"The perfect idol..." Nakagawa Jun murmured, his fingers absently tracing the rim of his wine glass. "If that day ever comes, TV Tokyo might just..."
Thwack!
A Lego brick struck Nakagawa Jun's hand with pinpoint accuracy.
Startled, the business magnate looked down to see his grandson, Nakayama Kazuki, puffing out his cheeks, a picture of displeasure.
"Grandpa's being a spoilsport!" the little one protested in a childish voice, tossing an orange peel onto the table. "You promised to play robots with me, but you're just talking boring grown-up stuff with Dad! It's so boring!"
The solemn atmosphere of the business meeting shattered instantly.
Nakagawa Jun blinked in surprise, then burst into laughter, his media mogul dignity vanishing like smoke.
He scooped up his grandson, rubbing his bristly chin against the child's soft cheek. "Alright, alright, Grandpa was wrong. Let the adults worry about business—we're going to play with robots! Let Dad peel oranges alone!"
Watching his father-in-law, still wearing a Lego brick, being led around by the nose by his grandson, Takuya Nakayama shook his head helplessly. He exchanged a knowing glance with his wife, their eyes twinkling with amusement.
After the New Year holiday, Sega's headquarters resumed its usual busy pace for the year.
On the second day back to work, the Sales Department compiled the Jupiter sales data up to the end of the holiday.
North America: 1.41 million units.
Those Americans were absolutely wild during Christmas, grabbing Jupiters like they were picking up a gallon of milk at the supermarket, single-handedly pushing sales to their absolute limit.
In comparison, Europe's 190,000 units were just an appetizer. The market there was too fragmented, and distribution required a more gradual approach.
As for Japan, sales reached 520,000 units.
"Quite an interesting time lag," Takuya Nakayama said, tapping his knuckles on the two distinct peaks of the chart.
The North American curve shot up vertically on Christmas Eve, as players and parents went on a frantic spree, clearing Walmart shelves.
Meanwhile, Japan's peak was delayed until after New Year's Day—clearly, all the kids in Japan were waiting for their New Year's money to recharge their "faith" in Sega.
"Global sales exceeded 2.1 million units."
Takuya Nakayama flipped through the thin statistical sheet. This figure meant Sega had thoroughly shattered its initial target of 2 million units for launch inventory.
If Sega hadn't secured enough replenishment stock after the initial plan for two million units, at least a hundred thousand households worldwide would be cursing at the counters right now, and Sega's customer service lines would likely be flooded by furious distributors and retailers.
"Thank goodness for those five hundred thousand units—they were a lifesaver."
Takuya Nakayama stared at the inventory figure, which had dropped to less than 400,000 units, and felt a wave of relief. He was grateful he'd specifically sent Hisao Oguchi on this trip.
During this time, Nakayama had received two alerts from Oguchi about the growing shipment deficit.
If Oguchi hadn't been in the Pearl River Delta, acting like a construction foreman overseeing the assembly lines and relentlessly squeezing out every last unit, Sega wouldn't have been able to handle this windfall.
Those 500,000 units had been Sega's lifeline throughout January.
"Managing Director," Hideki Sato said, pushing the door open with the latest flight information in his hand. His eyes were dark with fatigue. "Department Head Oguchi's flight lands at Haneda tonight. Should we schedule a high-level briefing for tomorrow morning? He'll need to handle the supply chain data coordination—"
Takuya Nakayama glanced at his watch. It was 7 PM.
"What kind of report? Do you want him to live longer?" Nakayama rolled his eyes, cutting Sato off. "He's been working his tail off over there for two months, day in and day out, listening to the machines roar. If he sees our faces now, the ones who are always breathing down his neck, he'll really start to resent us."
He swiveled his chair to face the window, gazing out at the bustling Tokyo Bay. His tone softened.
"Have the driver pick him up at the airport and take him straight home. Tell Koguchi to stay away from the office for the next two days and turn off his phone. Anyone who dares to bother him with work during this time will be sent to the screw-tightening factory in Mexico."
Sato paused, then closed his notebook with a smile. "Understood. I'll have the assistant team block the news."
"And," Nakayama added as he walked to the door, turning back, "add Oguchi Hisao's name to the commendation list for next month's board meeting. Also, have the Finance Department issue a special hardship allowance—use my Managing Director's approval channel and deposit it directly into his account. We need to make it clear that at Sega, working hard never goes unrewarded."
After discussing Oguchi Hisao, Hideki Sato placed a thick data report in front of Takuya Nakayama.
This should have been a year-end that would make those manufacturers cry their eyes out.
In previous years, Sega would always dip into its own pockets to fund a "clearance sale" to maintain the Mega Drive's market momentum. They'd subsidize third-party developers, urging them to slash prices and clear out the stock of games released in earlier years.
But this year, to pave the way for Jupiter and ensure sufficient funds for its inventory, Takuya Nakayama had directly suspended that budget.
Logically, the mountain of unsold 16-bit cartridges should have caused many third-party developers to fret.
Yet the data delivered a pleasant surprise to everyone in the gaming industry.
"Several well-known third-party games have completely cleared their final stock," Sato said, pointing to the data columns for second-tier manufacturers on the report. "Even Teichiku, the company behind that peculiar horse racing game—a genre that's usually unpopular with students and had a huge backlog—has nearly sold out."
The reason was absurd yet perfectly logical.
It was all thanks to that business news program.
Middle-aged presidents who couldn't even tell the difference between the buttons on a controller, and anxious housewives worried their children would fall behind, had their perspectives completely altered by the program's reports and interviews on the "digital economy" and "brain development."
They flocked to game stores, but since they couldn't understand the latest Jupiter and PlayStation consoles, they turned to older 16-bit games for the Mega Drive and Super Famicom, and some even tried the Famicom.
"And these guys are sharp," Sato said, pulling a gift list from the pile of documents, his tone playful. "President Nakamura of Namco and the Kudo brothers from Hudson sent over this mountain of gifts early this morning. They called it New Year's gifts," he added, "but their couriers kept dropping hints about that night's WBS program."
The industry is small, and the fact that Takuya Nakayama is Nakagawa Jun's son-in-law isn't exactly a secret among many third-party manufacturers.
These seasoned veterans saw through it immediately: Sega was using its private influence to lift the entire industry.
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