At Sega's headquarters, in the top-floor conference room, Takuya Nakayama sat before a thick stack of documents and newspaper clippings.
These were detailed reports from the operations team, compiled overnight, covering the first day of nationwide qualifiers—data-rich and illustrated.
The initial promotional push was a roaring success, with foot traffic far exceeding expectations. Glowing media coverage flooded in, even boosting Sega's stock price slightly.
Takuya's "grassroots hero" plan was taking root. Names like Hakuya were circulating among players and some media, with people inquiring about his match venues.
The plan was unfolding as optimistically as he'd hoped.
But his satisfaction didn't last long.
The reports flagged discordant notes, marked in red by the operations team.
Some smaller partnered arcades, overwhelmed by crowds, couldn't keep up with machine maintenance. Faulty joysticks and sticky buttons sparked complaints and heated disputes from players, with some matches needing replays.
"One player lost a critical defensive move due to a stuck joystick, got comboed out, and nearly snapped the stick in frustration," a subordinate added.
Social commentary sections revived old warnings about "teen gaming addiction." Though overshadowed by the tournament's hype, the snarky undertones could ferment into trouble.
More troubling were sporadic reports of small-scale betting around match outcomes at some venues.
"Some folks are secretly taking bets outside, wagering on winners. The amounts are small, but it's a bad look," a report noted.
This was a red line. If caught, the consequences could be dire.
"Operations team, contact the hardware department immediately. Dispatch extra staff with spare parts for circuit inspections and maintenance at all venues, especially small partner arcades. Ensure hardware is absolutely fair and reliable!" Takuya ordered, his voice calm but firm, satisfaction replaced by stern resolve.
"PR team, prepare a response to the 'gaming addiction' narrative. Commission positive articles from experts and scholars, and coordinate with partnered media. Guide the narrative—highlight Fatal Fury's competitive and strategic depth, and focus on players' skill and training stories, tying them to healthy sportsmanship."
He paused, adding, "Also, plant some obviously absurd negative gaming stories to muddy the waters, drowning out real criticism in a sea of fake nonsense."
A subordinate whispered, "Is that… okay?"
Takuya shot him a glance, saying nothing.
"Security and on-site staff, stay on high alert! Any hint of gambling—even a few people whispering bets—stop it immediately and report it! Offenders lose their eligibility and face police action. We must keep the tournament pure, at least on the surface—no ties to gambling!"
His finger jabbed a nationwide map on the table, dotted with venues like burning embers.
The city qualifiers' success was just the spark.
Keeping this heat steady—or burning hotter—until the finals was the real test.
Early August in Tokyo, the heat unrelenting, added a restless edge.
City qualifiers done, the prefectural/regional qualifiers were held in a small gymnasium at Tokyo Institute of Technology, a venue Takuya secured through his alma mater's department head, billed as "applied learning" for students, especially in electronics and hardware.
Gone were the smoky, cramped arcades.
Under a high ceiling, air conditioning blasted, yet couldn't quell the surging energy.
Large TVs were set up around the venue, streaming real-time matches, replacing the small external screens of arcades.
A red-carpeted player zone, tiered audience seating, and a media area bristling with cameras and flashing lights created a professional, almost suffocating tension. Takuya intended the Tokyo qualifiers as a rehearsal for the Budokan finals, a trial run for the organizing committee.
Hakuya, in his faded school uniform, stood at the player entrance, palms sweating again.
The Shinjuku qualifiers' chaos still echoed, but this scene tightened his chest.
He spotted professional cameras with The Television magazine logos and a reporter interviewing a suited middle-aged man.
This event had outgrown the player-only bubble.
The announcer called his name and match zone.
Hakuya gripped his sweaty hands and walked to his assigned machine.
The air was cleaner than arcades but heavier, pressing on his breath.
His early-round opponents were a cut above the preliminaries.
Each carried the grit of surviving brutal battles.
One mistake could end a match.
But Hakuya wasn't the impulsive teen anymore.
His tattered notebook, every page a record of growth, proved it.
His reactions were sharper, his reads keener, his mindset steadier.
Under his fingers, Andy Bogard moved with purpose—every jump, punch, and kick precise, like calculated clockwork.
"Zan-ei Ken" for pressure, "Hisho Ken" for control, "Kuha Dan" for surprise.
He wielded Andy's potential to the fullest.
After grueling battles, he advanced, unscathed but tested.
One match pitted him against a seasoned Joe Higashi player, whose "dirty" playstyle was bone-deep.
From the start, the opponent controlled distance, spamming "Hurricane Upper" to lock down movement.
The whirlwind was maddening, blocking approaches.
When Hakuya tried jumping in, a perfectly timed "Tiger Knee" pushed him back.
Andy's health bar chipped away, the match painfully one-sided.
The crowd sighed audibly, foreseeing his loss.
Damn, this guy's a grinder.
Hakuya gritted his teeth, knuckles whitening.
Don't rush—haste means mistakes.
He slowed his pace, focusing entirely on the opponent's moves.
Every "Hurricane Upper" interval, every "Tiger Knee" recovery.
He waited for a fleeting opening.
Finally, after a "Slash Kick" pressure, the Joe player landed with a split-second lag.
Now!
Hakuya's eyes flashed, fingers blazing across the joystick and buttons.
"Zan-ei Ken!"
Andy shot forward, breaking through the whirlwind, closing the gap.
A practiced combo followed—punches and kicks landed precisely, evaporating the opponent's health.
"K.O.!"
The giant letters filled the screen.
Hakuya released the joystick, exhaling long, sweat dripping from his brow.
That was tough—his hands still tingled.
But the thrill of a comeback was addictive.
Before he could savor it, a female reporter with a The Television mic and a cameraman swooped in.
Blinding spotlights and a looming lens thrust toward him.
"Hakuya, congratulations! That comeback was amazing—how did you feel?"
Hakuya stepped back, unaccustomed to the attention.
He glanced at his faded uniform, adjusting an already-neat collar.
"Uh… thanks," he said, voice low and dry.
"Just got lucky."
"The opponent was strong—it was tough."
He scraped for words, managing only those.
His flushed face, still hot from the match, glowed under the lights.
Compared to players fist-pumping and boasting to cameras, he was a different breed.
The reporter seemed ready to probe deeper—how he timed that counter, his training routine.
Just then, the next match's alert echoed through the venue.
Hakuya, relieved, bowed to the reporter and camera.
"Sorry, I need to prep for the next round."
He hurried to the next match zone, his back slightly frantic.
The camera followed, capturing his awkward yet earnest figure.