"I imagine Father-in-law's position at the TV station is more secure now," Takuya Nakayama said, pulling his son off his back and handing him a Lego brick. "Speaking of which, aren't I also helping Sony save face in a way? Think about it—if our first-party masterpiece had been released alongside the PlayStation, it would have been a bloodbath. Now, with all the Third-Party titles blooming, it looks better for Sony to lose to 'the entire industry' than to Sega alone."
He delivered this twisted logic with unwavering conviction.
In reality, Takuya Nakayama knew the situation clearly.
Sega was like a race car speeding at full throttle, its engine overheating and tires worn thin.
The production lines were already stretched to their limit. If they had forced a first-party release this month, the supply chain would have collapsed.
Rather than exhausting themselves, it was better to step back and let others go toe-to-toe with Sony.
"Still, Mr. Kutaragi probably won't have a peaceful New Year," Eri said, taking a sip of her wine. "I heard Sony emergency diverted next year's marketing budget to this month to go all out."
"Let him move," Takuya Nakayama said, picking up a piece of Wagyu beef soaked in broth and dipping it in a sterile egg yolk. "Every dollar he throws in now is competing with all the third-parties in the industry for attention. Players have a limited amount of attention. When a hundred games are screaming for it at the same time, even the loudest voice gets drowned out."
He pointed to the television.
The show World Business Satellite was replaying. The scene shifted to Akihabara, where store clerks were pulling apart two office workers who had nearly come to blows over the last Jupiter console.
"That's human nature," Takuya Nakayama said, shrugging as he watched the news. "The harder something is to get, the more you want it. When all the third-parties are helping us hype the game, being out of stock becomes the best GG."
"Daddy, bad!"
Little Kazuki suddenly threw a block, hitting Takuya right on the bridge of his nose.
The little guy was pouting, his lips pursed, because he couldn't build the shape he wanted.
"Okay, okay, Daddy will help you build it."
The business titan who had been strategizing against the entire industry instantly transformed into a doting, 24/7 father.
Rubbing his nose, Takuya Nakayama lay down on the carpet and began studying the pile of colorful plastic blocks.
Eri couldn't help but laugh as she watched the scene.
Who would have thought that the "industry oni" who had pushed Sony to the brink and kept countless rivals up at night would now be scratching his head, struggling to figure out how to attach a red block to a blue base?
As for the business war in Tokyo? Let it burn.
The fire had already been lit. Whether it was Ken Kutaragi's fury or Hideki Sato's wails, none of it would reach this warm villa in Karuizawa.
By December 31st, Takuya Nakayama's family had gathered at his father-in-law, Nakagawa Jun's, house to celebrate the New Year.
The Nakagawa residence was toasty warm, theNHK Red and White Singing Contest blaring from the television, filling the air with festive cheer. The table overflowed with osechi-ryori, the traditional New Year's dishes.
Nakagawa Jun was in high spirits, having already downed two small pots of sake before the grand finale.
"Takuya, have another drink with me," he said, his face flushed as he pushed his cup toward his son-in-law. "You wouldn't believe it—these past few days at the Nikkei Group's year-end meeting, those arrogant old geezers who usually look down on everyone were all crowding around asking about Sega's moves. Even that rigid Editor-in-Chief of the Nikkei praised our station's gaming finance segment for its foresight."
Takuya Nakayama raised his glass to catch the drink, smiled, and took a sip. "That was all your keen foresight, Father. You dared to bet on the gaming industry at such a critical moment."
"Stop with the flattery," Nakagawa Jun said, his mouth full of Date Maki. "But you're right, the tide has turned. When we used to cover games, everyone dismissed them as childish trifles, unworthy of serious attention.
Now look at this—I hear the GG Department's slots for next quarter are nearly fully booked, all paid for by software companies."
As he spoke, the news anchor's voice on the TV suddenly grew more excited.
The screen cut to a darkened stage, illuminated by a single spotlight in the center.
Hibari Misora, the late Showa-era diva, appeared in a resplendent kimono.
Her voice filled the air with "Kawa no Nagare no Yō ni" (Like the Flowing River).
Takako Nakagawa, Takuya's mother-in-law, emerged from the kitchen carrying the final dish, zōni. She glanced at the TV, froze, and nearly spilled the soup. "My goodness—is that... Hibari-san? But she passed away years ago—"
"It's a video synthesis, Mom," Nakayama Eri explained, taking the bowl from her mother. "Look at the edges of the light and shadow—they're still a bit unnatural."
Takako Nakagawa pushed up her reading glasses and leaned closer. "It's so realistic! I thought it was a miracle happening during the New Year's celebrations."
"Actually, they just took footage of her performance at the 1988 Red and White Singing Contest, removed the background, and had the live band play along to the rhythm," Takuya Nakayama pointed to the slightly tense conductor at the bottom of the screen. "See? He's wearing an earpiece."
Nakagawa Jun narrowed his eyes, tapping his fingers lightly on his knee. "This technology is quite interesting. 'Reviving' the deceased to perform on stage... NHK really went all out for the ratings this time."
"Current technology can only achieve this level—just synchronizing the beat and rhythm," Takuya Nakayama said, peeling an orange and casually handing it to his son, Kazuki, who was bored and picking at his toes beside him. His words, however, were directed at his father-in-law. "But in ten or twenty years, we might not even need the old footage anymore."
Nakagawa Jun froze. "What do you mean?"
"Voice synthesis," Takuya Nakayama said, swallowing a segment of orange. His tone was as flat as a weather report. "Computers can already simulate simple sound waveforms. If we collect tens of thousands of phonemes to build a massive database and combine it with high-precision realistic modeling, in the future, we'll just need to input sheet music and lyrics into a computer, and she will sing it on the screen. In fact, she doesn't even need to have existed in the first place."
The table fell silent for a few seconds.
The haze of alcohol in Nakagawa Jun's eyes dissipated slightly. His instincts as a journalist picked up an unusual scent. "If she doesn't need to be real, that means no scheduling conflicts, no diva behavior, no damn scandals, and no risk of contract termination?"
"Exactly. Moreover, as long as the data remains, even fifty years from now, her voice will still sound eighteen." Takuya Nakayama smiled. "For TV stations and record companies, that's the perfect idol."
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