Kyoto, Nintendo headquarters.
Hiroshi Yamauchi sat behind his wide desk, expressionless, as a subordinate delivered a report.
The subordinate, a middle-aged market intelligence manager, had sweat beading on his forehead, his voice cautious, as if treading on thin ice.
"President, Sega's Fatal Fury tournament… its impact has exceeded our estimates."
"The Tokyo qualifiers concluded with incredible buzz."
He flipped through his documents, the rustling paper sounding harsh in the quiet room.
"The Television magazine ran a feature, boosting its sales significantly."
"Fuji TV has confirmed they'll broadcast all matches live starting from the national finals' quarterfinals."
Live TV.
The words cast a faint shadow in Yamauchi's eyes.
Sega's clamor was poised to invade living rooms—Nintendo's domain—from noisy arcades.
"They're good at packaging," the manager continued, trying to explain the rival's success.
"Pushing 'grassroots heroes,' emphasizing competition, tying video games to sportsmanship…"
"Most media coverage is positive. Our earlier negative narratives…"
His voice trailed off.
"…haven't gained much traction."
"Sega's PR countered quickly. Overattacking games could backfire on our own titles…"
Yamauchi's fingers tapped the glossy, expensive desk unconsciously, like a metronome counting his displeasure.
Sega's flashy tactics were like summer mosquitoes, buzzing and irritating.
"Our 'traps' were sidestepped so easily?" Yamauchi's voice was low, but heavy with pressure.
The manager bowed lower.
"Yes, President. They even planted absurd negative stories—obviously fake—to muddy the waters. Our narratives are being ignored."
"And the betting pools?" Yamauchi, knowing the Japanese penchant for gambling, pressed.
"No impact. They anticipated it, warning players and organizers early. Some of our people were even detained by police."
"You didn't leave any traces, did you?" Yamauchi's eyes narrowed.
"No, no! We used old gamblers from pachinko parlors to set up the pools."
Yamauchi snorted, dropping the Sega topic.
"The Disk System—how's Mario 2 doing?"
The shift was abrupt.
The manager fumbled, flipping to another report.
"President, Super Mario Bros. 2's sales… are below expectations."
His voice grew even more cautious.
"The difficulty… it's too high. Many casual players complain it's too hard to clear, even calling it… a 'player-punishing' game."
The room's temperature seemed to drop.
Yamauchi's face was stone.
The sequel's brutal difficulty had his tacit approval, even encouragement.
He believed true players should embrace challenges.
But he'd never admit a misjudgment.
"Is it a marketing failure?" he asked coolly, his gaze slicing through the subordinate.
"Or are today's players too weak to appreciate a challenge?"
The manager froze, silent.
The president's authority was absolute.
After a pause, the manager, as if summoning courage, presented a final, unmarked file.
"President, one more urgent matter."
"We've learned Hudson Soft has been meeting frequently with NEC."
Hudson.
The name stopped Yamauchi's tapping fingers.
A key third-party developer, Hudson was a vital part of Nintendo's FC empire.
"Intelligence suggests they're secretly discussing… a high-performance graphics chip or a new gaming platform."
The manager's voice was hushed.
"You may recall, in 1985, Hudson pitched a graphics chip to us, which you declined. This could be related…"
The old memory stung Yamauchi's pride.
Compared to Sega's arcade antics, a potential "betrayal" from a core third-party ally, threatening Nintendo's technological foundation, was a far graver danger.
NEC, a titan in appliances and semiconductors, partnering with Hudson's software and tech expertise…
A chill flashed in Yamauchi's eyes.
His irritation with Sega gave way to deeper vigilance and suppressed anger.
The empire's walls were being undermined.
"Watch them closely," Yamauchi cut off further analysis, his tone ironclad.
"Hudson and NEC."
He repeated, as if locking onto prey.
"Every move, every meeting, every participant, every whisper—I want it all."
"No detail is too small. Report everything immediately."
The manager's head dipped lower, nearly touching his chest.
"Yes, President."
Yamauchi's gaze didn't linger, as if the manager were merely a messenger.
"And," his voice turned icy, like a frozen lake.
"Pay a 'visit' to those third parties getting restless."
"Remind them the FC cartridge production schedule is tight."
"Remind them Nintendo's 'quality standards' are strict."
"Remind them who gave them the chance to profit on this platform."
"Let them see who sets the rules in this industry."
The manager's forehead glistened with sweat.
The calm words carried undeniable force, each syllable a heavy weight.
"If necessary…" Yamauchi paused, his finger tracing an invisible line on the desk.
His gaze drifted to the window, Kyoto's ancient skyline blending with modern buildings.
"Let them understand the cost of challenging Nintendo's authority."
What cost?
Perhaps a game's approval delayed indefinitely.
Perhaps a "sudden" cartridge supply shortage.
Perhaps their carefully crafted game buried, without promotional support.
Yamauchi didn't need to spell it out.
Smart ones would get it.
The unwise would vanish from the market.
A chill crept up the manager's spine, his breathing cautious.
The unmasked threat in those words pierced the room's calm like an ice pick.
Holding his breath, he bowed.
"Yes, President. I'll handle it immediately."
He retreated, footsteps unsteady, as if pardoned.
The heavy door closed softly, sealing off two worlds.
The office fell back into stifling silence.