Evening.
Nakayuji was still typing away, working on the program.
The framework wasn't even in place yet—far from a complete game—but the firing and receiving process was already functioning.
"Hold on, let me tweak something."
Kobayashi Tetsu set the modified light gun aside, called out to Nakayuji, and took over the keyboard.
Nakayuji stepped back—then immediately gaped at what Kobayashi was holding.
"Kobayashi-kun, why did you take the gun apart!?"
"That useless thing deserved to be dismantled. I'm helping it fulfill its purpose."
Kobayashi didn't even look up. Eyes fixed on the screen, he rewrote the transmission logic, inserted a few rough placeholder graphics—leftover assets from Battle City—and then checked the time.
Right on schedule.
He heard a car engine outside. Kobayashi sprang to his feet.
"Let's go. Time to have a professional look at this."
Before he could even open the door, a voice called out:
"Tetsu! I rushed back as soon as I got your call! What's so urgent?"
Kentarō entered briskly, briefcase in hand.
Kobayashi didn't bother with small talk. He dragged him straight into the garage and turned on the television.
"This is a light gun."
Kentarō nodded.
"This is a TV."
He nodded again.
Kobayashi pointed at the screen and pulled the trigger.
Targets vanished one after another.
Nakayuji cooperated from the side, manually spawning new targets—since no actual target system existed yet.
Kentarō frowned, arms crossed, completely puzzled.
Surely this wasn't what Tetsu had urgently summoned him for?
But judging from the setup… it seemed like it actually was.
"Look around," Kobayashi said.
"...Around?"
Kentarō inspected the TV and the area around it. Everything looked normal.
Except for one thing.
The light-gun signal receivers—the indispensable sensors that should have been placed around the screen—were nowhere to be seen.
"Huh?!"
His voice shot up. "This is what you called me back for? Interesting! How did you do this?"
"Just reversed the logic."
Kobayashi explained:
"Instead of the gun sending a signal to the TV, the TV sends the signal. Every time you pull the trigger, the screen generates a single-frame flash at the target's position."
He roughly explained the principle behind the system.
The more Kentarō listened, the more delighted he became. In the end, he clapped his hands together hard.
"Brilliant! Sega's entire hardware division never thought of this. Even I never thought of this! The performance is practically the same—but the cost drops dramatically!"
Of course, this method wasn't as accurate as a full positional tracking system.
But—
If a professional tracking setup scored a 10,
then this TV-based flash system scored an 8.
The gap existed, but it wasn't decisive.
Anything an 8 could do, a 10 could also do.
Anything an 8 couldn't, a 10 wouldn't magically fix either.
Paying double the cost for a barely noticeable performance gain?
Utterly pointless.
Kentarō slapped his palm again.
"Tomorrow, check whether anyone has filed a patent for this method. If not, apply immediately. I'll find a way to bring it up during an internal meeting. If Sega adopts this system, costs drop by more than half. If the retail price stays the same—"
He suddenly shook his head.
Pricing wasn't his department. Hardware development wasn't the one making those decisions.
After giving a few more instructions, Kentarō hurried out again.
Nakayuji watched him leave, expression tangled and complicated.
Kobayashi coiled up the light gun's cable casually. "Say what you want to say."
"It's nothing… It's just… Kobayashi-kun, sometimes I really envy your life. One phone call from you makes Kobayashi-san rush back from work. And…"
And with a properly presented proposal, this idea would almost certainly be approved internally. Even if a few people opposed it, cost reduction is the one thing no board would ever turn down.
In other words—
That seemingly ordinary phone call just changed Sega's future manufacturing plans.
Kobayashi laughed. "Now do you feel it was the right choice to join Atlus?"
Nakayuji nodded sincerely. "Yes. I truly feel that joining Atlus was the best decision I've made."
---
Kobayashi wasn't being impulsive with the light gun.
But securing the TV-flash light-gun patent ahead of time?
That was absolutely necessary.
1984 would be flooded with light-gun games.
Duck Hunt became famous simply because it was the cheapest—and thus reached the widest audience.
Nintendo could make Duck Hunt so affordable for one reason:
Cheap gun. Cheap supporting tech.
Players couldn't perceive a few percent of accuracy difference.
But they could absolutely perceive the price tag.
Even if Kobayashi released Duck Hunt earlier, Nintendo could still make Shoot the Tiger, Shoot the Lion, Shoot the Pheasant—it didn't matter.
So—
Kobayashi solved it at the root.
He would make the light gun itself.
Then, any company producing light-gun titles would face two choices:
1. License Kobayashi's patent and reduce costs.
2. Stick to the old tech and end up more expensive—driving consumers toward his version.
Either way, Kobayashi won.
Were other light-gun methods available? Yes. Dozens.
But history had already proven the truth:
When cost matters, and it always does,
this method is the best.
---
The next day, Kobayashi personally went to the Tokyo Patent Bureau.
He filled out reports, performed a search, and confirmed that no such patent existed.
The staff happened not to be too busy.
And he happened to find a stray 1,000-yen bill on the floor—probably dropped by someone.
Conveniently, very conveniently, his application sailed through.
The staff member asked tonelessly:
"Do you wish to publicly disclose your application now? Doing so allows anyone interested to contact you directly. Otherwise, the content will be automatically published after eighteen months. You may choose to disclose it early at any time."
"No rush," Kobayashi said with a wave.
For this patent, he was in no hurry.
Everyone else would be.
The goal wasn't licensing revenue.
The goal was watching other companies panic when they couldn't get a license—
and end up forced into inferior, more expensive technology.
Kobayashi felt—
This was what true confidence looked like.
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