Hayao Nakayama nodded slightly, not countering. He recalled Sega's internal debates over console strategy.
Many still clung to the path of porting arcade hits to consoles, believing that alone would drive sales.
"Can we achieve this 'save' technology at Sega?" he asked.
Takuya shook his head.
"Technically, it's feasible, but we lack time to develop a comparable high-capacity disk system."
"Our Master System's market share would make such efforts less effective."
"Nintendo's pushing hardware (Disk System) and software (Zelda) in tandem—clearly long-planned."
"Long-planned…" Hayao repeated, a cold smirk forming.
"That old fox Yamauchi always works in the shadows."
He paused, digesting the information.
"Your suggestion?" Hayao pressed.
Takuya pondered briefly.
"Dodge their edge, but don't stand idle."
"Keep leveraging our arcade strength, maintain the heat."
"And prioritize next-gen 16-bit console development, surpassing Nintendo in performance. Until then, we bide our time in the console market."
Takuya's eyes gleamed with youthful vigor. He revisited his earlier pitch to his father about a 16-bit console.
"We can't keep mimicking Nintendo. We need something uniquely Sega, trendsetting."
"Like superior graphics, immersive sound, or new game genres. But these need robust hardware and storage—current tech can't support it. Without a new console, it's all a mirage."
Hayao looked at his son, eyes showing unmasked admiration for the first time.
This kid didn't just spot the threat—he'd already outlined a solution last time.
Clear, incisive.
Hayao leaned back, snipping a cigar's tip with a sharp click.
"Next-gen console…" he mused, exhaling slowly.
"Time to get those old-timers moving."
He lit the cigar, smoke curling, eyes sharpening.
"Takuya, any concrete ideas for the next-gen console?"
"Once Nintendo's new game launches, analyze its performance and draft a detailed report for me."
"I want the board to hear how Sega's youth see the future."
Takuya's heart stirred—his father was placing him in a role to shape company strategy.
"Yes, Father," he replied.
Late February, Tokyo, the last traces of New Year's laxity swept away by sudden market fervor.
February 21, Nintendo's meticulously prepared Famicom Disk System (FDS) and flagship The Legend of Zelda hit the market.
Like a depth charge, it detonated the consumer electronics sphere.
Outside electronics stores, overnight queues snaked, players' eyes alight with craving for new experiences, the frenzy making social news.
Days later, the final week of February.
Sega headquarters, morning sun slicing bright patches through glass walls onto the floor.
Takuya Nakayama, in a tailored suit, strode briskly through the lobby.
The air carried coffee and printer paper's mixed scent.
He paused habitually at the front desk, scanning the latest mainstream game magazines.
The receptionist smiled, handing him a stack.
"Good morning, Nakayama-san."
"Morning."
Takuya grabbed the top Famitsu, its bold headline dominating: "First Perfect Score? The Legend of Zelda—A Game-Changing Masterpiece!"
The Dengeki cover was equally striking: "Hyrule's Call! FDS Ushers in a New Console Era!"
Beep focused on the core feature: "Save! No More Mom Interruptions! Zelda's Revolutionary Experience!"
Praise and analysis for Zelda and FDS flooded everywhere.
Takuya, magazines in hand, walked to the elevator, fingers brushing glossy pages.
He skimmed key reviews, all overflowing with praise.
Reviewers detailed the game's rich content, stellar fun, clever design, and save feature's convenience.
Players could sink dozens, even hundreds of hours into a vast fantasy world.
This deep, emotionally binding experience was a game-changer for the Famicom ecosystem—a dimensional strike.
Moreover, Zelda's innovative designs offered developers a wealth of inspiration.
Takuya's brow furrowed faintly.
The Legend of Zelda, as in his past life, was indeed "peerless."
Its guidance for developers was equally vital. "Can't make a game? Copy Zelda" wasn't just a mobile-era mantra—people were doing it now.
The pressure was heavy.
But perhaps a boon.
Takuya's lips curved subtly. In a month, the world would witness a true flagship's power. Zelda and FDS's sales combo would wake the board's stubborn old-timers.
With Zelda as a "super benchmark," the board's conservatives, skeptical of heavy 16-bit console investment, might see the critical need for tech leaps and content innovation.
Without a genre-defining product, shaking Nintendo's console dominance was impossible.
Ding. The elevator opened.
As Takuya stepped forward, the receptionist's apologetic voice called.
"Nakayama-san, wait."
"You have a courier package."
Takuya turned, surprised.
She handed over a thin kraft envelope.
"Courier?"