It was already night in the study of the Setagaya apartment.
Outside the window, Tokyo gradually lit up with dazzling Japan lights.
Takuya was half-reclined on the apartment's sofa.
An empty bento box from a high-end custom meal was casually pushed to the corner of the table.
He leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on the solitary blinking cursor on the computer screen.
The blank document was like a chess game about to unfold, every move affecting countless nerves.
For the sake of that bit of vinegar from "super robot wars," he had truly taken on the "luxury dumplings" of Sony LD this time.
He rubbed his temples, a wry smile appearing at the corner of his mouth.
These dumplings were full of filling and astonishingly large, but one wrong move could easily choke Sega half to death.
Perhaps, subconsciously, he still harbored some obsession with the tumultuous but ultimately fruitless merger between Sega and Bandai in his previous life.
Or perhaps he coveted Bandai's merchandise development capabilities too much, which was why he was so unsparing in his efforts on the Bandai front.
He knew very well that once Sony tasted success in the hardware market with the game he was about to plan, that sleeping lion would inevitably plunge deeper and more fiercely into the jungle of gaming.
At that time, Sega would face a formidable opponent, far larger than Nintendo.
However, on second thought, Sony's entry into the market was historically inevitable.
Norio Ohga's ingrained ambition and Sony's vast commercial empire indicated that they would never be content with merely being a hardware manufacturer.
What he was doing now was merely giving that giant wheel a slight push at this historically inevitable juncture, for Sega's own vital interests.
And, incidentally, to seize the greatest advantage and value for Sega from this wave that was about to change the industry landscape.
His thoughts reeled back, and Takuya's gaze refocused on the screen.
In fact, when he proposed that seemingly bold suggestion to Mr. Chūta in the teahouse, he already had a rough outline of the game he wanted to create.
A week flew by in a flash.
In Minato Ward, the Sony Headquarters building soared into the clouds, its glass curtain walls reflecting the cool daylight, exuding a certain oppressive feeling unique to a giant corporation.
Takuya, leading Suzuki Masao from the Marketing Department, Director Yoshikawa of Sega, and two solemn-faced legal personnel, stepped into the building.
Mr. Chūta was personally waiting in the lobby, and beside him stood two distinguished individuals.
One was Maruyama Shigeo, president of Sony Records, with a faint smile but sharp eyes.
The other was a middle-aged man wearing glasses, with a focused expression, exuding a somewhat tech-geek aura.
"This is Ken Kutaragi, our senior technical engineer at Sony," Mr. Chūta introduced.
Takuya's heart stirred slightly.
Ken Kutaragi.
That name was legendary.
The father of PlayStation in his previous life stood before him now, yet his identity was merely that of a "senior technical engineer."
He showed no emotion on his face, merely bowing politely in greeting, as if hearing the name for the first time.
The door to the meeting room was pushed open; its interior was simple yet imposing, the long conference table gleaming with a somber luster.
A subtle tension permeated the air.
Both sides knew that today's talks carried significant weight.
After a brief exchange of pleasantries, everyone took their seats.
Mr. Chūta took a sip of tea, his gaze turning to Takuya with a gentle, elder-like warmth.
"Takuya-kun, last time you mentioned conceiving a promotional game for the LD player."
"I wonder if you could enlighten us today?"
Takuya nodded slightly but did not immediately reply.
He gave a look to the legal personnel beside him.
One of the legal personnel understood, stood up, took several documents from his briefcase, and handed them to Mr. Chūta, Maruyama Shigeo, and Ken Kutaragi from the Sony side.
"Before presenting the proposal, this is a confidentiality agreement drafted by Sega."
"Please take a look, gentlemen."
Takuya's voice was calm, devoid of any discernible emotion.
The terms of the agreement were extremely strict.
It clearly stipulated that if this cooperation failed to materialize, Sony was not to privately develop or reference any ideas, core gameplay, or even games of a similar theme involved in this proposal, in any form.
Mr. Chūta's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly.
He picked up the agreement, his gaze scanning a few lines, and his tone took on a subtle hint of displeasure.
"Takuya-kun, this is a bit… distrustful of Sony, isn't it?"
This was both a question and a hint of an elder scrutinizing a junior's way of doing things.
The air in the meeting room seemed to congeal even further.
Suzuki Masao and Director Yoshikawa's hearts quietly tightened.
Takuya, however, remained composed.
He met Mr. Chūta's gaze, his tone calm yet exuding an undeniable confidence.
"Mr. Chūta, gentlemen."
"Once you have seen the proposal, I believe you will understand the necessity of this confidentiality agreement."
"And the value it represents."
His unspoken meaning was clear: this proposal was worth such caution.
Maruyama Shigeo and Ken Kutaragi exchanged a glance.
Maruyama Shigeo's fingertips tapped lightly on the table, seemingly weighing options quickly.
A moment later, he picked up a pen and signed his name at the end of the agreement.
"I hope Executive Director Nakayama won't disappoint us."
Seeing this, Mr. Chūta's brow relaxed, and he said no more, also signing his name.
Ken Kutaragi signed silently, his eyes holding a hint of the exploratory curiosity unique to a technical professional.
Once the agreement was signed, the atmosphere in the meeting room became even more solemn and expectant.
Takuya nodded to Suzuki Masao.
Suzuki Masao immediately presented three beautifully bound proposals to Mr. Chūta, Maruyama Shigeo, and Ken Kutaragi respectively.
Unlike his usual eloquent explanations.
This time, Takuya chose silence.
He sat quietly in his seat, hands clasped, his gaze calmly fixed on the three men opposite him.
He wanted this proposal to speak for itself.
More importantly, he wanted to personally observe the rawest, most direct reactions of these three key Sony figures, without any guidance.
This was the first real test of the proposal's impact.
In the meeting room, only the rustling sound of turning pages remained.
The first to show a clear change in expression was Ken Kutaragi.
He initially flipped through it casually, with the habitual scrutiny of a technical professional.
But soon, his page-turning motion stopped.
His brows furrowed tightly, as if he had encountered some difficult technical problem.
Immediately after, a hint of disbelief flashed in his eyes.
That light quickly transformed into an intense focus, even a touch of fanaticism.
The fingers holding the paper were slightly white at the knuckles from the force, and even trembled imperceptibly.
He turned pages faster and faster, like a hungry traveler discovering an oasis in the desert, eager to drink every drop of sweet water.
The second to show a change was Maruyama Shigeo.
This helmsman of Sony Records did not outwardly express his emotions like Ken Kutaragi.
His expression remained controlled, as befitted a business elite.
But during his reading, he stopped turning pages several times.
Each time he paused, he would look up, gazing at Takuya with a sharp and profound look.
That gaze was complex and hard to decipher.
As if he wanted to thoroughly see through this overly young man before him, from the inside out.
It contained initial surprise, deep scrutiny, and a hint of growing admiration that he himself had not even noticed.
Although Mr. Chūta was not as sensitive to the specific technical details and creative intricacies of the game as the other two.
His ability to read people, however, was masterful.
Ken Kutaragi's almost uncontained focus, Maruyama Shigeo's increasingly intense scrutiny in his eyes.
All of this silently proclaimed the extraordinary nature of this proposal.
He couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at Takuya, meaningfully.
In his eyes, the previous hint of displeasure had long vanished, replaced by undisguised surprise and deep inquiry.
The air in the meeting room seemed to solidify.
Only the sound of turning pages was exceptionally clear in the silence.