufacturers to rip us off, until we saw Sonic burst into the depths of the screen. If this is the ticket to the Next-Gen, then 39,800 yen is worth every penny. Sega hasn't just released a console; they've issued a death warrant for the entire old era."
This sentiment spread like wildfire through the gaming community.
Those who had initially hoped for PlayStation to strike back, seeing the magazines' glowing reviews and real gameplay screenshots, had already formed their own conclusions about Sega's launch performance. Regardless of whether Sony's PlayStation would succeed, Sega's Jupiter had already secured its place in history.
After all, the media might take money to spread lies, but with four solid, proven games right there, anyone who claims they aren't fun must be out of their mind.
And having fun games is the most fundamental reason to buy a game console.
Please Support me by becoming my patreon member and get 30+ chapters.
[email protected]/Ajal69
change @ with a
Thank You to Those who joined my Patreon