The camera focused on a middle-aged office worker who had just reached the front of the line for the public phone.
With trembling hands, he dialed the number. As soon as someone answered, he spoke briefly: "Mother, I'm fine. The whole family is safe. Don't worry. I'm using an emergency public phone, and others need to report their safety, so I have to hang up now."
The entire call lasted less than fifteen seconds.
He hung up, turned, bowed to the NTT staff member, then bowed to the long line of people behind him, and quietly walked away.
No one had set a time limit for the calls, and no one stood nearby with a stopwatch.
Yet in that moment, everyone shared an astonishing unspoken agreement: wasting even a second on unnecessary words could cost someone behind them their chance to save their life.
"This is the resilience of this nation," Takuya Nakayama said, crushing his cigarette butt and his gaze growing profound.
After all, this was a generation that had lived through postwar reconstruction. Unlike the Heisei generation, who had been brainwashed into ignorance by right-wing propaganda, or the cold, detached people of the Reiwa era decades later, these ordinary people still possessed a awe-inspiring sense of order and survival instinct.
As long as these people remained, Kansai would not die.
In truth, Sega wasn't the only game company sending supplies to the disaster-stricken areas.
Nintendo, located in neighboring Kyoto, responded just as swiftly. Five thousand Game Boys, along with cases of batteries, arrived at the shelters almost simultaneously with Sega's relief convoy.
As a local giant in Kansai, Yamauchi Hiroshi, though stubborn, never hesitated to act decisively.
In the gymnasium, thick with the smell of disinfectant, the two rival companies, usually locked in a bitter struggle, found themselves uncharacteristically neighbors.
What truly drew attention to Sega's booth wasn't the expensive color handheld consoles, but an ordinary-looking high school student.
His school uniform was so filthy it was impossible to tell its original color. A blood-soaked bandage was wrapped around his left forehead, and he clutched a bottle of mineral water he had just received.
He stood before the Sega booth for a long time, neither claiming a handheld console nor asking for anything. Instead, he stared blankly at the "SEGA" name tag on the staff member's chest.
The Sega employee distributing supplies grew uneasy under the boy's prolonged gaze. Just as he was about to ask if the student needed batteries, the boy suddenly bent down and bowed deeply.
The force of the bow nearly reopened the wound on his head.
"Thank you. I really mean it."
The employee froze, the bread in his hand suspended mid-air. "Student, what is this—"
"I'm from Kobe High School. My name is Yamada," the boy said, straightening up. His voice was hoarse, as if he had gravel in his throat. "If I hadn't played Disaster Relief Little Hero last year, my house would have been completely destroyed last night."
Several reporters nearby, busy adjusting their equipment, overheard this. Their cameras, which had been focused on Nintendo, instantly swiveled toward Yamada.
Yamada paid no attention to the flashing lights. He just wanted to get the words stuck in his heart out.
When he bought the game cartridge last year, his stubborn father had scolded him for wasting money, saying Sega only made toys designed to swindle kids.
"In the third level of the game, there's a mission to reinforce bedroom furniture," Yamada said, pointing toward the direction of his house, now just a pile of rubble not far from the shelter. "To get the 'Safe Room' achievement, I forced my dad to buy L-shaped brackets and nail our two-meter-tall wardrobe to the wall. And the sneakers by the bed—those are 'life-saving items' in the game. I kept a pair ready too."
Early yesterday morning, the earth shook violently.
The wardrobe in the neighbor's house collapsed, crashing straight through their bed frame.
But the Yamada family's wardrobe, thanks to those inconspicuous metal brackets, clung tenaciously to the wall during the earth-shattering tremors.
"When the house collapsed, the wardrobe that didn't fall, along with the bed frame, created a triangular space," Yamada explained, his hands still trembling slightly as he gestured. "We three were protected inside that corner. Because we kept shoes by the bed, my dad's feet weren't pierced by debris, and we were able to climb out quickly."
Not only that.
The boy had truly put his gaming knowledge to practical use.
After climbing out, he didn't run around like a headless chicken. Instead, he pulled a crowbar and first-aid bandages from the "disaster preparedness kit" he'd specially assembled for beating the game.
During the critical first half-hour before any rescue teams had arrived, this seventeen-year-old Shonen, armed with first-aid logic learned from games—stop bleeding first, then move the patient, and keep the airway clear—managed to dig Mrs. Tanaka out from the rubble next door, where her leg was pinned. He even improvised a splint for another neighbor's fractured bone.
"I saw your logo just now and wanted to come over and thank you," Yamada said, scratching his messy hair and flashing a grin. "My dad said he'll write a thank-you letter to Sega once we're settled. He also said this game was worth every penny—more useful than insurance."
The Sega employee was dumbfounded.
He was just a street sales rep, used to hearing parents complain about their kids being addicted to games. He'd never encountered anything like this.
He opened his mouth, but only managed to stammer, "The important thing is that everyone's safe—that everyone's safe."
His face, however, was a complex mix of emotions.
Shock, gratitude, and a sense of pride that he'd "lived a worthwhile life" straightened his posture even more than when he'd been hauling supplies earlier.
Nearby media reporters swarmed like sharks smelling blood.
This was huge news!
What could be more dramatic than "a video game teaching a boy how to survive adversity"?
This was far more explosive than a simple donation of money or supplies.
What had started as a few PR photos of the company doing good deeds had now escalated into a social section headline.
It was easy to predict that tomorrow's newspapers would further elevate Sega's public image.
Once something like this happens once, it's bound to happen again.
As communication gradually restored, similar reports began to surface one after another, unearthed by the media.
A housewife from Nishinomiya City recounted in an interview that during the earthquake, her instinct was to flee outside. But her six-year-old daughter clung tightly to her pant leg, dragging her under the table.
The little girl, crying, shouted, "Mr. Bear said! Don't run! You'll get crushed!"
That "Mr. Bear" was the mascot guide from Disaster Relief Little Hero.
In Nagata Ward, a solitary elderly man who normally detested video games, having withheld his grandson's allowance several times over the years for such purchases, found himself in a similar situation.
His grandson had bought Disaster Relief Little Hero after persistently pestering him, claiming it was a way to learn about disaster preparedness.
Thanks to his grandson's companionship, the old man ended up playing through the game twice with him, and their strained relationship began to mend.
When the fire broke out, the old man remembered the game's repeated emphasis on fire safety actions like "staying low" and "using a wet towel." Despite his frail bones, he managed to crawl out of the apartment building engulfed in thick smoke.
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