SEGA, round-table meeting room.
Once the development and release plan for the SG-2000 had been confirmed, the meeting was essentially ready to conclude.
But—
At that moment, Kobayashi Kentarō suddenly stood up.
"Chairman, gentlemen, esteemed board members. I have something very important to report."
Shff!
A dozen pairs of eyes turned toward him at once.
Satō Hideki drew in a long breath, wanting to ask only one thing:
—What are you trying to pull?!
Nakayama Hayao had already risen from his seat, but now quietly sat back down.
"Director Kobayashi, please speak."
"Yes. I believe that in the SG-2000's next wave of software planning, the proportion of light-gun games should be increased appropriately."
Satō Hideki frowned deeply. "Kobayashi-kun, we are the hardware division. Do not meddle in software department affairs."
"No—this is hardware business. Light-gun games have always been beloved by players. If we have more of them, it strengthens the platform's appeal. Most importantly—the hardware division will be launching a new type of light gun. Cheaper, more durable, and far more convenient."
Satō Hideki shot to his feet.
Baka yarō!
There was such a development and he wasn't informed?!
In Japan, bypassing one's superior and reporting directly to the board is a major taboo—classic gekokujo.
And this man didn't even brief him before speaking publicly?!
Kentarō couldn't care less.
He was an American—Japanese corporate etiquette didn't bind him.
With permission from Nakayama and the board, he called for the staff outside.
A full demonstration set was wheeled in: a television, an engineering-sample SG-2000, a test program, and a brand-new light gun.
Kentarō explained before the board:
"This new light gun uses a different principle—not the gun emitting light, but the television. By flipping the mechanism, we dramatically reduce cost and can eliminate the external signal receiver."
He gave the full demonstration.
The scene left the board members murmuring among themselves.
Light-gun shooters had always been popular. In this era, they were practically mainstream.
Even years later, Microsoft would build half the Xbox's appeal off just the 'gun' in "car-gun-ball"—the power of light-gun titles needed no further proof.
Tanaka Minoru added helpfully, "The home-console division has already commissioned the emerging 'Atlas Studio' to develop a light-gun shooter for the SG-2000."
Kentarō ignored Satō Hideki's expression entirely and pressed on:
"This light gun has already been patented. SEGA will only need to pay a minimal internal licensing fee to use it—other companies will have to pay significantly more."
Nakayama fell silent for a long moment.
In truth, he was already leaning toward adopting the new design.
At last he asked:
"Then—where did this light gun originate?"
Kentarō straightened and bowed.
"With shame, I admit: the hardware department did not invent this. This light gun… was designed by my son, Kobayashi Tetsu."
Despite his words of apology, the grin on Kentarō's face could not be concealed.
Because—
his son was a genius.
---
Setagaya Ward, Atlas Studio.
Kobayashi Tetsu casually handed a freshly printed fax report to Nakayama Yūji.
"Take a look, Nakayama-kun."
"What's this…? Arcade sales report!?"
He immediately flipped through the pages.
Over the last week, twenty cabinets of his self-made Rhythm Blocks had been sold.
Twenty units—without any major advertising, and at a price of several tens of thousands of yen per machine.
Under their contract with SEGA's arcade division, he personally earned nearly 20,000 yen in a week.
Atlas Studio would receive another 2,000 yen as a channel and branding fee.
—That was roughly 80,000 yen a month.
More than his own starting salary at SEGA, which had been only 50,000.
Nakayama clenched his fists, nearly screaming from excitement.
"Thanks to you, Kobayashi-kun, I can finally earn some side income! Kobayashi-kun, please accept my respect—tonight I'm taking you to a high-end restaurant!"
Tetsu smiled lightly, offering a bit of emotional support.
"Indeed, it's quite impressive."
Clap clap clap.
As for him earning several million yen a month?
He couldn't even be bothered to mention it.
Money was money—whatever.
Let the boy enjoy his moment.
He checked his watch and pressed both hands downward in a calming motion.
"Anyway, settle down for now. Kitagawa-kun will be here soon, and I'm waiting to see his design draft."
Nakayama nodded. "Right, I'll bring him along too!"
He wanted Kitagawa to see this:
Working with Atlas meant real income.
He had casually made a small game, and Tetsu had turned it into an arcade cabinet, transforming scrap into gold—earning him an extra 80,000 yen a month.
Ah, what a coincidence—
Kitagawa himself only earned 80,000 yen a month at GG Company…
Tetsu, however, was thinking about something else entirely.
SEGA had already approved his new light gun.
Kentarō had negotiated the license: each gun manufactured would earn Tetsu a flat fee of 15 yen.
The gun would retail for about 1,980 yen.
Given the razor-thin profit margins of electronics manufacturing—often under 5%—the factory producing the guns might earn less per unit than he did.
"So it really is true—knowledge is power, and intellectual property makes money."
Tetsu tapped his temple.
If SEGA sold 5,000 units a month, that was 75,000 yen of pure side income—about the same as Nakayama's arcade bonus.
If the accessory eventually sold a million units, that would be fifteen million yen.
Tetsu felt—
this, too, was a kind of confidence.
The garage doorbell rang. Tetsu glanced up.
"That should be Kitagawa. Nakayama-kun, go answer it."
Nakayama flashed an OK sign, practically floating as he walked.
He opened the door. Sure enough, Kitagawa Takeshi was standing there.
"Aiyaa!" Nakayama gasped. "Kitagawa-san, did you already hear I made eighty thousand yen this month?"
Kitagawa: ?
What nonsense is this?
Nakayama continued proudly,
"It's really not much. My monthly salary here is 120,000 yen."
Kitagawa: …
Nakayama grinned.
"Kitagawa-san, come with us tonight. High-end restaurant! My treat!"
Kitagawa shot a look past him at Tetsu.
Was it permissible to punch Nakayama right now?
Tetsu chuckled and stood up.
"Kitagawa-san, ignore him. Nakayama-kun is just excited—opportunities to earn side income don't come often. Please, come in. I'm eager to see your work."
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