The Sales Manager swallowed hard.
He knew his President's methods all too well. At Konami, if a game became a hit, its ultimate destination was always a flashing pachinko machine in an arcade.
"Tell the Amusement Machine division that this is a top-priority, top-secret project. All resources are to be diverted to them." Kozuki tossed the design document back onto the desk, his gaze cold. "I want a perfect prototype within three months. By the end of the year, I want a Castlevania collaboration machine in the most prominent spot of every arcade in Japan!"
"Yes, sir! I'll get right on it!" the Sales Manager shouted, turning on his heel and rushing out of the office.
Kozuki sank back into his oversized leather chair and took a leisurely sip of the coffee that had already gone cold on his desk.
Sega and Sony were currently fighting a bloody war in the console market, pouring money down the drain and even risking bankruptcy in their struggle for the title of "industry hegemon."
But Kozuki couldn't care less.
What did it matter who won or lost? Konami just had to stand on the sidelines and sell its games to the victor.
The ones who truly made Konami rich and invincible were the gamblers—those who sat before the machines with bloodshot eyes, rationality long gone, relentlessly stuffing coins into the slots.
This was Konami's true path to survival.
In Bangkok, the financial meat grinder was churning furiously. Hoshino and his traders had gone without sleep for a full night, their eyes glued to the red numbers dancing across the screens. Every second's fluctuation meant tens of millions of US dollars were frantically flowing between different accounts.
Meanwhile, thousands of kilometers away in Tokyo, the air still held the crisp chill of early spring, yet everything felt unhurried and composed.
In Ginza, there was a high-end, members-only ryotei with no sign, catering only to its regulars.
The heavy solid-wood sliding door shut with a seamless click, completely sealing out the roar of the traffic outside. Inside, the only sound was the crisp clack of a shishi-odoshi—the deer-scaring bamboo fountain—striking a stone in the courtyard.
On the tatami mats, three men sat cross-legged around a low table of precious red sandalwood.
Director Hattori lifted an exquisite white porcelain sake cup and took a slow, deliberate sip of the warm daiginjo.
Sitting opposite him were Matsushima, Vice President of Sotsu, and Honda, General Manager of the M&A Department at Daiwa Securities.
Honda was the one who had arranged today's meeting. He and Matsushima were classmates at Waseda University. On the surface, this dinner was a casual reunion between old friends, but in reality, it was a lethal olive branch extended by Sega.
Matsushima set down his sake cup, resting his hands primly on his knees.
He was a gaunt man in his sixties with sunken eyes. Yet, after a lifetime in the copyright agency business, those clouded eyes still gleamed with shrewdness.
"Director Hattori," Matsushima couldn't contain himself and spoke first, his tone tentative. "Sunrise has been making some big moves lately. I hear their internal production lines are being reorganized?"
Director Hattori smiled and gently placed his sake cup on the table, creating a soft clink.
"Sunrise has a heavy burden to carry. Sega has been involved in so many Production Committees these past few years that we have to tilt some resources their way to boost production capacity and quality. We can't let the brand's reputation be tarnished."
Matsushima nodded. He knew perfectly well that Sega was now Sunrise's absolute majority shareholder.
Sotsu held the commercialization rights for Gundam, having secured them years ago through a combination of a gambler's foresight and sheer luck.
For the past few years, Sotsu had been raking in massive profits, simply by licensing the rights to Bandai and collecting royalties while they did all the work.
But now, the tables had turned.
Sega had the audacity to squeeze Bandai by cutting off their game licenses, leaving Bandai frantic yet utterly powerless.
And what about Sotsu? At the end of the day, Sotsu was nothing more than a middleman.
They dared to use their merchandising rights to manipulate Bandai, but they wouldn't dare cross Sega—not now that Sega was flush with cash and wielding immense power. If Sega truly decided to turn against them, Sotsu would be left out in the cold the moment their Sunrise agency contract expired, without even a scrap of profit to fall back on.
"Matsushima-san," Director Hattori said, lifting the bottle and pouring a drink for Matsushima. "Sega has always valued Sotsu's connections and expertise in the industry. Managing the Production Committee, securing sponsorships, and handling planning—this is grueling, high-stakes work that requires a great deal of skill."
Matsushima accepted the drink, holding his glass with both hands in a gesture of humble gratitude. "You flatter me, Director Hattori. We're just scraping by in the margins."
"But there comes a day when scraping by reaches its limit—or when someone simply kicks you aside," Hattori's tone shifted sharply. His gaze pierced Matsushima like a torch. "Sotsu's shareholders surely don't want the company to remain a mere pimp, living off commissions forever, do they?"
The words were harsh, even caustic, but they cut straight to Matsushima's heart like a knife.
Matsushima didn't respond, his expression tightening.
Sotsu was indeed in turmoil. Ever since Sega acquired Sunrise, they had been on edge, terrified that Sega would find any excuse to reclaim the licensing rights. If that happened, Sotsu's stock price would crash overnight.
Though Sega had left them alone for the past few years, no one could guarantee things would stay that way.
Honda stepped in, trying to smooth things over. "Matsushima, don't be so tense. Director Hattori isn't here to terminate our contract. Sega has a much bigger play in mind—they want Sotsu to join them as a partner."
Matsushima snapped his head up, a flicker of astonishment in his eyes.
Director Hattori drew a black, gold-trimmed folder from his briefcase and slid it across the low table.
"We won't discuss a formal offer today. Matsushima-san, just look at this first."
Matsushima hesitated, then reached out and opened the folder. Inside was not the acquisition proposal he had expected, but Sega Galaxy's licensing revenue report for the last quarter.
Matsushima's gaze fell on the first page. His pupils constricted instantly, and his breath hitched for a split second.
At the top of the report, three words were printed: Pokémon.
Matsushima had spent decades in the copyright industry, possessing a hound-like sensitivity to numbers. As he stared at the rows of revenue data, his mouth went dry, and his heart hammered against his ribs.
Game cartridge sales—over ten million units!
Trading card shipments—numbered in the hundreds of millions!
Merchandise licensing fees—astronomical!
Animation broadcasting rights shares—sweeping the globe!
Every single dimension of the all-encompassing development, every individual figure, was so massive it made his scalp tingle.
Gundam was indeed profitable; Bandai raked in tens of billions of yen every year just selling plastic models. But in the face of a tsunami-level, all-age, global IP like Pokémon, Gundam's commercial monetization path—limited to East Asia and mecha otaku—seemed like a mere stream compared to a vast ocean, utterly pale and one-dimensional.
"This is just for the Pokémon IP alone," Director Hattori said, leaning back into his chair, his tone as casual as if he were commenting on the moonlight. "Sega Galaxy manages the entire group's copyright operations. Games, animation, merchandise, overseas distribution—we have a complete, closed-loop system that no one else can replicate."
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